Views a-foot
by
J. Bayard Taylor
Part 3 out of 7
made for evaporation are nearly two miles in length; a walk along the
top gives a delightful view of the surrounding valleys. After reaching
the _chaussee_ again, I was hailed by a wandering journeyman, or
_handwerker_, as they are called, who wanted company. As I had concluded
to accept all offers of this kind, we trudged along together very
pleasantly, He was from Holstein, on the borders of Denmark and was just
returning home, after an absence of six years, having escaped from
Switzerland after the late battle of Luzerne, which he had witnessed. He
had his knapsack and tools fastened on two wheels, which he drew after
him quite conveniently. I could not help laughing at the adroit manner
in which he begged his way along, through every village. He would ask me
to go on and wait for him at the other end; after a few minutes he
followed, with a handful of small copper money, which he said he had
_fought for_,--the handworker's term for _begged._
We passed over long ranges of hills, with an occasional view of the
Vogelsgebirge, or Bird's Mountains, far to the cast. I knew at length,
by the pointed summits of the hills, that we were approaching Giessen
and the valley of the Lahn. Finally, two sharp peaks appeared in the
distance, each crowned with a picturesque fortress, while the spires of
Giessen rose from the valley below. Parting from my companion, I passed
through the city without stopping, for it was the time of the university
vacation, and Dr. Liebeg, the world-renowned chemist, whom I desired to
see, was absent.
Crossing a hill or two, I came down into the valley of the Lahn, which
flows through meadows of the brightest green, with redroofed cottages
nestled among gardens and orchards upon its banks. The women here wear
a remarkable costume, consisting of a red boddice with white sleeves,
and a dozen skirts, one above another, reaching only to the knees. I
slept again at a little village among the hills, and started early for
Marburg. The meadows were of the purest emerald, through which the
stream wound its way, with even borders, covered to the water's edge
with grass so smooth and velvety, that a fairy might have danced along
on it for miles without stumbling over an uneven tuft. This valley is
one of the finest districts in Germany. I thought, as I saw the peaceful
inhabitants at work in their fields, I had most probably, on the
battle-field of Brandywine, walked over the bones of some of their
ancestors, whom a despotic prince had torn from their happy homes, to
die in a distant land, fighting against the cause of freedom.
I now entered directly into the heart of Hesse Cassel. The country
resembled a collection of hills thrown together in confusion--sometimes
a wide plain left between them, sometimes a clustre of wooded peaks, and
here and there a single pointed summit rising above the rest. The
vallies were green as ever, the hill-sides freshly ploughed and the
forests beginning to be colored by the tender foliage of the larch and
birch. I walked two or three hours at a "stretch," and then, when I
could find a dry, shady bank, I would rest for half an hour and finish
some hastily sketched landscape, or lay at full length, with my head on
my knapsack, and peruse the countenances of those passing by. The
observation which every traveller excites, soon ceases to be
embarrassing. It was at first extremely unpleasant; but I am now so
hardened, that the strange, magnetic influence of the human eye, which
we cannot avoid feeling, passes by me as harmlessly as if turned aside
by invisible mail.
During the day several showers came by, but as none of them penetrated
further than my blouse, I kept on, and reached about sunset a little
village in the valley. I chose a small inn, which had an air of neatness
about it, and on going in, the tidy landlady's "be you welcome," as she
brought a pair of slippers for my swollen feet, made me feel quite at
home. After being furnished with eggs, milk, butter and bread, for
supper, which I ate while listening to an animated discussion between
the village schoolmaster and some farmers, I was ushered into a clean,
sanded bedroom, and soon forgot all fatigue. For this, with breakfast in
the morning, the bill was six and a half groschen--about sixteen cents!
Tin air was freshened by the rain and I journeyed over the hills at a
rapid rate. Stopping for dinner at the large village of Wabern, a boy at
the inn asked me if I was going to America? I said no, I came from
there. He then asked me many silly questions, after which he ran out and
told the people of the village. When I set out again, the children
pointed at me and cried: "see there! he is from America!" and the men
took off their hats and bowed!
The sky was stormy, which added to the gloom of the hills around, though
some of the distant ranges lay in mingled light and shade--the softest
alternation of purple and brown. There were many isolated, rocky hills,
two of which interested me, through their attendant legends. One is said
to have been the scene of a battle between the Romans and Germans,
where, after a long conflict the rock opened and swallowed up the
former. The other, which is crowned with a rocky wall, so like a ruined
fortress, as at a distance to be universally mistaken for one, tradition
says is the death-place of Charlemagne, who still walks around its
summit every night, clad in complete armor. On ascending a hill late in
the afternoon, I saw at a great distance the statue of Hercules, which
stands on the Wilhelmshohe, near Cassel. Night set in with a dreary
rain, and I stopped at an inn about five miles short of the city. While
tea was preparing a company of students came in and asked for a separate
room. Seeing I was alone, they invited me up with them. They seemed much
interested in America, and leaving the table gradually, formed a ring
around me, where I had enough to do to talk with them all at once. When
the omnibus came along, the most of them went with it to Cassel; but
five remained and persuaded me to set out with them on foot. They
insisted on carrying my knapsack the whole way, through the rain and
darkness, and when I had passed the city gate with them, unchallenged,
conducted me to the comfortable hotel, "_Zur Krone_."
It is a pleasant thing to wake up in the morning in a strange city.
Every thing is new; you walk around it for the first time in the full
enjoyment of the novelty, or the not less agreeable feeling of surprise,
if it is different from your anticipations. Two of my friends of the
previous night called for me in the morning, to show me around the city,
and the first impression, made in such agreeable company, prepossessed
me very favorably. I shall not, however, take up time in describing its
many sights, particularly the Frederick's Platz, where the statue of
Frederick the Second, who sold ten thousand of his subjects to England,
has been re-erected, after having lain for years in a stable where it
was thrown by the French.
I was much interested in young Carl K----, one of my new acquaintances.
His generous and unceasing kindness first won my esteem, and I found on
nearer acquaintance, the qualities of his mind equal those of his heart.
I saw many beautiful poems of his which were of remarkable merit,
considering his youth, and thought I could read in his dark, dreamy eye,
the unconscious presentiment of a power he does not yet possess. He
seemed as one I had known for years.
He, with a brother student, accompanied me in the afternoon, to
Wilhelmshohe, the summer residence of the Prince, on the side of a range
of mountains three miles west of the city. The road leads in a direct
line to the summit of the mountain, which is thirteen hundred feet in
height, surmounted by a great structure, called the Giant's Castle, on
the summit of which is a pyramid ninety-six feet high, supporting a
statue of Hercules, copied after the Farnese, and thirty-one feet in
height. By a gradual ascent through beautiful woods, we reached the
princely residence, a magnificent mansion standing on a natural terrace
of the mountain. Near it is a little theatre built by Jerome Buonaparte,
in which he himself used to play. We looked into the green house in
passing, where the floral splendor of every zone was combined. There
were lofty halls, with glass roofs, where the orange grew to a great
tree, and one could sit in myrtle bowers, with the brilliant bloom of
the tropics around him. It was the only thing there I was guilty of
coveting.
The greatest curiosity is the water-works, which are perhaps unequalled
in the world. The Giant's Castle on the summit contains an immense tank
in which water is kept for the purpose; but unfortunately, at the time
I was there, the pipes, which had been frozen through the winter, were
not in condition to play. From the summit an inclined plane of masonry
descends the mountain nine hundred feet, broken every one hundred and
fifty feet by perpendicular descents. These are the Cascades, down which
the water first rushes from the tank. After being again collected in a
great basin at the bottom, it passes into an aqueduct, built like a
Roman ruin, and goes over beautiful arches through the forest, where it
falls in one sheet down a deep precipice. When it has descended several
other beautiful falls, made in exact imitation of nature, it is finally
collected and forms the great fountain, which rises twelve inches in
diameter from the middle of a lake to the height of one hundred and
ninety feet! We descended by lovely walks through the forest to the
Lowenburg, built as the ruin of a knightly castle, and fitted out in
every respect to correspond with descriptions of a fortress in the olden
time, with moat, drawbridge, chapel and garden of pyramidal trees.
Farther below, are a few small houses, inhabited by the descendants of
the Hessians who fell in America, supported here at the Prince's
expense!
CHAPTER XVII.
ADVENTURES AMONG THE HARTZ.
On taking leave of Carl at the gate over the Gottingen road, I felt
tempted to bestow a malediction upon traveling, from its merciless
breaking of all links, as soon as formed. It was painful to think we
should meet no more. The tears started into his eyes, and feeling a mist
gathering over mine, I gave his hand a parting pressure, turned my back
upon Cassel and started up the long mountain, at a desperate rate. On
the summit I passed out of Hesse into Hanover, and began to descend the
remaining six miles. The road went down by many windings, but I
shortened the way considerably by a foot-path through a mossy old
forest. The hills bordering the Weser are covered with wood, through
which I saw the little red-roofed city of Munden, at the bottom. I
stopped there for the night, and next morning walked around the place.
It is one of the old German cities that have not yet felt the effect of
the changing spirit of the age. It is still walled, though the towers
are falling to ruin. The streets are narrow, crooked, and full of ugly
old houses, and to stand in the little square before the public
buildings, one would think himself born in the sixteenth century. Just
below the city the Werra and Fulda unito and form the Weser. The
triangular point has been made into a public walk, and the little
steamboat was lying at anchor near, waiting to start for Bremen.
In the afternoon I got into the omnibus for Gottingen. The ride over the
wild, dreary, monotonous hills was not at all interesting. There were
two other passengers inside, one of whom, a grave, elderly man, took a
great interest in America, but the conversation was principally on his
side, for I had been taken with a fever in Munden. I lay crouched up in
the corner of the vehicle, trying to keep off the chills which
constantly came over me, and wishing only for Gottingen, that I might
obtain medicine and a bed. We reached it at last, and I got out with my
knapsack and walked wearily through half a dozen streets till I saw an
inn. But on entering, I found it so dark and dirty and unfriendly, that
I immediately went out again and hired the first pleasant looking boy I
met, to take me to a good hotel. He conducted me to the first one in the
city. I felt a trepidation of pocket, but my throbbing head plead more
powerfully, so I ordered a comfortable room and a physician. The host,
Herr Wilhelm, sent for Professor Trefurt, of the University, who told me
I had over-exerted myself in walking. He made a second call the next
day, when, as he was retiring, I inquired the amount of his fee. He
begged to be excused and politely bowed himself out. I inquired the
meaning of this of Herr Wilhelm, who said it was customary for
travellers to leave what they chose for the physician, as there was no
regular fee. He added, moreover, that twenty groschen, or about sixty
cents, was sufficient for the two visits!
I stayed in Gottingen two dull, dreary, miserable days, without getting
much better. I took but one short walk through the city, in which I saw
the outsides of a few old churches and got a hard fall on the pavement.
Thinking that the _cause_ of my illness might perhaps become its _cure_,
I resolved to go on rather than remain in the melancholy--in spite of
its black-eyed maidens, melancholy--Gottingen. On the afternoon of the
second day, I took the post to Nordheim, about twelve miles distant. The
Gottingen valley, down which we drove, is green and beautiful, and the
trees seem to have come out all at once. we were not within sight of the
Hartz, but the mountains along the Weser were visible on the left. The
roads were extremely muddy from the late rains, so that I proceeded but
slowly.
A blue range along the horizon told me of the Hartz, as I passed;
although there were some fine side-glimpses through the hills, I did not
see much of them till I reached Osterode, about twelve miles further.
