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Title: Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843, vol. 1 of 2
Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Release date: August 20, 2024 [eBook #74280]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Edward Moxon, 1844
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAMBLES IN GERMANY AND ITALY IN 1840, 1842, AND 1843, VOL. 1 OF 2 ***
RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY,
IN
1840, 1842, AND 1843.
BY
MRS. SHELLEY.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET.
MDCCCXLIV.
O vedovate da perpetuo gelo
Terre, è d’incerto di mesto sorriso,
Addio! * * * Questo petto anelo
Scosse di gioia un palpito improvviso,
Quando il Tiranno splendido del cielo
Mi rivelò d’Italia il paradiso.—NICCOLINI.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
TO
SAMUEL ROGERS,
AUTHOR OF “THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY,” “ITALY,” ETC.
THESE VOLUMES ARE DEDICATED,
AS A SLIGHT TOKEN
OF
RESPECT, GRATITUDE, AND AFFECTION,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
I have found it a pleasant thing while travelling to have in the
carriage the works of those who have passed through the same country.
Sometimes they inform, sometimes they excite curiosity. If alone, they
serve as society; if with others, they suggest matter for conversation.
These Volumes were thus originated. Visiting spots often described,
pursuing a route such as form for the most part the common range of the
tourist—I could tell nothing new, except as each individual’s experience
possesses novelty. While I passed in haste from city to city; as I
travelled through mountain-passes or over vast extents of country, I put
down the daily occurrences—a guide, a pioneer, or simply a
fellow-traveller, for those who came after me.
When I reached Italy, however, and came south, I found that I could say
little of Florence and Rome, as far as regarded the cities themselves,
that had not been said so often and so well before, that I was satisfied
to select from my letters such portions merely as touched upon subjects
that I had not found mentioned elsewhere. It was otherwise as regarded
the people, especially in a political point of view; and in treating of
them my scope grew more serious.
I believe that no one can mingle much with the Italians without becoming
attached to them. Their faults injure each other; their good qualities
make them agreeable to strangers. Their courtesy, their simplicity of
manner, their evident desire to serve, their rare and exceeding
intelligence, give to the better specimens among the higher classes, and
to many among the lower, a charm all their own. In addition, therefore,
to being a mere gossiping companion to a traveller, I would fain say
something that may incite others to regard them favourably; something
explanatory of their real character.[1] But to speak of the state of
Italy and the Italians—
Non è poleggio da picciola barca
Quel, che fendendo va l’ardita prora,
Nè da nocchier, ch’a se medesmo parca.
When I began to put together what I knew, I found it too scant of
circumstance and experience to form a whole. I could only sketch facts,
guess at causes, hope for results. I have said little, therefore; but
what I have said, I believe that I may safely declare, may be depended
upon.
Time was, when travels in Italy were filled with contemptuous censures
of the effeminacy of the Italians—diatribes against the vice and
cowardice of the nobles—sneers at the courtly verses of the poets, who
were content to celebrate a marriage or a birth among the great:—their
learned men fared better, for there were always writers in Italy whose
names adorned European letters—yet still contempt was the general tone;
and of late years travellers (with the exception of Lady Morgan, whose
book is dear to the Italians), parrot the same, not because these things
still exist, but because they know no better.
Italy is, indeed, much changed. Their historians no longer limit
themselves to disputing dates, but burn with enthusiasm for liberty;
their poets, Manzoni and Niccolini at their head, direct their efforts
to elevating and invigorating the public mind. The country itself wears
a new aspect; it is struggling with its fetters,—not only with the
material ones that weigh on it so heavily, and which they endure with a
keen sense of shame, but with those that have entered into and bind the
soul—superstition, luxury, servility, indolence, violence, vice.
Since the date of these letters Italy has been much disturbed,—but the
risings and their unfortunate consequences to individuals, are regarded
by us with contempt, or excite only a desire of putting an end to them
as detrimental to the sufferers, without being of any utility to the
cause of civilisation and moral improvement. Yet it ought not to be
forgotten, that the oppression suffered in that portion of the country
which has been recently convulsed, is such as to justify Dr. Johnson’s
proposition, that “if the abuse be enormous, Nature will rise up, and
claiming her original rights, overturn a corrupt political system.”