Here the country begins to assume a different aspect. The city lies in a
narrow valley, and as the road goes down a steep hill towards it, one
sees on each side many quarries of gypsum, and in front the gloomy pine
mountains are piled one above another in real Alpine style. But alas!
the city, though it looks exceedingly romantic from above, is one of
the dirtiest I ever saw. I stopped at Herzberg, six miles farther, for
the night. The scenery was very striking; and its effect was much
heightened by a sky full of black clouds, which sent down a hail-storm
as they passed over. The hills are covered with pine, fir and larch. The
latter tree, in its first foliage, is most delicate and beautiful. Every
bough is like a long ostrich plume, and when one of them stands among
the dark pines, it seems so light and airy that the wind might carry it
away. Just opposite Herzberg, the Hartz stands in its gloomy and
mysterious grandeur, and I went to sleep with the pleasant thought that
an hour's walk on the morrow would shut me up in its deep recesses.
The next morning I entered them. The road led up a narrow mountain
valley, down which a stream was rushing--on all sides were magnificent
forests of pine. It was glorious to look down their long aisles, dim and
silent, with a floor of thick green moss. There was just room enough for
the road and the wild stream which wound its way zigzag between the
hills, affording the most beautiful mountain-view along the whole route.
As I ascended, the mountains became rougher and wilder, and in the shady
hollows were still drifts of snow. Enjoying every thing very much, I
walked on without taking notice of the road, and on reaching a wild,
rocky chasm called the "Schlucht," was obliged to turn aside and take a
footpath over a high mountain to Andreasberg, a town built on a summit
two thousand feet above the sea. It is inhabited almost entirely by the
workmen in the mines.
The way from Andreasberg to the Brocken leads along the Rehberger
Graben, which carry water about six miles for the oreworks. After going
through a thick pine wood, I came out on the mountain-side, where rough
crags overhung the way above, and through the tops of the trees I had
glimpses into the gorge below. It was scenery of the wildest character.
Directly opposite rose a mountain wall, dark and stern through the
gloomy sky; far below the little stream of the Oder foamed over the
rocks with a continual roar, and one or two white cloud-wreaths were
curling up from the forests.
I followed the water-ditch around every projection of the mountain,
still ascending higher amid the same wild scenery, till at length I
reached the Oderteich, a great dam, in a kind of valley formed by some
mountain peaks on the side of the Brocken. It has a breastwork of
granite, very firm, and furnishes a continual supply of water for the
works. It began to rain soon, and I took a foot-path which went winding
up through the pine wood. The storm still increased, till everything was
cloud and rain, so I was obliged to stop about five o'clock at
Oderbruch, a toll-house and tavern on the side of the Brocken, on the
boundary between Brunswick and Hanover--the second highest inhabited
house in the Hartz. The Brocken was invisible through the storm and the
weather forboded a difficult ascent. The night was cold, but by a warm
fire I let the winds howl and the rain beat. When I awoke the next
morning, we were in clouds. They were thick on every side, hiding what
little view there was through the openings of the forest. After
breakfast, however, they were somewhat thinner, and I concluded to start
for the Brocken. It is not the usual way for travellers who ascend,
being not only a bad road but difficult to find, as I soon discovered.
The clouds gathered around again after I set out, and I was obliged to
walk in a storm of mingled rain and snow. The snow lay several feet deep
in the forests, and the path was, in many places, quite drifted over.
The white cloud-masses were whirled past by the wind, continually
enveloping me and shutting out every view. During the winter the path
had become, in ninny places, the bed of a mountain torrent, so that I
was obliged sometimes to wade kneedeep in snow, and sometimes to walk
over the wet, spongy moss, crawling under the long, dripping branches of
the stunted pines. After a long time of such dreary travelling, I came
to two rocks called the Stag Horns, standing on a little peak. The
storm, now all snow, blew more violently than ever, and the path became
lost under the deep drifts.
Comforting myself with the assurance that if I could not find it, I
could at least make my way back, I began searching, and after some time,
came upon it again. Here the forest ceased; the way led on large stones
over a marshy ascending plain, but what was above, or on either side, I
could not see. It was solitude of the most awful kind. There was nothing
but the storm, which had already wet me through, and the bleak gray
waste of rocks. It grew sleeper and steeper; I could barely trace the
path by the rocks which were worn, and the snow threatened soon to cover
these. Added to this, although the walking and fresh mountain air had
removed my illness, I was still weak from the effects of it, and the
consequences of a much longer exposure to the storm were greatly to be
feared. I was wondering if the wind increased at the same rate, how much
longer it would be before I should be carried off, when suddenly
something loomed up above me through the storm. A few steps more and I
stood beside the Brocken House, on the very summit of the mountain! The
mariner, who has been floating for days on a wreck at sea, could
scarcely be more rejoiced at a friendly sail, than I was on entering the
low building. Two large Alpine dogs in the passage, as I walked in,
dripping with wet, gave notice to the inmates, and I was soon ushered
into a warm room, where I changed my soaked garments for dry ones, and
sat down by the fire with feelings of comfort not easily imagined. The
old landlord was quite surprised, on hearing the path by which I came,
that I found the way at all. The summit was wrapped in the thickest
cloud, and he gave me no hope for several hours of any prospect at all,
so I sat down and looked over the Stranger's Album.
I saw but two names from the United States--B.F. Atkins, of Boston, and
C.A. Hay, from York, Pa. There were a great many long-winded German
poems--among them, one by Schelling, the philosopher. Some of them spoke
of having seen the "Spectre of the Brocken." I inquired of the landlord
about the phenomenon; he says in winter it is frequently seen, in summer
more seldom. The cause is very simple. It is always seen at sunrise,
when the eastern side of the Brocken is free from clouds, and at the
same time, the mist rises from the valley on the opposite side. The
shadow of every thing on the Brocken is then thrown in grand proportions
upon the mist, and is seen surrounded with a luminous halo. It is
somewhat singular that such a spectacle can be seen upon the Brocken
alone, but this is probably accounted for by the formation of the
mountain, which collects the mist at just such a distance from the
summit as to render the shadow visible.
Soon after dinner the storm subsided and the clouds separated a little.
I could see down through the rifts on the plains of Brunswick, and
sometimes, when they opened a little more, the mountains below us to the
east and the adjoining plains, as far as Magdeburg. It was like looking
on the earth from another planet, or from some point in the air which
had no connection, with it; our station was completely surrounded by
clouds, rolling in great masses around us, now and then giving glimpses
through their openings of the blue plains, dotted with cities and
villages, far below. At one time when they were tolerably well
separated, I ascended the tower, fifty feet high, standing near the
Brocken House. The view on three sides was quite clear, and I can easily
imagine what a magnificent prospect it must be in fine weather. The
Brocken is only about four thousand feet high, nearly the same as the
loftiest peak of the Catskill, but being the highest mountain in
Northern Germany, it commands a more extensive prospect. Imagine a
circle described with a radius of a hundred miles, comprising thirty
cities, two or three hundred villages and one whole mountain district!
We could see Brunswick and Magdeburg, and beyond them the great plain
which extends to the North Sea in one direction and to Berlin in the
other, while directly below us lay the dark mountains of the Hartz, with
little villages in their sequestered valleys. It was but a few moments I
could look on this scene--in an instant the clouds swept together again
and completely hid it. In accordance with a custom of the mountain, one
of the girls made me a "Brocken nosegay," of heather, lichens and moss.
I gave her a few pfennings and stowed it away carefully in a corner of
my knapsack.
I now began descending the east side, by a good road over fields of bare
rock and through large forests of pine. Two or three bare brown peaks
rose opposite with an air of the wildest sublimity, and in many places
through the forest towered lofty crags. This is the way by which Goethe
brings Faust up the Brocken, and the scenery is graphically described in
that part of the poem. At the foot of the mountain is the little village
of Schiercke, the highest in the Hartz. Here I took a narrow path
through the woods, and after following a tediously long road over the
hills, reached Elbingerode, where I spent the night, and left the next
morning for Blankenburg. I happened to take the wrong road, however, and
went through Rubeland, a little village in the valley of the Bode. There
are many iron works here, and two celebrated caves, called "Baumann's
Hohle," and "Biel's Hohle." I kept on through the gray, rocky hills to
Huttenrode, where I inquired the way to the Rosstrappe, but was directed
wrong, and after walking nearly two hours in a heavy rain, arrived at
Ludwigshutte, on the Bode, in one of the wildest and loneliest corners
of the Hartz. I dried my wet clothes at a little inn, ate a dinner of
bread and milk, and learning that I was just as far from the Rosstrappe
as ever, and that the way was impossible to find alone, I hunted up a
guide.
We went over the mountains through a fine old forest, for about two
hours, and came out on the brow of a hill near the end of the Hartz,
with a beautiful view of the country below and around. Passing the
little inn, the path led through thick bushes along the summit, over a
narrow ledge of rocks that seemed to stretch out into the air, for on
either side the foot of the precipice vanished in the depth below.
Arrived at last at the end, I looked around me. What a spectacle! I was
standing on the end of a line of precipice which ran out from the
mountain like a wall for several hundred feet--the hills around rising
up perpendicularly from the gorge below, where the Bode pressed into a
narrow channel foamed its way through. Sharp masses of gray rock rose up
in many places from the main body like pillars, with trees clinging to
the clefts, and although the defile was near seven hundred feet deep,
the summits, in one place, were very near to one another. Near the point
at which I stood, which was secured by a railing, was an impression in
the rock like the hoof of a giant horse, from which the place takes its
name. It is very distinct and perfect, and nearly two feet in length.
I went back to the little inn and sat down to rest and chat awhile with
the talkative landlady. Notwithstanding her horrible Prussian dialect, I
was much amused with the budget of wonders, which she keeps for the
information of travelers. Among other things, she related to me the
legend of the Rosstrappe, which I give in her own words: "A great many
hundred years ago, when there were plenty of giants through the world,
there was a certain beautiful princess, who was very much loved by one
of them. Now, although the parents of this princess were afraid of the
giant, and wanted her to marry him, she herself hated him, because she
was in love with a brave knight. But, you see, the brave knight could do
nothing against the great giant, and so a day was appointed for the
wedding of the princess. When they were married, the giant had a great
feast and he and all his servants got drunk. So the princess mounted his
black horse and rode away over the mountains, till she reached this
valley. She stood on that square rock which you see there opposite to
us, and when she saw her knight on this side, where we are, she danced
for joy, and the rock is called the _Tanzplatz_, to this very day. But
when the giant found she had gone, he followed her as fast as he might;
then a holy bishop, who saw the princess, blessed the feet of her horse,
and she jumped on it across to this side, where his fore feet made two
marks in the rock, though there is only one left now. You should not
laugh at this, for if there were giants then, there must have been very
big horses too, as one can see from the hoofmark, and the valley was
narrower then than it is now. My dear man, who is very old now, (you see
him through the bushes, there, digging,) says it was so when he was a
child, and that the old people living then, told him there were once
four just such hoof-tracks, on the _Tanzplatz_, where the horse stood
before he jumped over. And we cannot doubt the words of the good old
people, for there were many strange things then, we all know, which the
dear Lord does not let happen now. But I must tell you, lieber Herr,
that the giant tried to jump after her and fell away down into the
valley, where they say he lives yet in the shape of a big black dog,
guarding the crown of the princess, which fell off as she was going
over. But this part of the story is perhaps not true, as nobody, that I
ever heard of, has seen either the black dog or the crown!"
After listening to similar gossip for a while, I descended the
mountain-side, a short distance to the Bulowshohe. This is a rocky shaft
that shoots, upward from the mountain, having from its top a glorious
view through the door which the Bode makes in passing out of the Hartz.
I could see at a great distance the towers of Magdeburg, and further,
the vast plain stretching away like a sea towards Berlin. From Thale,
the village below, where the air was warmer than in the Hartz and the
fruit-trees already in blossom, it was four hours' walk to Halberstadt,
by a most tiresome road over long ranges of hills, all ploughed and
planted, and extending as far as the eye could reach, without a single
fence or hedge. It is pleasant to look over scenes where nature is so
free and unshackled; but the _people_, alas! wear the fetters. The
setting sun, which lighted up the old Brocken and his snowy top, showed
me also Halberstadt, the end of my Hartz journey; but its deceitful
towers fled as I approached, and I was half dead with fatigue on
arriving there.