Englishmen, in particular, ought to sympathise in their struggles; for
the aspiration for free institutions all over the world has its source
in England. Our example first taught the French nobility to seek to
raise themselves from courtiers into legislators. The American war of
independence, it is true, quickened this impulse, by showing the way to
a successful resistance to the undue exercise of authority; but the seed
was all sown by us. The swarms of English that overrun Italy keep the
feeling alive. An Italian gentleman naturally envies an Englishman,
hereditary or elective legislator. He envies him his pride of country,
in which he himself can in no way indulge. He knows, at best, that his
sovereign is a weak tool in the hands of a foreign potentate; and that
all that is aimed at by the governments that rule him, is to benefit
Austria—not Italy. But this forms but a small portion of his wrongs. He
sees that we enjoy the privilege of doing and saying whatever we please,
so that we infringe no law. If he write a book, it is submitted to the
censor, and if it be marked by any boldness of opinion, it is
suppressed. If he attempt any plan for the improvement of his
countrymen, he is checked; if a tardy permission be given him to
proceed, it is clogged with such conditions as nullify the effect. If he
limit his endeavours to self-improvement, he is suspected—surrounded by
spies; while his friends share in the odium that attaches to him. The
result of such persecution is to irritate or discourage. He either sinks
into the Circean Stye, in which so many drag out a degraded existence,
or he is irresistibly impelled to resist. No way to mitigate the ills he
groans under, or to serve his countrymen, is open, except secret
societies. The mischievous effects of such to those who are implicated
in them, are unspeakably great. They fear a spy in the man who shares
their oath; their acts are dark, and treachery hovers close. The result
is inevitable; their own moral sense is tampered with, and becomes
vitiated; or, if they escape this evil, and preserve the ingenuousness
of a free and noble nature, they are victims.
While thus every passion, bad and good, ferments—a touch is given, and
up springs armed revolt. This must be put down or the peace of Europe
will be disturbed. Peace is a lovely thing. It is horrible to image the
desolation of war; the cottage burnt, the labour of the husbandman
destroyed—outrage and death there, where security of late spread smiles
and joy:—and the fertility and beauty of Italy exaggerate still more the
hideousness of the contrast. Cannot it be that peaceful mediation and a
strong universal sense of justice may interpose, instead of the cannon
and bayonet?
There is another view to be taken. We have lately been accustomed to
look on Italy as a discontented province of Austria, forgetful that her
supremacy dates only from the downfall of Napoleon. From the invasion of
Charles VIII. till 1815, Italy has been a battle-field, where the
Spaniard, the French, and the German, have fought for mastery; and we
are blind indeed, if we do not see that such will occur again, at least
among the two last. Supposing a war to arise between them, one of the
first acts of aggression on the part of France would be to try to drive
the Germans from Italy. Even if peace continue, it is felt that the
papal power is tottering to its fall—it is only supported, because the
French will not allow Austria to extend her dominions, and the Austrian
is eager to prevent any change that may afford pretence for the French
to interfere. Did the present pope act with any degree of prudence, his
power thus propped might last some time longer; but as it is, who can
say, how soon, for the sake of peace in the rest of Italy, it may not be
necessary to curtail his territories.
The French feel this and begin to dream of dominion across the Alps—the
occupation of Ancona was a feeler put out—it gained no positive object
except to check Austria—for the rest its best effect was to reiterate
the lesson they have often taught, that no faith should be given to
their promises of liberation.
The Italians consider that the hour will arrive sooner or later when the
stranger will again dispute for dominion over them; when the peace of
their wealthy towns and smiling villages will be disturbed by nations
meeting in hostility on their soil. The efforts of their patriots
consequently tend to make preparation, that such an hour may find them,
from the Alps to Brundusium, united. They feel the necessity also of
numbering military leaders among themselves. The most enlightened
Italians instead of relying on the mystery of oaths, the terror of
assassination, the perpetual conspiracy of secret associations, are
anxious that their young men should exercise themselves in some school
of warfare—they wish that the new generation may be emancipated by their
courage, their knowledge, their virtues; which should oppose an
insurmountable barrier to foreign invasion and awe their rulers into
concession.
Niccolini, in his latest work, Arnaldo da Brescia, has put these
sentiments in the mouth of his hero. That poem, replete with passionate
eloquence and striking incident, presents a lively picture of the actual
state of Italy. The insolence of the German, the arrogance of the popes,
the degraded state of the people, and the aspirations of the patriots,
each find a voice. It is impossible not to hope well for a country,
whose poets, whose men of reflection and talent, without one exception,
all use the gifts of genius or knowledge, to teach the noblest lessons
of devotion to their country; and whose youth receive the same with
devoted enthusiasm.