The ghostly, dark and echoing castle of an inn (the Black Eagle) where I
stopped, was enough to inspire a lonely traveller, like myself, with
unpleasant fancies. It looked heavy and massive enough to have been a
stout baron's stronghold in some former century; the taciturn landlord
and his wife, who, with a solemn servant girl, were the only tenants,
had grown into perfect keeping with its gloomy character. When I groped
my way under the heavy, arched portal into the guests' room--a large,
lofty, cheerless hall--all was dark, and I could barely perceive, by the
little light which came through two deep-set windows, the inmates of the
house, sitting on opposite sides of the room. After some delay, the
hostess brought a light. I entreated her to bring me something
_instantly_ for supper, and in half an hour she placed a mixture on the
table, the like of which I never wish to taste again. She called it
_beer-soup_! I found, on examination, it was _beer_, boiled with meat,
and seasoned strongly with pepper and salt! My hunger disappeared, and
pleading fatigue as an excuse for want of appetite, I left the table.
When I was ready to retire, the landlady, who had been sitting silently
in a dark corner, called the solemn servant girl, who took up a dim
lamp, and bade me follow her to the "sleeping chamber." Taking up my
knapsack and staff, I stumbled down the steps into the arched gateway;
before me was a long, damp, deserted court-yard, across which the girl
took her way. I followed her with some astonishment, imagining where the
sleeping chamber could be, when she stopped at a small, one-story
building, standing alone in the yard. Opening the door with a rusty key,
she led me into a bare room, a few feet square, opening into another,
equally bare, with the exception of a rough bed. "Certainly," said I, "I
am not to sleep here!" "Yes," she answered, "this is the sleeping
chamber," at the same time setting down the light and disappearing. I
examined the place--it smelt mouldy, and the walls were cold and damp;
there had been a window at the head of the bed, but it was walled up,
and that at the foot was also closed to within a few inches of the top.
The bed was course and dirty; and on turning down the ragged covers, I
saw with horror, a dark brown stain near the pillow, like that of blood!
For a moment I hesitated whether to steal out of the inn, and seek
another lodging, late as it was; at last, overcoming my fears, I threw
my clothes into a heap, and lay down, placing my heavy staff at the head
of the bed. Persons passed up and down the courtyard several times, the
light of their lamps streaming through the narrow aperture up against
the ceiling, and I distinctly heard voices, which seemed to be near the
door. Twice did I sit up in bed, breathless, with my hand on the cane,
in the most intense anxiety; but fatigue finally overcame suspicion, and
I sank into a deep sleep, from which I was gladly awakened by daylight.
In reality, there may have been no cause for my fears--I may have
wronged the lonely innkeepers by them; but certainly no place or
circumstances ever seemed to me more appropriate to a deed of robbery or
crime. I left immediately, and when a turn in the street hid the
ill-omened front of the inn, I began to breathe with my usual freedom.
CHAPTER XVIII.
NOTES IN LEIPSIC AND DRESDEN.
_Leipsic, May 8._--I have now been nearly two days in this wide-famed
city, and the more I see of it the better I like it. It is a pleasant,
friendly town, old enough to be interesting, and new enough to be
comfortable. There in much active business life, through which it is
fast increasing in size and beauty. Its publishing establishments are
the largest in the world, and its annual fairs attended by people from
all parts of Europe. This is much for a city to accomplish, situated
alone in the middle of a great plain, with no natural charms of scenery
or treasures of art to attract strangers. The energy and enterprise of
its merchants have accomplished all this, and it now stands, in
importance, among the first cities of Europe.
The bad weather obliged me to take the railroad at Halberstadt, to keep
the appointment with my friend, in this city. I left at six for
Magdeburg, and after two hours' ride over a dull, tiresome plain, rode
along under the mounds and fortifications by the side of the Elbe, and
entered the old town. It was very cold, and the streets were muddy, so I
contented myself with looking at the Broadway, (_der breite Weg_,) the
Cathedral and one or two curious old churches, and in walking along the
parapet leading to the fortress, which has a view of the winding Elbe.
The Citadel was interesting from having been the prison in which Baron
Trenck was confined, whose narrative I read years ago, when quite a
child.
We were soon on the road to Leipsic. The way was over one great,
uninterrupted plain--a more monotonous country, even, than Belgium. Two
of the passengers in the car with me were much annoyed at being taken by
the railway agents for Poles. Their movements were strictly watched by
the gens d'arme at every station we passed, and they were not even
allowed to sit together! At Kothen a branch track went off to Berlin. We
passed by Halle without being able to see anything of it or its
University, and arrived here in four hours after leaving Magdeburg.
On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the
_Augustus Platz_--a broad green lawn, on which front the University and
several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades
encircles the city, on the site of its old fortifications. Following
their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with
flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian
Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private
cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once
directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it, a glorious choral,
swelled by a hundred voices, came through the open windows, like a
tribute to the genius of the great master.
Having found my friend we went together to the _Stern Warte_, or
Observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and
in particular the battle field. The Castellan who is stationed there, is
well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the
hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles
which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle
around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond
was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here.
Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Blucher, from
Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three
hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and
ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days
raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly
conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The
small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. It is
difficult to conceive of such slaughter, while looking at the quiet and
tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is
to be hoped that the world will never see such another.
There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage, where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee enjoy a few
hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets, One can walk for miles
along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows, or the banks
of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a short
distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs
the sign: "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic literati have built a
stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here dwelt
Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Every where through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived, they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.
I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over
the plain to the city and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks
entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to
the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The
stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French, to cut off
pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till
the Poles had all passed over, as the river, though narrow, is quite
deep, and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait,
and the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to
plunge into the stream to join the French army, which had begun the
retreat towards Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way
through a garden near and escaped on horseback into the water. He became
entangled among the fugitives and sank. By walking a little distance
along the road towards Frankfort, we could see the spot where his body
was taken out of the river; it is now marked by a square stone, covered
with the names of his countrymen who have visited it. We returned
through the narrow arched way, by which Napoleon fled when the battle
was lost.
Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerback's Cellar, which, it is
said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust, from which Goethe
derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and
one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched
passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretence for
entering. The streets are full of book stores and one half the business
of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and
binding. The publishers have a handsome Exchange of their own, and
during the Fairs, the amount of business transacted is enormous. The
establishment of Brockhaus is contained in an immense building,
adjoining which stands his dwelling, in the midst of magnificent
gardens. That of Tauchnitz is not less celebrated. His edition of the
classics, in particular, are the best that have ever been made; and he
has lately commenced publishing a number of English works, in a cheap
form. Otto Wigand, who has also a large establishment, has begun to
issue translations of American works. He has already published Prescott
and Bancroft, and I believe intends giving out shortly, translations
from some of our poets and novelists. I became acquainted at the Museum,
with a young German author who had been some time in America, and was
well versed in our literature. He is now engaged in translating American
works, one of which--Hoffman's "Wild Scenes of the Forest and
Prairie"--will soon appear. In no place in Germany have I found more
knowledge of our country, her men and her institutions, than in Leipsic,
and as yet I have seen few that would be preferable as a place of
residence. Its attractions lie not in its scenery, but in the social and
intellectual character of its inhabitants.
_May 11._--At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have
christened it. Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are
scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural
beauty of its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst
of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony
sweeping around like an amphitheatre, and the craggy peaks of the
Highlands looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance
give it a rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas,
embowered in trees, gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there
is no bustle of business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic
which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet
enjoyment.
The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic, over the eighty
miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the
_Neustadt_, passing the Japanese Palace and the equestrian statue of
Augustus the Strong, The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much
injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we worn obliged to
go some distance up the river bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next
morning my first search was for the picture gallery. We set off at
random, and after passing the Church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of
solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with
Frederick the Great, came to an open square, one side of which was
occupied by an old, brown, red-roofed building, which I at once
recognized, from pictures, as the object of our search.
I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it
with real regret; for, during the two visits, Raphael's heavenly picture
of the Madonna and child had so grown into my love and admiration, that
it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many more
which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest
degree the love for the Beautiful, that I left them with sadness, and
the thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the
inspired eye and god-like brow of the Jesus-child, as if I were still
standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the
Madonna still looks upon me. Yet, though this picture is a miracle of
art, the first glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat
faded, during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the
hand of Raphael worked on the canvass, and the glass with which it is
covered for better preservation, injures the effect. After I had gazed
on it awhile, every thought of this vanished. The figure of the virgin
seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were
not in motion. An aerial lightness clothes her form, and it is
perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds. Two
divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred
child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of angels. The
wild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chains one like a
spell. There is something more than mortal in its expression--something
in the infant face which indicates a power mightier than the proudest
manhood. There is no glory around the head; but the spirit which shines
from those features, marks his divinity. In the sweet face of the mother
there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed with its tenderness, as if she
knew the world into which the Saviour was born, and foresaw the path in
which he was to tread. It is a picture which one can scarce look upon
without tears.
There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio, which are said to
be among his best works; one of them his celebrated Magdalen. There is
also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the virgin with the shepherds in the
manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the child. The
surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully expressed. In one of the
halls there is a picture by Van der Werff, in which the touching story
of Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young
Ishmael is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in
childish unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the
corner of his mother's mantle around him, and smiles at the tears of his
lost playmate. Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two
portraits of Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You
almost think the artist has in sport crept behind the frame, and wishes
to make you believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of
half the gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are
twelve large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures.
The plain, south of Dresden, was the scene of the hard-fought battle
between Napoleon and the allied armies, in 1813. On the heights above
the little village of Racknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the
battle. We took a foot-path through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees
in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is
simple--a square block of granite, surmounted by a helmet and sword,
with the inscription: "_The hero Moreau fell here by the side of
Alexander, August 17th, 1813_." I gathered, as a memorial, a few leaves
of the oak which shades it.
By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to
the Royal Library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among
them the most complete collection of historical works in existence. Each
hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large room
is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of rare and
curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the seventh and
eighth centuries; a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan Bajazet; the
handwriting of Luther and Melancthon; a manuscript volume with pen and
ink sketches, by Albert Durer, and the earliest works after the
invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by Faust
and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican manuscripts,
written on the Aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish volumes of the
middle ages.
We were fortunate in seeing the _Grune Gewolbe_, or Green Gallery, a
collection of jewels and costly articles, unsurpassed in Europe. The
entrance is only granted to six persons at a time, who pay a fee of two
thalers. The customary way is to employ a _Lohnbedienter_, who goes
around from one hotel to another, till he has collected the number, when
he brings them together and conducts them to the person in the palace,
who has charge of the treasures. As our visit happened to be during the
Pentecost holidays, when every body in Dresden goes to the mountains,
there was some difficulty in effecting this, but after two mornings
spent in hunting up curious travelers, the servant finally conducted us
in triumph to the palace. The first hall into which we were ushered,
contained works in bronze. They were all small, and chosen with regard
to their artistical value. Some by John of Bologna were exceedingly
fine, as was also a group in iron, _cut_ out of a single block; perhaps
the only successful attempt in this branch. The next room contained
statues, and vases covered with reliefs, in ivory. The most remarkable
work was the fall of Lucifer and his angels, containing ninety-two
figures in all, carved out of a single piece of ivory sixteen inches
high! It was the work of an Italian monk, and cost him many years of
hard labor. There were two tables of mosaic-work, that would not be out
of place in the fabled halls of the eastern genii, so much did they
exceed my former ideas of human skill. The tops were of jasper, and each
had a border of fruit and flowers, in which every color was represented
by some precious stone, all with the utmost delicacy and truth to
nature! It is impossible to conceive the splendid effect it produced.
Besides some fine pictures on gold by Raphael Mengs, there was a
Madonna, the largest specimen of enamel painting in existence.
However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an
introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in
splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows
of goblets, vases, &c., of polished jasper, agate and lapiz lazuli.
Splendid mosaic tables stood around, with caskets of the most exquisite
silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of
them weighing six hundred pounds were placed at the foot of the columns.
We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers, made of
gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the Spanish Dwarf,
nearly as large as a pullet's egg; globes and vases cut entirely out of
the mountain crystal; magnificent Nuremberg watches and clocks, and a
great number of figures, made ingeniously of rough pearls and diamonds.
The officer showed us a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently
nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing, it came apart, and
disclosed the yelk of gold. This again opened and a golden chicken was
seen; by touching a spring, a little diamond crown came from the inside,
and the crown being again taken apart, out dropped a valuable diamond
ring! The seventh hall contains the coronation robes of Augustus II., of
Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood, A cherry stone is
shown in a glass case, which has one hundred and twenty-five faces, all
perfectly finished, carved upon it! The next room we entered sent back a
glare of splendor that perfectly dazzled us. It was all gold, diamond,
ruby and sapphire! Every case sent out such a glow and glitter that it
seemed like a cage of imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it
was met by a blaze of broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and
every gem was a fortune. Whole cases of swords, with hilts and scabbards
of solid gold, studded with gems; the great two-handed coronation sword
of the German emperors; daggers covered with brilliants and rubies;
diamond buttons, chains and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and
emerald, and the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind.
We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and
four inches broad! One of the most remarkable works is the throne and
court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated
goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two
figures, all of enamelled gold, and each one most perfectly and
elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for
fifty-eight thousand thalers,[**] which was not a high sum, considering
that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven
years!
It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these
halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must bo many millions
of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is
incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil, they are
interesting: but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy
have been wasted, in producing things which are useless to the world,
and only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if
men could be diverted by such play-things from more dangerous games, it
would be all the better.
[Footnote **: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about 70 cts.]
CHAPTER XIX.
RAMBLES IN THE SAXON SWITZERLAND.
After four days' sojourn in Dresden we shouldered our knapsacks, not to
be laid down again till we reached Prague. We were elated with the
prospect of getting among the hills again, and we heeded not the
frequent showers which had dampened the enjoyment of the Pentecost
holidays, to the good citizens of Dresden, and might spoil our own. So
we trudged gaily along the road to Pillnitz and waved an adieu to the
domes behind us as the forest shut them out from view. After two hours'
walk the road led down to the Elbe, where we crossed in a ferry-boat to
Pillnitz, the seat of a handsome palace and gardens, belonging to the
King of Saxony. He happened to be there at the time, on an afternoon
excursion from Dresden; as we had seen him before, in the latter place,
we passed directly on, only pausing to admire the flower-beds in the
palace court. The King is a tall, benevolent looking man, and is
apparently much liked by his people. As far as I have yet seen, Saxony
is a prosperous and happy country. The people are noted all over Germany
for their honest, social character, which is written on their cheerful,
open countenances. On our entrance into the Saxon Switzerland, at
Pillnitz, we were delighted with the neatness and home-like appearance
of every thing. Every body greeted us; if we asked for information, they
gave it cheerfully. The villages were all pleasant and clean and the
meadows fresh and blooming. I felt half tempted to say, in the words of
an old ballad, which I believe Longfellow has translated:
"The fairest kingdom on this earth,
It is the Saxon land!"
Going along the left bank of the Elbe, we passed over meadows purple
with the tri-colored violet, which we have at home in gardens, and every
little bank was bright with cowslips. At length the path led down into a
cleft or ravine filled with trees, whose tops were on a level with the
country around. This is a peculiar feature of Saxon scenery. The country
contains many of these clefts, some of which are several hundred feet
deep, having walls of perpendicular rock, in whose crevices the mountain
pine roots itself and grows to a tolerable height without any apparent
soil to keep it alive. We descended by a foot-path into this ravine,
called the Liebethaler Grund. It is wider than many of the others,
having room enough for a considerable stream and several mills. The
sides are of sandstone rock, quite perpendicular. As we proceeded, it
grew narrower and deeper, while the trees covering its sides and edges
nearly shut out the sky. An hour's walk brought us to the end, where we
ascended gradually to the upper level again.
After passing the night at the little village of Uttewalde, a short
distance further, we set out early in the morning for the Bastei, a
lofty precipice on the Elbe. The way led us directly through the
Uttewalder Grund, the most remarkable of all these chasms. We went down
by steps into its depths, which in the early morning were very cold.
Water dripped from the rocks, which but a few feet apart, rose far above
us, and a little rill made its way along the bottom, into which the sun
has never shone. Heavy masses of rock, which had tumbled down from the
sides lay in the way, and tall pine trees sprung from every cleft. In
one place the defile is only four feet wide, and a large mass of rock,
fallen from above, has lodged near the bottom, making an arch across,
under which the traveller has to creep. After going under two or three
arches of this kind, the defile widened and an arrow cut upon a rock
directed us to a side path, which branched off from this into a
mountain. Here the stone masses immediately assumed another form. They
projected out like shelves sometimes as much as twenty feet from the
straight side, and hung over the way, looking as if they might break off
every moment. I felt glad when we had passed under them. Then as we
ascended higher, we saw pillars of rock separated entirely from the side
and rising a hundred feet in height, with trees growing on their
summits. They stood there gray and limeworn, like the ruins of a Titan
temple.
The path finally led us out into the forest and through the clustering
pine trees, to the summit of the Bastei. An inn has been erected in the
woods and an iron balustrade placed around the rock. Protected by this,
we advanced to the end of the precipice and looked down to the swift
Elbe, more than seven hundred feet below! Opposite through the blue
mists of morning, rose Konigstein, crowned with an impregnable fortress,
and the crags of Lilienstein, with a fine forest around their base,
frowned from the left bank. On both sides were horrible precipices of
gray rock, with rugged trees hanging from the crevices. A hill rising up
from one side of the Bastei, terminates suddenly a short distance from
it, in on abrupt precipice. In the intervening space stand three or four
of those rock-columns, several hundred feet high, with their tops nearly
on a level with the Bastei. A wooden bridge has been made across from
one to the other, over which the traveller passes, looking on the trees
and rocks far below him, to the mountain, where a steep zigzag path
takes him to the Elbe below.
We crossed the Elbe for the fourth time at the foot of the Bastei, and
walked along its right bank towards Konigstein. The injury caused by the
inundation was everywhere apparent. The receding flood had left a
deposit of sand, in many places several feet deep on the rich meadows,
so that the labor of years will be requisite to remove it and restore
the land to an arable condition. Even the farm-houses on the hillside,
some distance from the river, had been reached, and the long grass hung
in the highest branches of the fruit trees. The people wore at work
trying to repair their injuries, but it will fall heavily upon the
poorer classes.
The mountain of Konigstein is twelve hundred feet high. A precipice,
varying from one to three hundred feet in height, runs entirely around
the summit, which is flat, and a mile and a half in circumference. This
has been turned into a fortress, whose natural advantages make it
entirely impregnable. During the Thirty Years' War and the late war with
Napoleon, it was the only place in Saxony unoccupied by the enemy. Hence
is it used as a depository for the archives and royal treasures, in
times of danger. By giving up our passports at the door, we received
permission to enter; the officer called a guide to take us around the
battlements. There is quite a little village on the summit, with
gardens, fields, and a wood of considerable size. The only entrance is
by a road cut through the rock, which is strongly guarded. A well seven
hundred feet deep supplies the fortress with water, and there are
storehouses sufficient to hold supplies for many years. The view from
the ramparts is glorious--it takes in the whole of the Saxon Highlands,
as far as the lofty Schneeberg in Bohemia. On the other side the eye
follows the windings of the Elbe, as far as the spires of Dresden.
Lilienstein, a mountain of exactly similar formation, but somewhat
higher, stands directly opposite. On walking around, the guide pointed
out a little square tower standing on the brink of a precipice, with a
ledge, about two feet wide, running around it, just below the windows.
He said during the reign of Augustus the Strong, a baron attached to his
court, rose in his sleep after a night of revelry, and stepping out the
window, stretched himself at full length along the ledge. A guard
fortunately observed his situation and informed Augustus of it, who had
him bound and secured with cords, and then awakened by music. It was a
good lesson, and one which no doubt sobered him for the future.
Passing through the little city of Konigstein, we walked on to Schandau,
the capital of the Saxon Switzerland, situated on the left bank. It had
sustained great damage from the flood, the whole place having been
literally under water. Here we turned up a narrow valley which led to
the Kuhstall, some eight miles distant. The sides, as usual, were of
steep gray rock, but wide enough apart to give room to some lovely
meadows, with here and there a rustic cottage. The mountain maidens, in
their bright red dresses, with a fanciful scarf bound around the head,
made a romantic addition to the scene. There were some quiet secluded
nooks, where the light of day stole in dimly through the thick foliage
above and the wild stream rushed less boisterously over the rocks. We
sat down to rest in one of these cool retreats, and made the glen ring
with a cheer for America. The echoes repeated the name as if they had
heard it for the first time, and I gave them a strict injunction to
give it back to the next countryman who should pass by.
As we advanced further into the hills the way became darker and wilder.
We heard the sound of falling water in a little dell on one side, and
going nearer, saw a picturesque fall of about fifteen feet. Great masses
of black rock were piled together, over which the mountain-stream fell
in a snowy sheet. The pines above and around grew so thick and close,
that not a sunbeam could enter, and a kind of mysterious twilight
pervaded the spot. In Greece it would have been chosen for an oracle. I
have seen, somewhere, a picture of the Spirit of Poetry, sitting beside
just such a cataract, and truly the nymph could choose no more
appropriate dwelling. But alas for sentiment! while we were admiring its
picturesque beauty, we did not notice a man who came from a hut near by
and went up behind the rocks. All at once there was a roar of water, and
a real torrent came pouring down. I looked up, and lo! there he stood,
with a gate in his hand which had held the water imprisoned, looking
down at us to observe the effect, I motioned him to shut it up again,
and he ran down to us, lest he should lose his fee for the "sight!"
Our road now left the valley and ascended through a forest to the
Kuhstall, which we came upon at once. It is a remarkable natural arch,
through a rocky wall or rampart, one hundred and fifty feet thick. Going
through, we came at the other end to the edge of a very deep precipice,
while the rock towered precipitously far above. Below lay a deep
circular valley, two miles in diameter, and surrounded on every side by
ranges of crags, such as we saw on the Bastei. It was entirely covered
with a pine forest, and there only appeared to be two or three narrow
defiles which gave it a communication with the world. The top of the
Kuhstall can be reached by a path which runs up through a split in the
rock, directly to the summit. It is just wide enough for one person to
squeeze himself through; pieces of wood have been fastened in as steps,
and the rocks in many places close completely above. The place derives
its name from having been used by the mountaineers as a hiding-place for
their cattle in time of war.
Next morning we descended by another crevice in the rock to the lonely
valley, which we crossed, and climbed the Little Winterberg on the
opposite side. There is a wide and rugged view from a little tower on a
precipitous rock near the summit, erected to commemorate the escape of
Prince Augustus of Saxony, who, being pursued by a mad stag, rescued
himself on the very brink, by a lucky blow. Among the many wild valleys
that lay between the hills, we saw scarcely one without the peculiar
rocky formation which gives to Saxon scenery its most interesting
character. They resemble the remains of some mighty work of art, rather
than one of the thousand varied forms in which Nature delights to clothe
herself.