When we visit Italy, we become what the Italians were censured for
being,—enjoyers of the beauties of nature, the elegance of art, the
delights of climate, the recollections of the past, and the pleasures of
society, without a thought beyond. Such to a great degree was I while
there, and my book does not pretend to be a political history or
dissertation. I give fragments—not a whole. Such as they are, I shall be
repaid for the labour and anxiety of putting them together, if they
induce some among my countrymen to regard with greater attention, and to
sympathise in the struggles of a country, the most illustrious and the
most unfortunate in the world.
CONTENTS.
PART I.—1840.
LETTER I.
PAGE
PROJECT FOR SPENDING THE SUMMER ON THE BANKS OF THE LAKE OF
COMO.—FINE SPRING.—STORMY WEATHER.—PASSAGE FROM DOVER TO
CALAIS.—THE DILIGENCE.—PARIS.—PLAN OF OUR ROUTE 1
LETTER II.
JOURNEY TO METZ.—A DAY SPENT AT METZ.—PROCEED TO TRÈVES.—ENTER
PRUSSIA.—TRÈVES.—VOYAGE DOWN THE MOSELLE.—SLOW STEAMBOAT UP THE
RHINE TO MAYENCE.—RAILROAD TO FRANCFORT 11
LETTER III.
DARMSTADT.—HEIDELBERG.—CARLSRUHE.—BADEN-BADEN 31
LETTER IV.
OFFENBERG.—ETTENHEIM.—FREYBURG.—THE HÖLLENTHAL.—THE BLACK
FOREST.—ARRIVE AT SCHAFFHAUSEN 42
LETTER V.
THE RHINE.—ZURICH.—JOURNEY TO COIRE.—VIA MALA.—THE
SPLUGEN.—CHIAVENNA.—COLICO.—THE STEAMBOAT ON THE LAKE OF COMO TO
CADENABBIA 49
LETTER VI.
ALBERGO GRANDE DELLA CADENABBIA.—THE BROTHERS BRENTANI.—THE VIEW
FROM OUR WINDOWS.—THE MADMAN.—ARRIVAL OF THE BOAT 64
LETTER VII.
EXCURSIONS ON THE LAKE.—MANZONI’S ODE OF “CINQUE MAGGIO” 75
LETTER VIII.
VOYAGE TO COMO.—THE OPERA.—WALK TOWARDS MENAGGIO 88
LETTER IX.
ITALIAN POETRY.—ITALIAN MASTER.—THE COUNTRY PEOPLE.—THE
FULCINO.—GRAND FESTA.—ADIEU TO CADENABBIA 95
LETTER X.
VOYAGE TO LECCO.—BERGAMO.—THE OPERA OF “MOSÈ.”—MILAN 105
LETTER XI.
NON-ARRIVAL OF A LETTER.—DEPARTURE OF MY FRIENDS.—SOLITUDE.—THE
DUOMO.—TABLE D’HÔTE.—AUSTRIAN GOVERNMENT 114
LETTER XII.
DEPARTURE FROM MILAN.—JOURNEY ACROSS THE SIMPLON.—LAKE OF
GENEVA.—LYONS.—STEAMBOAT TO CHALONS.—DILIGENCE TO PARIS.—HISTORY
OF THE EVENTFUL JOURNEY ACROSS MONT ST. GOTHARD 125
PART II.—1842.
LETTER I.
STEAM VOYAGE TO AMSTERDAM.—RUBENS’ PICTURE OF THE DESCENT FROM THE
CROSS.—VARIOUS
MISADVENTURES.—LIÈGE.—COLOGNE.—COBLENTZ.—MAYENCE.—FRANCFORT 155
LETTER II.
JOURNEY TO KISSINGEN.—TAKING LODGINGS.—THE PUBLIC GARDENS 178
LETTER III.
KISSINGEN.—THE CUR.—THE TABLE D’HÔTE.—THE WALKS.—GERMAN
MASTER.—BATHING 184
LETTER IV.
MEDICAL TREATMENT.—AMUSEMENTS.—GERMAN
MASTER.—BROKLET.—PREPARATIONS FOR DEPARTURE 189
LETTER V.
LEAVE KISSINGEN.—BATHS OF BRUKENAU.—FULDA.—EISENACH.—CASTLE OF
WARTBURGH.—GOTHA.—ERFURT.—WEIMAR.—THE ELSTER.—LEIPSIG 198
LETTER VI.
RAILROAD TO
BERLIN.—UNTER-DEN-LINDEN.—GALLERY.—PALACE.—MUSEUM.—OPERA.—IRON
FOUNDRY 217
LETTER VII.
ARRIVAL AT DRESDEN.—RABENAU.—GALLERY AT DRESDEN.—MADONNA DI SAN
SISTO.—PICTURES OF CORREGGIO 231
LETTER VIII.
RABENAU.—THE GALLERY.—THE TERRACE OF BRÜHL.—THE GROSSE GARTEN.—THE
GREAT HEAT 240
LETTER IX.
THE GREEN VAULTS.—COLLECTION OF PORCELAIN.—DER FREISCHÜTZ.—THE
GREAT DROUGHT.—PREPARATIONS FOR DEPARTURE 251
LETTER X.
THE SAXON SWITZERLAND 259
LETTER XI.
BATHS AT TÖPLITZ.—LOBOSITZ.—ARRIVAL AT PRAGUE 277
RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY.
PART I.—1840.
LETTER I.
Project for spending the Summer on the Banks of the Lake of Como.—Fine
Spring.—Stormy Weather.—Passage from Dover to Calais.—The
Diligence.—Paris.—Plan of our Route.
BRIGHTON, JUNE 13, 1840.
I am glad to say, that our frequent discussions of this spring have
terminated in a manner very agreeable to every one concerned in them. My
son and his two friends have decided on spending their summer vacation
on the shores of the lake of Como—there to study for the degree, which
they are to take next winter. They wish me to accompany them, and I
gladly consent.
Can it, indeed, be true, that I am about to revisit Italy? How many
years are gone since I quitted that country! There I left the mortal
remains of those beloved—my husband and my children, whose loss changed
my whole existence, substituting, for happy peace and the interchange of
deep-rooted affections, years of desolate solitude, and a hard struggle
with the world; which only now, as my son is growing up, is brightening
into a better day. The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables.
The hope of seeing it again recalls vividly to my memory that time, when
misfortune seemed an empty word, and my habitation on earth a secure
abode, which no evil could shake. Graves have opened in my path since
then; and, instead of the cheerful voices of the living, I have dwelt
among the early tombs of those I loved. Now a new generation has sprung
up; and, at the name of Italy, I grow young again in their enjoyments,
and gladly prepare to share them. You know, also, how grievously my
health has been shaken; a nervous illness interrupts my usual
occupations, and disturbs the ordinary tenor of my life. Travelling will
cure all: my busy, brooding thoughts will be scattered abroad; and, to
use a figure of speech, my mind will, amidst, novel and various scenes,
renew the outworn and tattered garments in which it has long been
clothed, and array itself in a vesture all gay in fresh and glossy hues,
when we are beyond the Alps.
I have been spending the last two months at Richmond. What a divine
spring we have had! during the month of April not a drop of rain
fell—the sun shone perpetually—the foliage, rich and bright, lent,
before its time, thick shadows to the woods. No place is more suited
than Richmond where to enjoy the smiles of so extraordinary a season. I
spent many hours of every day on the Thames—days as balmy as midsummer,
and animated with the young life which makes fine weather in spring more
delicious than that to be enjoyed in any other season of the year: then
the earth is an altar, from which fresh perfumes are for ever rising—not
the rank odours of the autumnal fall, but those attendant on the first
bursting of life, on the tendency of nature in springtide to multiply
and enjoy. I visited Hampton Court, and saw the Cartoons—those most
noble works of the Prince of Painters. All was delightful; and ten times
more so, that I was about to break a chain that had long held me—cross
the Channel—and wander far towards a country which memory painted as a
paradise.
We are to leave England at the conclusion of the Cambridge term, and
have agreed to rendezvous at Paris in the middle of June. Towards the
end of May I came here, intending at the appointed time to cross to
Dieppe. The weather, at first, continued delightful; but after a time a
change has come, and June is set in cold, misty, and stormy. A morbid
horror of my sea-voyage comes over me which I cannot control. On the day
on which we were to cross, I had an attack of illness which prevented my
going on board. It becomes a question whether we shall remain for the
next packet in the middle of next week, with the chance of a long,
tempestuous passage, or proceed along the coast to Dover. I prefer the
latter.