The Great Winterberg, which is reached by another hour's walk along an
elevated ridge, is the highest of the mountains, celebrated for the
grand view from its summit. We found the handsome Swiss hotel recently
built there, full of tourists who had come to enjoy the scone, but the
morning clouds hid every thing. We ascended the tower, and looking
between them as they rolled by, caught glimpses of the broad landscape
below. The Giant's Mountains in Silesia were hidden by the mist, but
sometimes when the wind freshened, we could see beyond the Elbe into
Bohemian Switzerland, where the long Schneeberg rose conspicuous above
the smaller mountains. Leaving the other travellers to wait at their
leisure for clearer weather, we set off for the Prebisehthor, in company
with two or three students from the Polytechnic School in Dresden. An
hour's walk over high hills, whose forest clothing had been swept off by
fire a few years before, brought us to it.
The Prebisehthor is a natural arch, ninety feet high, in a wall of rock
which projects at right angles from the precipitous side of the
mountain. A narrow path leads over the top of the arch to the end of the
rock, where, protected by a railing, the traveller seems to hang in the
air. The valley is far below him--mountains rise up on either side--and
only the narrow bridge connects him with the earth. We descended by a
wooden staircase to the bottom of the arch, near which a rustic inn is
built against the rock, and thence into the valley below, which we
followed through rude lonely scenery, to Hirnischkretschen (!) on the
Elbe.
Crossing the river again for the sixth and last time, we followed the
right bank to Neidergrund, the first Austrian village. Here our
passports were vised for Prague, and we were allowed to proceed without
any examination of baggage. I noticed a manifest change in our fellow
travelers the moment we crossed the border. They appeared anxious and
careful; if we happened to speak of the state of the country, they
always looked around to see if anybody was near, and if we even passed a
workman on the road, quickly changed to some other subject. They spoke
much of the jealous strictness of the government, and from what I heard
from Austrians themselves, there may have been ground for their
cautiousness.
We walked seven or eight miles along the bank of the Elbe, to Tetschen,
there left our companions and took the road to Teplitz. The scenery was
very picturesque; it must be delightful to float down the swift current
in a boat, as we saw several merry companies do. The river is just small
enough and the banks near enough together, to render such a mode of
travelling delightful, and the strength of the current would carry one
to Dresden in a day.
I was pleasantly disappointed on entering Bohemia. Instead of a dull,
uninteresting country, as I expected, it is a land full of the most
lovely scenery. There is every thing which can gratify the eye--high
blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old
ruins. The very name of Bohemia is associated with wild and wonderful
legends, of the rude barbaric ages. Even the chivalric tales of the
feudal times of Germany grow tame beside these earlier and darker
histories. The fallen fortresses of the Rhine, or the robber-castles of
the Odenwald had not for me so exciting an interest as the shapeless
ruins cumbering these lonely mountains. The civilized Saxon race was
left behind; I saw around me the features and heard the language of one
of those rude Sclavonic tribes, whose original home was on the vast
steppes of Central Asia. I have rarely enjoyed traveling more than our
first two days' journey towards Prague. The range of the Erzgebirge ran
along on our right; the snow still lay in patches upon it, but the
valleys between, with their little clusters of white cottages, were
green and beautiful. About six miles before reaching Teplitz, we passed
Kulm, the great battle-field, which in a measure decided the fate of
Napoleon. He sent Vandamme with 40,000 men to attack the allies before
they could unite their forces, and thus effect their complete
destruction. Only the almost despairing bravery of the Russian guards
under Ostermann, who held him in check till the allied troops united,
prevented Napoleon's design. At the junction of the roads, where the
fighting was hottest, the Austrians have erected a monument to one of
their generals. Not far from it is that of Prussia, simple and tasteful.
A woody hill near, with the little village of Kulm at its foot, was the
station occupied by Vandamme at the commencement of the battle. There is
now a beautiful chapel on its summit, which can be seen far and wide. A
little distance further, the Emperor of Russia has erected a third
monument to the memory of the Russians who fell. Four lions rest on the
base of the pedestal, and on the top of the shaft, forty-five feet high,
Victory is represented as engraving the date, "Aug. 30, 1813," on a
shield. The dark, pine-covered mountains on the right, overlook the
whole field and the valley of Teplitz; Napoleon rode along their crests
several days after the battle, to witness the scene of his defeat.
Teplitz lies in a lovely valley, several miles wide, bounded by the
Bohemian mountains on one side, and the Erzgebirge on the other. One
straggling peak near is crowned with a picturesque ruin, at whose foot
the spacious bath-buildings lie half hidden in foliage. As we went down
the principal street, I noticed nearly every house was a hotel; we
learned afterwards that in summer the usual average of visitors is five
thousand. The waters resemble those of the celebrated Carlsbad; they are
warm and particularly efficacious in rheumatism and diseases of like
character. After leaving Teplitz, the road turned to the east, towards a
lofty mountain, which we had seen the morning before. The peasants as
they passed by, saluted us with "Christ greet you!"
We stopped for the night at the foot of the peak called the
Milleschauer, and must have ascended nearly 2,000 feet, for we had a
wide view the next morning, although the mists and clouds hid the half
of it. The weather being so unfavorable, we concluded not to ascend,
and taking leave of the Jena student who came there for that purpose,
descended through green fields and orchards snowy with blossoms, to
Lobositz, on the Elbe. Here we reached the plains again, where every
thing wore the luxuriance of summer; it was a pleasant change from the
dark and rough scenery we left. The road passed through Theresienstadt,
the fortress of Northern Bohemia. The little city is surrounded by a
double wall and moat, which can be filled with water, rendering it
almost impossible to be taken. In the morning we were ferried over the
Moldau, and after journeying nearly all day across barren, elevated
plains, saw late in the afternoon the sixty-seven spires of Prague below
us! The dark clouds which hung over the hills, gave us little time to
look upon the singular scene; and we were soon comfortably settled in
the half-barbaric, half-Asiatic city, with a pleasant prospect of seeing
its wonders on the morrow.
CHAPTER XX.
SCENES IN PRAGUE.
_Prague._--I feel as if out of the world, in this strange, fantastic,
yet beautiful old city. We have been rambling all morning through its
winding streets, stopping sometimes at a church to see the dusty tombs
and shrines, or to hear the fine music which accompanies the morning
mass. I have seen no city yet that so forcibly reminds one of the past,
and makes him forget everything but the associations connected with the
scenes around him. The language adds to the illusion. Three-fourths of
the people in the streets speak Bohemian and many of the signs are
written in the same tongue, which is not at all like German. The palace
of the Bohemian kings still looks down on the city from the western
heights, and their tombs stand in the Cathedral of the holy Johannes.
When one has climbed up the stone steps lending to the fortress, there
is a glorious prospect before him. Prague, with its spires and towers,
lies in the valley below, through which curves the Moldau with its green
islands, disappearing among the hills which enclose the city on every
side. The fantastic Byzantine architecture of many of the churches and
towers, gives the city a peculiar oriental appearance; it seems to have
been transported from the hills of Syria. Its streets are full of
palaces, fallen and dwelt in now by the poorer classes. Its famous
University, which once boasted forty thousand students, has long since
ceased to exist. In a word, it is, like Venice, a fallen city; though as
in Venice, the improving spirit of the age is beginning to give it a
little life, and to send a quicker stream through its narrow and winding
arteries. The railroad, which, joining that to Brunn, shall bring it in
connection with Vienna, will be finished this year; in anticipation of
the increased business which will arise from this, speculators are
building enormous hotels in the suburbs and tearing down the old
buildings to give place to more splendid edifices. These operations, and
the chain bridge which spans the Moldau towards the southern end of the
city, are the only things which look modern--every thing else is old,
strange and solemn.
Having found out first a few of the locations, we hunted our way with
difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or
interest. Reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and
ascend to the Hradschin--the palace of the Bohemian kings. The bridge
was commenced in 1357, and was one hundred and fifty years in building.
That was the way the old Germans did their work, and they made a
structure which will last a thousand years longer. Every pier is
surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and
time-beaten, that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had
any. The most important of them, at least to Bohemians, is that of the
holy "Johannes of Nepomuck," now considered as the patron-saint of the
land. He was a priest many centuries ago, whom one of the kings threw
from the bridge into the Moldau, because he refused to reveal to him
what the queen confessed. The legend says the body swam for some time on
the river, with five stars around its head. The 16th of May, the day
before we arrived, was that set apart for his particular honor; the
statue on the bridge was covered with an arch of green boughs and
flowers, and the shrine lighted with burning tapers. A railing was
erected around it, near which numbers of the believers were kneeling,
and a priest stood in the inside. The bridge was covered with
passers-by, who all took their hats off till they had passed. Had it
been a place of public worship, the act would have been natural and
appropriate, but to uncover before a statue seemed to us too much like
idolatry, and we ventured over without doing it. A few years ago it
might have been dangerous, but now we only met with scowling looks.
There are many such shrines and statues through the city, and I noticed
that the people always took off their hats and crossed themselves in
passing. On the hill above the western end of the city, stands a chapel
on the spot where the Bavarians put an end to Protestantism in Bohemia
_by the sword_, and the deluded peasantry of the land make pilgrimages
to this spot, as if it were rendered holy by an act over which Religion
weeps!
Ascending the broad flight of steps to the Hradschin, I paused a moment
to look at the scene below. A slight blue haze hung over the clustering
towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream.
It was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and misty are the
memories that haunt its walls. There was no need of a magician's wand to
bid that light cloud shadow forth the forms of other times. They came
uncalled for, even by fancy. Far, far back in the past, I saw the
warrior-princess who founded the kingly city--the renowned Libussa,
whose prowess and talent inspired the women of Bohemia to rise at her
death and storm the land that their sex might rule where it obeyed
before. On the mountain opposite once stood the palace of the bloody
Wlaska, who reigned with her Amazon band for seven years over half
Bohemia. Those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of Huss,
and the castle of his follower--the blind Ziska, who met and defeated
the armies of the German Empire--moulders on the mountain above. Many a
year of war and tempest has passed over the scene. The hills around have
borne the armies of Wallenstein and Frederic the Great; the war-cry of
Bavaria, Sweden and Poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare
of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often
gleamed along the "blood-dyed waters" of the Moldau!
But this was a day-dream. The throng of people coming up the steps waked
me out of it. We turned and followed them through several spacious
courts, till we arrived at the Cathedral, which is magnificent in the
extreme. The dark Gothic pillars, whose arches unite high above, are
surrounded with gilded monuments and shrines, and the side chapels are
rich in elaborate decorations. A priest was speaking from a pulpit in
the centre, in the Bohemian language, which not being the most
intelligible, I went to the other end to see the shrine of the holy
Johannes of Nepomuck. It stands at the end of one of the side aisles and
is composed of a mass of gorgeous silver ornaments. At a little
distance, on each side, hang four massive lamps of silver, constantly
burning. The pyramid of statues, of the same precious metal, has at
each corner a richly carved urn, three feet high, with a crimson lamp
burning at the top. Above, four silver angels, the size of life, are
suspended in the air, holding up the corners of a splendid drapery of
crimson and gold. If these figures were melted down and distributed
among the poor and miserable people who inhabit Bohemia, they would then
be angels indeed, bringing happiness and blessing to many a ruined home-
altar. In the same chapel is the splendid burial-place of the Bohemian
kings, of gilded marble and alabaster. Numberless tombs, covered with
elaborate ornamental work, fill the edifice. It gives one a singular
feeling to stand at one end and look down the lofty hall, dim with
incense smoke and dark with the weight of many centuries.
On the way down again, we stepped into the St. Nicholas Church, which
was built by the Jesuits. The interior has a rich effect, being all of
brown and gold. The massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown
marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely
ornamented in the same style. The music chained me there a long time.