PARIS, JUNE 22.
We left Brighton for Hastings, and arrived on a fine evening; the sea
was calm and glorious beneath the setting sun. On our way we drove
through St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Some years ago I had visited Hastings,
when a brig, drawn high and dry on the shore near William the
Conqueror’s stone, unlading building materials, was all that told of the
future existence of this new town. It has risen “like an exhalation,”
and seems particularly clean, bright, and cheerful.
The next day blew a fierce tempest; our drive to Dover was singularly
inclement and disagreeable. We arrived in the evening, very tired and
uncomfortable; a gale from the north-west raged, and the sea, wild and
drear, broke in vast surges on the shore; the following morning it
rained in torrents, as well as blew. The day after, however, the sun
shone bright, and the waves sparkled and danced beneath its early rays.
We were on the beach by seven, and reached the steamer in a small boat,
one of the annoyances attendant on embarking at Dover. We had a rough
passage—for some half way over the wind grew into a gale; I lay down on
deck, and by keeping very still, escaped sickness: in two hours and a
half we were on the French coast. Why we left Dover so early I cannot
tell, since the tide did not serve to admit us into Calais harbour for
an hour after our arrival—an hour of disagreeable tossing; at last,
happy sight, the fishing boats were seen coming out from the port,
giving token that there was water enough for us to enter. We landed. I
was quite well immediately, and laughed at my panic.
We went to Roberts’s Hotel, a very good one, and the charges moderate. I
made my first experiment at a _table d’hôte_, and disliked its noise and
numbers very much. We were to proceed to Paris by the _diligence_, a
disagreeable style of travelling, but the only one we could manage. We
have forgotten night-travelling in England—thanks to the railroads, to
which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful; for many
a new scene have they enabled me to visit, and much of the honey of
delightful recollections have I, by their means, brought back to my
hive: a pleasant day it will be when there is one from Calais to Paris.
We left Calais at about ten in the forenoon. P. chose the _banquette_,
as young Englishmen are apt to do; it resembles, more than any other
part of this ponderous vehicle, the outside of a stage-coach. There were
some merry Irish students there also, who could not speak a word of
French: they leapt down from the top at every possible opportunity, so
to tease the _conducteur_, who, to his flock of travellers, acts as
shepherd and dog in one—gathering them together with the bark of, “_En
route, Messieurs!_” most authoritatively. I and my maid were in the
_intérieur_, with two Frenchwomen from England: one was a governess at a
school, coming for a holiday; she was young, and her eyes were
accustomed to the English style; she found fault with the _diligence_.
The elder one would not allow any fault; and, if there were any
deficiency, it was because things were not first-rate on this road. The
road to Bordeaux was the grand one: the _diligences_ there were Lord
Mayors’ carriages for splendour. The longest day has an end, and our
hours of penance came to a close. We arrived in Paris, and found
pleasant apartments taken for us at Hotel Chatham. Travelling by
_diligence_ had been an experiment for me. I was delighted to find that,
with all my nervous suffering, whenever my mind was intensely or
disagreeably occupied, I could bear the fatigues of a journey far better
than I had ever done. Several years before I had been a bad traveller;
and, even in a comfortable English travelling chariot, suffered great
fatigue, and even illness. When I returned from Italy I had tried the
_diligence_, and been knocked up, and obliged to abandon it after the
first night; yet then I enjoyed perfect health. Now I complained, and
with reason, of most painful sensations; yet the fatigue I endured
seemed to take away weariness instead of occasioning it. I felt light of
limb and in good spirits. On the shores of France I shook the dust of
accumulated cares from off me; I forgot disappointments, and banished
sorrow: weariness of body replaced beneficially weariness of soul—so
much heavier, so much harder to bear.
There is a cheerfulness in the aspect of Paris, that at once enlivens
the visitor. True, the want of _trottoirs_ is intolerable. From the
absence of drains, the state of the streets is filthy; the danger of
being run over by hack-cabs, which turn short round the corners, and
accelerate their pace on purpose so to do, is imminent. The gravel of
the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées is not half so inviting as the
sward of Hyde Park; yet there is an air of cheerfulness and
lightsomeness about Paris, which seems to take the burthen from your
spirits, which _will_ weigh so heavily on the other side of the Channel.
Nor, perhaps, in any city in the world is there a scene more
_magnifique_—to use their own word in their own sense—than the view at
high noon or sunset from the terrace of the Tuilleries, near the river,
overlooking the Seine and its bridges; the Place de la Concorde, with
its wide asphaltic pavements, sparkling fountains, and fantastic
lanterns, looking on to the Barrière de l’Etoile one way, or down upon
the horse-chestnut avenues of the gardens on the other. There is gaiety,
animation, life; you cannot find the same in London. Why? One cause, of
course, is the smoke of the sea-coal fires; another results from the
absence of fountains. When will London have these ornaments, which could
be so readily constructed from our great supply of water? Truly in
France the water is all used ornamentally, and there is a sad deficiency
for utility; but the _coup-d’œil_ of a fountain is more pleasing than
the consciousness of a pipe underground—at least, to the passing
traveller.
We have spent a week agreeably in Paris, as we have several friends
here. Our two companions are arrived. We are seriously preparing to set
out on our travels. The lake of Como is our destination, and we have put
the general guidance of our route into the hands of one of the party. I
was a little startled when I was told that I was to reach Como _viâ_
Franckfort; this is something like going to the Line by the North Pole;
but I am assured that the journey will be the more delightful and novel.
I was shown our way on the map—Metz to Trèves; then down the
Moselle—unhacknied ground, or rather water—to Coblentz; up the Rhine to
Mayence; Franckfort, and the line south through Heidelberg, Baden-Baden,
Freyburg, Schaffhausen, Zurich, the Splugen, Chiavenna, to the lake of
Como. These are nearly all new scenes to me. The portion of the Rhine we
were to navigate I longed to revisit after an interval of many years. So
this route being agreed upon, we have taken our places in the
_diligence_ for Metz.
I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me, now that I am leaving
Paris. I bid adieu to all acquaintance, and set out to wander in new
lands, surrounded by companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with
its sorrows, and who enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself,
apt to be too serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past
and the future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even
more than they. Among acquaintance, in the every-day scenes of life,
want of means brings with it mortification, to embitter still more the
perpetual necessity of self-denial. In society you are weighed with
others according to your extrinsic possessions; your income, your
connexions, your position, make all the weight—you yourself are a mere
feather in the scale. But what are these to me now? My home is the
readiest means of conveyance I can command, or the inn at which I shall
remain at night—my only acquaintance the companions of my wanderings—the
single business of my life to enjoy the passing scene.
LETTER II.
Journey to Metz.—A Day spent at Metz.—Proceed to Trèves.—Enter
Prussia.—Trèves.—Voyage down the Moselle.—Slow Steamboat up the Rhine to
Mayence.—Railroad to Franckfort.
THURSDAY, 25TH JUNE.
We left Paris on the 25th of June, at six in the evening, and were
thirty-seven hours reaching Metz, a distance of about two hundred miles,
stopping only for half an hour at a time, and that only twice during the
one day we were on the road. I suffered excessive fatigue during the two
nights of this journey, partly on account of a cough I caught at Paris;
but my health was not in the slightest degree hurt. The weather was very
fine; the country we passed through was beautiful, abundant in corn and
vines, then in midsummer luxuriance. There was a portion of those dull
vast plains, so usual in France; but for the most part the country was
varied into hill and dale, arable and forest land. The season setting in
so genially in early spring, joined to the refreshing rains which have
since succeeded, have caused rich promise of abundance to appear
everywhere. I never remember feeling so intimately how bounteous a
mother is this fair earth, yielding such plenteous store of food to her
children, and this food in its growth so beautiful to look on. How full
of gratitude and love for the Creator does the beauty of the creation
make us! By a sort of slovenly reasoning, we tell ourselves that, since
we are born, sustenance is our due; but that all beyond—the beauty of
the world, and the sensations of transport it imparts, springs from the
immeasurable goodness of our Maker. True we were also created to
experience those emotions. God has not reduced our dwelling-place—as
Puritans would his—to a bare meeting-house; all there is radiant in
glorious colours; all imparts supreme felicity to the senses and the
heart. Next to the consciousness of right and honour, God has shown that
he loves best beauty and the sense of beauty, since he has endowed the
visible universe so richly with the one, and made the other so keen and
deep-seated an enjoyment in the hearts of his creatures.