There was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of
singers. It was placed above, and at every sound of the priest's bell,
the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with
a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed
out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal. It was
like a triumphal strain; the soul became filled with thoughts of power
and glory--every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of
rapture, which held the spirit as if spell-bound. I could almost forgive
the Jesuits the superstition and bigotry they have planted in the minds
of men, for the indescribable enjoyment that music gave. When it ceased,
we went out to the world again, and the recollection of it seems now
like a dream--but a dream whose influence will last longer than many a
more palpable reality.
Not far from this place is the palace of Wallenstein, in the same
condition as when he inhabited it, and still in the possession of his
descendants. It is a plain, large building, having beautiful gardens
attached to it, which are open to the public. We went through the
courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock, and
entered the garden where a revolving fountain was casting up its
glittering arches. Among the flowers at the other end of the garden
there is a remarkable fountain. It is but a single jet of water which
rises from the middle of a broad basin of woven wire, but by some means
it sustains a hollow gilded ball, sometimes for many minutes at a time.
When the ball drops, the sloping sides of the basin convey it directly
to the fountain again, and it is carried up to dance a while longer on
the top of the jet. I watched it once, thus supported on the water, for
full fifteen minutes.
There is another part of Prague which is not less interesting, though
much less poetical--the Jews' City. In our rambles we got into it before
we were aware, but hurried immediately out of it again, perfectly
satisfied with one visit. We came first into a dark, narrow street,
whose sides were lined with booths of old clothes and second-hand
articles. A sharp featured old woman thrust a coat before my face,
exclaiming, "Herr, buy a fine coat!" Instantly a man assailed me on the
other side, "Here are vests! pantaloons! shirts!" I broke loose from
them and ran on, but it only became worse. One seized me by the arm,
crying, "_Lieber_ Herr, buy some stockings!" and another grasped my
coat: "Hats, Herr! hats! _buy something, or sell me something!_" I
rushed desperately on, shouting "no! no!" with all my might, and finally
got safe through. My friend having escaped their clutches also, we
hunted the way to the old Jewish cemetery. This stands in the middle of
the city, and has not been used for a hundred years. We could find no
entrance, but by climbing upon the ruins of an old house near, I could
look over the wall. A cold shudder crept over me, to think that warm,
joyous Life, as I then felt it, should grow chill and pass back to clay
in such a foul charnel-house. Large mounds of earth, covered with black,
decaying grave-stones, which were almost hidden under the weeds and rank
grass, filled the inclosure. A few dark, crooked alder-trees grew among
the crumbling tombs, and gave the scene an air of gloom and desolation,
almost fearful. The dust of many a generation lies under these
mouldering stones; they now scarcely occupy a thought in the minds of
the living; and yet the present race toils and seeks for wealth alone,
that it may pass away and leave nothing behind--not even a memory for
that which will follow it!
CHAPTER XXI.
JOURNEY THROUGH EASTERN BOHEMIA AND MORAVIA TO THE DANUBE.
Our road the first two days after leaving Prague led across broad,
elevated plains, across which a cold wind came direct from the summits
of the Riesengebirge, far to our left. Were it not for the pleasant view
we had of the rich valley of the Upper Elbe, which afforded a delightful
relief to the monotony of the hills around us, the journey would have
been exceedingly tiresome. The snow still glistened on the distant
mountains; but when the sun shone out, the broad valley below, clad in
the luxuriance of summer, and extending for at least fifty miles with
its woods, meadows and white villages, looked like a real Paradise. The
long ridges over which we travelled extend for nearly a hundred and
fifty miles--from the Elbe almost to the Danube. The soil is not
fertile, the inhabitants are exceedingly poor, and from our own
experience, the climate must be unhealthy. In winter the country is
exposed to the full sweep of the northern winds, and in summer the sun
shines down on it with unbroken force. There are few streams running
through it, and the highest part, which divides the waters of the Baltic
from those of the Black Sea is filled for a long distance with marshes
and standing pools, whose exhalations must inevitably subject the
inhabitants to disease. This was perceptible in their sallow, sickly
countenances; many of the women are afflicted with the _goitre_, or
swelling of the throat; I noticed that towards evening they always
carefully muffled up their faces. According to their own statements, the
people suffer much from the cold in winter, as the few forests the
country affords are in possession of the noblemen to whom the land
belongs, and they are not willing to let them be cut down. The dominions
of these petty despots are marked along the road with as much precision
as the boundaries of an empire; we saw sometimes their stalely castles
at a distance, forming quite a contrast to the poor scattering villages
of the peasants.
At Kollin, the road, which had been running eastward in the direction of
Olmutz, turned to the south, and we took leave of the Elbe, after
tracing back his course from Magdeburg nearly to his home in the
mountains of Silesia. The country was barren and monotonous, but a
bright sunshine made it look somewhat cheerful. We passed, every few
paces, some shrine or statue by the roadside. This had struck me,
immediately on crossing the border, in the Saxon Switzerland--it seemed
as if the boundary of Saxony was that of Protestantism. But here in the
heart of Bohemia, the extent to which this image worship is carried,
exceeds anything I had imagined. There is something pleasing as well as
poetical in the idea of a shrine by the wayside, where the weary
traveller can rest, and raise his heart in thankfulness to the Power
that protects him; it was no doubt a pious spirit that placed them
there; but the people appear to pay the reverence to the picture which
they should give to its spiritual image, and the pictures themselves are
so shocking and ghastly, they seem better calculated to excite horror
than reverence. It was really repulsive to look on images of the Saviour
covered with blood, and generally with swords sticking in different
parts of the body. The Almighty is represented as an old man, wearing a
Bishop's mitre, and the image of the Virgin is always drest in a gay
silk robe, with beads and other ornaments. From the miserable painting,
the faces often had an expression that would have been exceedingly
ludicrous, if the shock given to our feelings of reverence were not
predominant. The poor, degraded peasants always uncovered or crossed
themselves when passing by these shrines, but it appeared to be rather
the effect of habit than any good impulse, for the Bohemians are noted
all over Germany for their dishonesty; we learned by experience they
deserve it. It is not to be wondered at either; for a people so poor and
miserable and oppressed will soon learn to take advantage of all who
appear better off than themselves. They had one custom which was
touching and beautiful. At the sound of the church bell, as it rung the
morning, noon and evening chimes, every one uncovered, and repeated to
himself a prayer. Often, as we rested at noon on a bank by the roadside,
that voice spoke out from the house of worship and every one heeded its
tone. Would that to this innate spirit of reverence were added the light
of Knowledge, which a tyrannical government denies them!
The third night of our journey we stopped at the little village of
Stecken, and the next morning, after three hours' walk over the ridgy
heights, reached the old Moravian city of Iglau, built on a hill. It
happened to be _Corpus Christi_ day, and the peasants of the
neighborhood were hastening there in their gayest dresses. The young
women wore a crimson scarf around the head, with long fringed and
embroidered ends hanging over the shoulders, or falling in one smooth
fold from the back of the head. They were attired in black velvet vests,
with full white sleeves and skirts of some gay color, which were short
enough to show to advantage their red stockings and polished
shoe-buckles. Many of them were not deficient in personal beauty--there
was a gipsy-like wildness in their eyes, that combined with their rich
hair and graceful costume, reminded me of the Italian maidens. The towns
too, with their open squares and arched passages, have quite a southern
look; but the damp, gloomy weather was enough to dispel any illusion of
this kind.
In the neighborhood of Iglau, and, in fact, through the whole of
Bohemia, we saw some of the strangest teams that could well be imagined.
I thought the Frankfort milkwomen with their donkeys and hearse-like
carts, were comical objects enough, but they bear no comparison with
these Bohemian turn-outs. Dogs--for economy's sake, perhaps--generally
supply the place of oxen or horses, and it is no uncommon thing to see
three large mastiffs abreast, harnessed to a country-cart. A donkey and
a cow together, are sometimes met with, and one man, going to the
festival at Iglau, had his wife and children in a little wagon, drawn by
a dog and a donkey. These two, however, did not work well together; the
dog would bite his lazy companion, and the man's time was constantly
employed in whipping him off the donkey, and in whipping the donkey away
from the side of the road. Once I saw a wagon drawn by a dog, with a
woman pushing behind, while a man, doubtless her lord and master, sat
comfortably within, smoking his pipe with the greatest complacency! The
very climax of all was a woman and a dog harnessed _together_, taking a
load of country produce to market! I hope, for the honor of the country,
it was not emblematic of woman's condition there. But as we saw hundreds
of them breaking stone along the road, and occupied at other laborious
and not less menial labor, there is too much reason to fear that it is
so.
As we approached Iglau, we heard cannon firing; the crowd increased, and
following the road, we came to an open square, where a large number were
already assembled; shrines were erected around it, hung with pictures
and pine boughs, and a long procession of children was passing down the
side as we entered. We went towards the middle, where Neptune and his
Tritons poured the water from their urns into two fountains, and stopped
to observe the scene. The procession came on, headed by a large body of
priests, in white robes, with banners and crosses. They stopped before
the principal shrine, in front of the Rathhaus, and began a solemn
religious ceremony. The whole crowd of not less than ten thousand
persons, stood silent and uncovered, and the deep voice of the
officiating priest was heard over the whole square. At times the
multitude sang responses, and I could mark the sound, swelling and
rolling up like a mighty wave, till it broke and slowly sank down again
to the deepest stillness. The effect was marred by the rough voice of
the officers commanding the soldiery, and the volleys of musquetry which
were occasionally discharged. It degraded the solemnity of the pageant
to the level of a military parade.
In the afternoon we were overtaken by a travelling _handwerker_, on his
way to Vienna, who joined company with us. We walked several miles
together, talking on various matters, without his having the least
suspicion we were not Germans. He had been at Trieste, and at length
began speaking of the great beauty of the American vessels there. "Yes,"
said I, "_our_ vessels are admired all over the world." He stared at me
without comprehending;--"_your_ vessels?" "Our country's," I replied;
"we are Americans!" I can see still his look of incredulous astonishment
and hear the amazed tone with which he cried: "_You_ Americans--it is
impossible!" We convinced him nevertheless, to his great joy, for all
through Germany there is a curiosity to see our countrymen and a kindly
feeling towards them. "I shall write down in my book," said he, "so that
I shall never forget it, that I once travelled with two Americans!" We
stopped together for the night at the only inn in a large, beggarly
village, where we obtained a frugal supper with difficulty, for a
regiment of Polish lancers was quartered there for the night, and the
pretty _Kellnerin_ was so busy in waiting on the officers that she had
no eye for wandering journeymen, as she took us to be. She even told us
the beds were all occupied and we must sleep on the floor. Just then the
landlord came by. "Is it possible, Herr Landlord," asked our new
companion, "that there is no bed here for us? Have the goodness to look
again, for we are not in the habit of sleeping on the floor, like dogs!"
This speech had its effect, for the _Kellnerin_ was commanded to find us
beds. She came back unwillingly after a time and reported that _two_,
only, were vacant. As a German bed is only a yard wide, we pushed these
two together, but they were still too small for three persons, and I had
a severe cold in the morning, from sleeping crouched up against the damp
wall.
The next day we passed the dividing ridge which separates the waters of
the Elbe from the Danube, and in the evening arrived at Znaim, the
capital of Moravia. It is built on a steep hill looking down on the
valley of the Thaya, whose waters mingle with the Danube near Pressburg.
The old castle on the height near, was formerly the residence of the
Moravian monarchs, and traces of the ancient walls and battlements of
the city are still to be seen. The handwerker took us to the inn
frequented by his craft--the leather-curriers--and we conversed together
till bed-time. While telling me of the oppressive laws of Austria, the
degrading vassalage of the peasants and the horrors of the conscription
system, he paused as in deep thought, and looking at me with a
suppressed sigh, said: "Is it not true, America is free?" I told him of
our country and her institutions, adding that though we were not yet as
free as we hoped and wished to be, we enjoyed far more liberty than any
country in the world. "Ah!" said he, "it is hard to leave one's
fatherland oppressed as it is, but I wish I could go to America!"
We left next morning at eight o'clock, after having done full justice
to the beds of the "Golden Stag," and taken leave of Florian Francke,
the honest and hearty old landlord. Znaim appears to great advantage
from the Vienna road; the wind which blew with fury against our backs,
would not permit us to look long at it, but pushed us on towards the
Austrian border. In the course of three hours we were obliged to stop at
a little village; it blew a perfect hurricane and the rain began to soak
through our garments. Here we stayed three hours among the wagoners who
stopped on account of the weather. One miserable, drunken wretch, whom
one would not wish to look at more than once, distinguished himself by
insulting those around him, and devouring like a beast, large quantities
of food. When the reckoning was given him, he declared he had already
paid, and the waiter denying it, he said, "Stop, I will show you
something!" pulled out his passport and pointed to the name--"Baron von
Reitzenstein." It availed nothing; he had fallen so low that his title
inspired no respect, and when we left the inn they were still
endeavoring to get their money and threatening him with a summary
proceeding if the demand was not complied with.
Next morning the sky was clear and a glorious day opened before us. The
country became more beautiful as we approached the Danube; the hills
were covered with vineyards, just in the tender green of their first
leaves, and the rich valleys lay in Sabbath stillness in the warm
sunshine. Sometimes from an eminence we could see far and wide over the
garden-like slopes, where little white villages shone among the
blossoming fruit-trees. A chain of blue hills rose in front, which I
knew almost instinctively stood by the Danube; when we climbed to the
last height and began to descend to the valley, where the river was
still hidden by luxuriant groves, I saw far to the southwest, a range of
faint, silvery summits, rising through the dim ether like an airy
vision. There was no mistaking those snowy mountains. My heart bounded
with a sudden thrill of rapturous excitement at this first view of _the
Alps!_ They were at a great distance, and their outline was almost
blended with the blue drapery of air which clothed them. I gazed till my
vision became dim and I could no longer trace their airy lines. They
called up images blended with the grandest events in the world's
history. I thought of the glorious spirits who have looked upon them and
trodden their rugged sides--of the storms in which they veil their
countenances, and the avalanches they hurl thundering to the valleys--of
the voices of great deeds, which have echoed from their crags over the
wide earth--and of the ages which have broken, like the waves of a
mighty sea, upon their everlasting summits!
As we descended, the hills and forests shut out this sublime vision, and
I looked to the wood-clothed mountains opposite and tried to catch a
glimpse of the current that rolled at their feet. We here entered upon a
rich plain, about ten miles in diameter, which lay between a backward
sweep of the hills and a curve of the Danube. It was covered with the
richest grain; every thing wore the luxuriance of summer, and we seemed
to have changed seasons since leaving the dreary hills of Bohemia.
Continuing over the plain, we had on our left the fields of Wagram and
Essling, the scene of two of Napoleon's blood-bought victories. The
outposts of the Carpathians skirted the horizon--that great mountain
range which stretches through Hungary to the borders of Russia.
At length the road came to the river's side, and we crossed on wooden
bridges over two or three arms of the Danube, all of which together were
little wider than the Schuylkill at Philadelphia. When we crossed the
last bridge, we came to a kind of island covered with groves of the
silver ash. Crowds of people filled the cool walks; booths of
refreshment stood by the roadside, and music was everywhere heard. The
road finally terminated in a circle, where beautiful alleys radiated
into the groves; from the opposite side a broad street lined with
stately buildings extended into the heart of the city, and through this
avenue, filled with crowds of carriages and people on their way to those
delightful walks, we entered Vienna!
CHAPTER XXII.
VIENNA.
_May 31._--I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great
capital--this German Paris--this connecting link between the
civilization of Europe and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It
looks familiar to be in a city again, whose streets are thronged with
people, and resound with the din and bustle of business. It reminds me
of the never-ending crowds of London, or the life and tumult of our
scarcely less active New York. Although the end may be sordid for which
so many are laboring, yet the very sight of so much activity is
gratifying. It is peculiarly so to an American. After residing in a
foreign land for some time, the peculiarities of our nation are more
easily noticed; I find in my countrymen abroad a vein of restless
energy--a love for exciting action--which to many of our good German
friends is perfectly incomprehensible. It might have been this which
gave at once a favorable impression of Vienna.
The morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the
Leopoldstadt, to explore the world before us. Entering the broad
Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube, which
separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent
coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their
breakfasts in the shady porticoes. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses
the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the
dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little
brown Hungarian boys were going around, selling bunches of lilies, and
Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the side-walk. The throng
became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The streets were
filled with carts and carriages, and as there are no side-pavements, it
required constant attention to keep out of their way. Splendid shops,
fitted up with great taste, occupied the whole of the lower stories, and
goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvass awnings in front of them.
Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some particular person or
place, which was represented on a large panel by the door. The number of
these paintings added much to the splendor of the scene; I was gratified
to find, among the images of kings and dukes, one dedicated "_to the
American_," with an Indian chief in full costume.
The _Altstadt_, or old city, which contains about sixty thousand
inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population,
taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a
million. It is situated on a small arm of the Danube, and encompassed by
a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a quarter
to half a mile in length, called the Glacis. This formerly belonged to
the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up so rapidly on
all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk. The city is
still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat; but since it
was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed into a garden,
with a beautiful carriage road along the bottom, around the whole city.
It is a beautiful sight, to stand on the summit of the wall and look
over the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every
direction, and filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The
Vorstaedte, or new cities, stretch in a circle around, beyond this; all
the finest buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid
Vienna Theatre and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The
mountains of the Vienna Forest bound the view, with here and there a
stately castle on their woody summits. I was reminded of London as seen
from Regent's Park, and truly this part of Vienna can well compare with
it. On penetrating into the suburbs, the resemblance is at an end. Many
of the public thoroughfares are still unpaved, and in dry weather one is
almost choked by the clouds of fine dust. A furious wind blows from the
mountains, sweeping the streets almost constantly and filling the eyes
and ears with it, making the city an unhealthy residence for strangers.
There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Beside the
numberless walks of the Glacis, there are the Imperial Gardens, with
their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and
opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph: and the Prater, the largest
and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of
the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle
at the end of the Praterstrasse, broad carriage-ways extend through its
forests of oak and silver ash, and over its verdant lawns to the
principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined
with stately horse chesnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense
canopy, completely shutting out the sun. Every afternoon the beauty and
nobility of Vienna whirl through the cool groves in their gay equipages,
while the sidewalks are thronged with pedestrians, and the numberless
tables and seats with which every house of refreshment is surrounded,
are filled with merry guests. Here, on Sundays and holidays, the people
repair in thousands. The woods are full of tame deer, which run
perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw several in one of the lawns,
lying down in the grass, with a number of children playing around or
sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk there in the cool of the
evening, when the paths are crowded, and everybody is enjoying the
release from the dusty city. It is this free, social life which renders
Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws yearly thousands of
visitors from all parts of Europe.
St. Stephen's Cathedral, in the centre of the old city, is one of the
finest specimens of Gothic architecture in Germany. Its unrivalled
tower, which rises to the height of four hundred and twenty-eight feet,
is visible from every part of Vienna. It is entirely of stone, most
elaborately ornamented, and is supposed to be the strongest in Europe.
If the tower was finished, it might rival any church in Europe in
richness and brilliancy of appearance. The inside is solemn and grand;
but the effect is injured by the number of small chapels and shrines. In
one of these rests, the remains of Prince Eugene of Savoy, "_der edle
Ritter_," known in a ballad to every man, woman and child in Germany.
The Belvidere Gallery fills thirty-five halls, and contains three
thousand pictures! It is absolutely bewildering to walk through such
vast collections; you can do no more than glance at each painting, and
hurry by face after face, and figure after figure, on which you would
willingly gaze for hours and inhale the atmosphere of beauty that
surrounds them. Then after you leave, the brain is filled with their
forms--radiant spirit-faces look upon you, and you see constantly, in
fancy, the calm brow of a Madonna, the sweet young face of a child, or
the blending of divine with mortal beauty in an angel's countenance. I
endeavor, if possible, always to make several visits--to study those
pictures which cling _first_ to the memory, and pass over those which
make little or no impression. It is better to have a few images fresh
and enduring, than a confused and indistinct memory of many.
From the number of Madonnas in every European gallery, it would almost
seem that the old artists painted nothing else. The subject is one which
requires the highest genius to do it justice, and it is therefore
unpleasant to see so many still, inexpressive faces of the virgin and
child, particularly by the Dutch artists, who clothe their figures
sometimes in the stiff costume of their own time. Raphael and Murillo
appear to me to be almost the only painters who have expressed what,
perhaps, was above the power of other masters--the combined love and
reverence of the mother, and the divine expression in the face of the
child, prophetic of his mission and godlike power.
There were many glorious old paintings in the second story, which is
entirely taken up with pictures; two or three of the halls were devoted
to selected works from modern artists. Two of these I would give every
thing I have to possess. One of them is a winter scene, representing the
portico of an old Gothic church. At the base of one of the pillars a
woman is seated in the snow, half-benumbed, clasping an infant to her
breast, while immediately in front stands a boy of perhaps seven or
eight years, his little hands folded in prayer, while the chill wind
tosses the long curls from his forehead. There is something so pure and
holy in the expression of his childish countenance, so much feeling in
the lip and sorrowful eye, that it moves one almost to tears to look
upon it. I turned back half a dozen times from the other pictures to
view it again, and blessed the artist in my heart for the lesson he
gave. The other is by a young Italian painter, whose name I have
forgotten, but who, if he never painted anything else, is worthy a high
place among the artists of his country. It represents some scene from
the history of Venice. On an open piazza, a noble prisoner, wasted and
pale from long confinement, has just had an interview with his children.
He reaches his arm toward them as if for the last time, while a savage
keeper drags him away. A lovely little girl kneels at the feet of the
Doge, but there is no compassion in his stern features, and it is easy
to see that her father is doomed.
The Lower Belvidere, separated from the Upper by a large garden, laid
out in the style of that at Versailles, contains the celebrated
_Ambraser Sammlung_, a collection of armor. In the first hall I noticed
the complete armor of the Emperor Maximilian, for man and horse--the
armor of Charles V., and Prince Moritz of Saxony, while the walls were
filled with figures of German nobles and knights, in the suits they wore
in life. There is also the armor of the great "Baver of Trient," trabant
of the Archduke Ferdinand. He was nearly nine feet in stature, and his
spear, though not equal to Satan's, in Paradise Lost, would still make a
tree of tolerable dimensions.
In the second hall we saw weapons taken from the Turkish army who
besieged Vienna, with the horse-tail standards of the Grand Vizier, Kara
Mustapha. The most interesting article was the battle-axe of the
unfortunate Montezuma, which was probably given to the Emperor Charles
V., by Cortez. It is a plain instrument of dark colored stone, about
three feet long.
We also visited the _Burgerliche Zeughaus_, a collection of arms and
weapons, belonging to the citizens of Vienna. It contains sixteen
thousand weapons and suits of armor, including those plundered from the
Turks, when John Sobieski conquered them and relieved Vienna from the
siege. Besides a great number of sabres, lances and horsetails, there is
the blood-red banner of the Grand Vizier, as well as his skull and
shroud, which is covered with sentences from the Koran. On his return to
Belgrade, after the defeat at Vienna, the Sultan sent him a bow-string,
and he was accordingly strangled. The Austrians having taken Belgrade
some time after, they opened his grave and carried off his skull and
shroud, as well as the bow-string, as relics. Another large and richly
embroidered banner, which hung in a broad sheet from the ceiling, was
far more interesting to me. It had once waved from the vessels of the
Knights of Malta, and had, perhaps, on the prow of the Grand Master's
ship, led that romantic band to battle against the Infidel.
A large number of peasants and common soldiers were admitted to view the
armory at the same time. The grave _custode_ who showed us the
curiosities, explaining every thing in phrases known by heart for years
and making the same starts of admiration whenever he came to any thing
peculiarly remarkable, singled us out as the two persons most worthy of
attention. Accordingly his remarks were directed entirely to us, and his
humble countrymen might as well have been invisible, for the notice he
took of them. On passing out, we gave him a coin worth about fifteen
cents, which happened to be so much more than the others gave him, that,
bowing graciously, he invited us to write our names in the album for
strangers. While we were doing this, a poor handwerker lingered behind,
apparently for the same object, whom he scornfully dismissed, shaking
the fifteen cent piece in his hand, and saying: "The album is not for
such as you--it is for noble gentlemen!"
On our way through the city, we often noticed a house on the southern
side of St. Stephen's Platz, dedicated to "the Iron Stick." In a niche
by the window, stood what appeared to be the limb of a tree, completely
filled with nails, which were driven in so thick that no part of the
original wood is visible. We learned afterwards the legend concerning
it. The Vienna Forest is said to have extended, several hundred years
ago, to this place. A locksmith's apprentice was enabled, by the devil's
help, to make the iron bars and padlock which confine the limb in its
place; every locksmith's apprentice who came to Vienna after that, drove
a nail into it, till finally there was room for no more. It is a
singular legend, and whoever may have placed the limb there originally,
there it has remained for two or three hundred years at least.
We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to
Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the
Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment hall nearly five hundred feet long,
with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a garden
walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled with
tables, where the people seated themselves as they came, and conversed
sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed in a
little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I stationed
myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king, whose magic
tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion. After the band
had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized, handsome man
stepped forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand and bow in
the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a magician
summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his bow, the
tones leaped forth from the instruments, and guided by his eye and hand,
fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every instrument
performed its part, was truly marvellous. He could not have struck the
measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his own piano,
than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth, so perfect and
distinct, that one almost expected to see them embodied, whirling in
wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely light and
bounding, the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it sank into a
mournful lament, with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away in a
long-breathed sigh. Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He
would wave his fiddle-bow awhile, then commence playing with desperate
energy, moving his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from
his brow. A book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use
of it. He often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at
the restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from
bounding to the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The
composition of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted
more in the exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the
perfect, the wonderful exactness with which each performed its part--a
piece of art of the most elaborate and refined character.
The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of
enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight, with the
stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between
the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We
walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such
a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends,
and the language our mother tongue!
We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon, to a little
cemetery about a mile from the city, to find the grave of Beethoven. On
ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are
many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the
narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz
Clement, a young composer, who died two or three years ago. On turning
again, my eye fell instantly on the word "BEETHOVEN," in golden letters,
on a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the
pedestal, above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem
of resurrection to eternal life. Here then, mouldered the remains of
that restless spirit, who seemed to have strayed to earth from another
clime, from such a height did he draw his glorious conceptions. The
perfection he sought for here in vain, he has now attained in a world
where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There were
no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius; only
one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long ago
by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their
bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not
resist the temptation to steal one or two, while the old grave-digger
was busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open
in a few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred
relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer, whose
beautiful songs are heard all over Germany.
It would employ one a week to visit all the rich collections of art in
Vienna. They are all open to the public on certain days of the week, and
we have been kept constantly in motion, running from one part of the
city to another, in order to arrive at some gallery at the appointed
time. Tickets, which have to be procured often in quite different parts
of the city, are necessary for admittance to many; on applying after
much trouble and search, we frequently found we came at the wrong hour,
and must leave without effecting our object. We employed no guide, but
preferred finding every thing ourselves. We made a list every morning,
of the collections open during the day, and employed the rest of the
time in visiting the churches and public gardens, or rambling through
the suburbs.
We visited the Imperial Library a day or two ago. The hall is 245 feet
long, with a magnificent dome in the centre, under which stands the
statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble, surrounded by twelve other
monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls are of variegated marble,
richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling and dome are covered with
brilliant fresco paintings. The library numbers 300,000 volumes, and
16,000 manuscripts, which are kept in walnut cases, gilded and adorned
with medallions. The rich and harmonious effect of the whole cannot
easily be imagined. It is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such
splendor, should be used to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may
seem hollow and vain, for it is but the dwelling of a man; but no
building can be too magnificent for the hundreds of great and immortal
spirits to dwell in, who have visited earth during thirty centuries.
Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a
brass plate, containing one of the records of the Roman Senate, made 180
years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth and sixth centuries,
and a volume of Psalms, printed on parchment, in the year 1457, by Faust
and Schaeffer, the inventors of printing. There were also Mexican
manuscripts, presented by Cortez; the prayer-book of Hildegard, wife of
Charlemagne, in letters of gold; the signature of San Carlo Borromeo,
and a Greek testament of the thirteenth century, which had been used by
Erasmus in making his translation and contains notes in his own hand.
The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso, in
the poet's own hand, with his erasions and corrections.
We also visited the Cabinet of Natural History, which is open twice a
week "to all _respectably dressed_ persons," as the notice at the door
says. But Heaven forbid that I should attempt to describe what we saw
there. The Mineral Cabinet had a greater interest to me, inasmuch as it
called up the recollections of many a school-boy ramble over the hills
and into all kinds of quarries, far and near. It is said to be the most
perfect collection in existence. I was pleased to find many old
acquaintances there, from the mines of Pennsylvania; Massachusetts and
New York were also very well represented. I had no idea before, that the
mineral wealth of Austria was so great. Besides the iron and lead mines
among the hills of Styria and the quicksilver of Idria, there is no
small amount of gold and silver found, and the Carpathian mountains are
rich in jasper, opal and lapiz lazuli. The largest opal ever found, was
in this collection. It weighs thirty-four ounces and looks like a
condensed rainbow.
In passing the palace, we saw several persons entering the basement
story under the Library, and had the curiosity to follow them. By so
doing, we saw the splendid equipages of the house of Austria. There must
have been near a hundred carriages and sleds, of every shape and style,
from the heavy, square vehicle of the last century to the most light and
elegant conveyance of the present day. One clumsy, but magnificent
machine, of crimson and gold, was pointed out as being a hundred and
fifty years old. The misery we witnessed in starving Bohemia, formed a
striking contrast to all this splendor.
Beside the Imperial Picture Gallery, there are several belonging to
princes and noblemen in Vienna, which are scarcely less valuable. The
most important of these is that of Prince Liechtenstein, which we
visited yesterday. We applied to the porter's lodge for admittance to
the gallery, but he refused to open it for two persons; as we did not
wish a long walk for nothing, we concluded to wait for other visitors.
Presently a gentleman and lady came and inquired if the gallery was
open. We told him it would probably be opened now, although the porter
required a larger number, and he went to ask. After a short time he
returned, saying: "He will come immediately; I thought best to put the
number a little higher, and so I told him there were _six_ of us!"
Having little artistic knowledge of paintings, I judge of them according
to the effect they produce upon me--in proportion as they gratify the
innate love for the beautiful and the true. I have been therefore
disappointed in some painters whose names are widely known, and
surprised again to find works of great beauty by others of smaller fame.
Judging by such a standard, I should say that "Cupid sleeping in the
lap of Venus," by Correggio, is the glory of this collection. The
beautiful limbs of the boy-god droop in the repose of slumber, as his
head rests on his mother's knee, and there is a smile lingering around
his half-parted lips, as if he was dreaming new triumphs. The face is
not that of the wicked, mischief-loving child, but rather a sweet
cherub, bringing a blessing to all he visits. The figure of the goddess
is exquisite. Her countenance, unearthly in its loveliness, expresses
the tenderness of a young mother, as she sits with one finger pressed on
her rosy lip, watching his slumber. It is a picture which "stings the
brain with beauty."
The chapel of St. Augustine contains one of the best works of
Canova--the monument of the Grand Duchess, Maria Christina, of
Sachsen-Teschen. It is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high,
with an opening in the side, representing the entrance to a sepulchre. A
female figure personating Virtue bears in an urn to the grave, the ashes
of the departed, attended by two children with torches. The figure of
Compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his
benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. On the lower step
rests a mourning Genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the
pyramid above represents an angel carrying Christina's image, surrounded
with the emblem of eternity, to Heaven. A spirit of deep sorrow, which
is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the
whole group. While we looked at it, the organ breathed out a slow,
mournful strain, which harmonized so fully with the expression of the
figures, that we seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they
mourned. The combined effect of music and sculpture, thus united in
their deep pathos, was such, that I could have sat down and wept. It was
not from sadness at the death of a benevolent though unknown
individual,--but the feeling of grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so
powerfully represented, came to the heart like an echo of its own
emotion, and carried it away with irresistible influence. Travellers
have described the same feeling while listening to the Miserere in the
Sistine Chapel, at Rome. Canova could not have chiseled the monument
without tears.
One of the most interesting objects in Vienna, is the Imperial Armory.
We were admitted through tickets previously procured from the Armory
Direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told
to wait in the court till our turn came. Around the wall on the inside,
is suspended the enormous chain which the Turks stretched across the
Danube at Buda, in the year 1529, to obstruct the navigation. It has
eight thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. The court is filled
with cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from
other nations. I saw a great many which were cast during the French
Revolution, with the words "_Liberte! Egalite!_" upon them, and a number
of others bearing the simple letter "N."
Finally the first company came down and the forty or fifty persons who
had collected during the interval, were admitted. The Armory runs around
a hollow square, and must be at least a quarter of a mile in length. We
were all taken into a circular hall, made entirely of weapons, to
represent the four quarters of the globe. Here the crusty old guide who
admitted us, rapped with his stick on the shield of an old knight who
stood near, to keep silence, and then addressed us: "When I speak every
one must be silent. No one can write or draw anything. No one shall
touch anything, or go to look at anything else, before I have done
speaking. Otherwise, they shall be taken immediately into the street
again!" Thus in every hall he rapped and scolded, driving the women to
one side with his stick and the men to the other, till we were nearly
through, when the thought of the coming fee made him a little more
polite. He had a regular set of descriptions by heart, which he went
through with a great flourish, pointing particularly to the common
military caps of the late Emperors of Prussia and Austria, as "treasures
beyond all price to the nation!" Whereupon, the crowd of common people
gazed reverently on the shabby beavers, and I verily believe, would have
devoutly kissed them, had the glass covering been removed. I happened to
be next to a tall, dignified young man, who looked on all this with a
displeasure almost amounting to contempt. Seeing I was a foreigner, he
spoke, in a low tone, bitterly of the Austrian government. "You are not
then an Austrian?" I asked. "No, thank God!" was the reply: "but I have
seen enough of Austrian tyranny. I am a Pole!"
The first wing contains banners used in the French Revolution, and
liberty trees with the red cap; the armor of Rudolph of Hapsburg,
Maximilian I., the Emperor Charles V., and the hat, sword and order of
Marshal Schwarzenberg. Some of the halls represent a fortification, with
walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. A long room
in the second wing contains an encampment, in which twelve or fifteen
large tents are formed in like manner. Along the sides are grouped old
Austrian banners, standards taken from the French, and horsetails and
flags captured from the Turks. "They make a great boast," said the Pole,
"of a half dozen French colors, but let them go to the Hospital des
Invalides, in Paris, and they will find _hundreds_ of the best banners
of Austria!" They also exhibited the armor of a dwarf king of Bohemia
and Hungary, who died, a gray-headed old man, in his twentieth year; the
sword of Marlborough; the coat of Gustavus Adolphus, pierced in the
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