We passed through Chalons-sur-Marne, Clermont, and Verdun. The
corn-fields, the vineyards clothing the uplands, the woods that varied
the landscape, and the meandering river that gave it light and life,
were all in their fairest summer dress. Plenty and peace brooded over a
happy land. From a traveller in a _diligence_ no more detailed
description of city, village, or scenery, can be expected. I will only
add, that this was by far the most agreeable part of France I had ever
traversed.
SATURDAY, 27TH.
We had been told at Paris that we should arrive at Metz in time for the
_diligence_ to Trèves. Out of England one does not expect exactness;
still it was provoking, as we wanted to get on, to find, when arriving
at seven in the morning, that the _diligence_ had started at six. We
needed rest, certainly; and so made up our minds to endure with
equanimity the necessity we were under of not fatiguing ourselves to
death from a principle of economy. The inn was tolerable, and the _table
d’hôte_ sufficiently good; and, best praise, quietly served. Metz is a
clean, pleasant town, a little dull or so; but from the gardens on the
ramparts we commanded a view of the hill-surrounded plain in which it is
built, with the Moselle flowing peaceably at our feet. We hired a boat,
and loitered several hours delightfully on the river; but being without
a boatman, found difficulty in discovering the main stream amidst a
labyrinth of canals and mill-dams. Afterwards, we walked in the public
gardens, which would have been pleasant, but for the foreign style of
gravel, which is not gravel, but shingle; smooth turf and a velvet sward
are never found out of England: they don’t know what grass means abroad,
except to feed horses and cows. The weather meanwhile was fine, the air
balmy; it was a day of agreeable idleness.
SUNDAY, 28TH.
At six in the morning we left Metz for Trèves, the distance fifty-five
miles, which occupied us fourteen hours. We had now entered the true
region of German expedition. The _diligence_ was a sort of
_char-à-banc_, with a heavy roof. We had the front seats; but the people
behind had ingress and egress only by passing ours, which was done by
raising the middle seat, in the style of the public boxes at our
theatres. The horses went well enough (I have an idea we only changed
them once, half way); but the peculiarity of German travelling consists
in its frequent and long stoppages. During each of these the people
behind got out, and refreshed themselves by eating and drinking. Another
inconvenience resulted from our stopping so often; our left-hand leader
went well enough when once off, but it was very difficult to persuade
him to move; and he was never urged by any but the gentlest means. Every
time we stopped he refused to set off; on which our driver got down to
pat and coax him, and feed him with slices of bread—horses eat a great
deal of bread in Germany. When he thought he had succeeded, he mounted
again; but the horse being still obstinate, he had to get down and renew
his caresses and bits of bread. Sometimes he repeated these manœuvres
half a dozen times before he succeeded. Once, just as the horse, after
showing himself particularly self-willed, had deigned to yield, a
passenger behind, a simple-looking bumpkin, started forward, exclaiming
in accents of distress— “_Oh, mon gâteau!_” He had bought a cake; but by
some accident had left it behind, and he entreated the driver to stop,
that he might recover it: this was too much; a full quarter of an hour’s
coaxing and much bread could not thus be wasted, all to be begun over
again.
The fields on the road-side were planted with cherry-trees, which, for
the purpose of distilling kirchen-wasser, abound all over Germany; the
fruit was ripe, and the heavily-laden branches hung over the road; our
outside passengers helped themselves plentifully, so that in a short
time we were pursued by a hue and cry of peasants. There is a heavy fine
for robbing cherry-trees; and these people wanted to be paid: fierce
objurgations passed, and a frequent use of the word _schwein_—the most
opprobrious name a German can give or receive. The peasants had the
worst and got nothing. We stopped nearly two hours at Thionville for
dinner. In the same room, at the other end of the same table, a civic
feast was prepared, delayed only by the non-arrival of the
_sous-préfet_: he came at last and was joyously welcomed. But here
German was the usual language; and we became worse than deaf, for we
heard but could not understand.
Thionville is pleasantly situated in the valley of the Moselle, close to
the river. It was the eve of some great feast in honour of the Virgin;
and all the girls around were erecting altars and triumphal arches, and
adorning them with waxen figures in full dress, and quantities of
flowers and ribbons. They were enjoying themselves greatly and very
proud of their handy-work.
Soon after leaving Thionville we arrived at the Prussian frontier; there
was but one passenger besides ourselves, and he only had any taxable
goods—sugar-plums from Nancy. Our luggage was taken down and some
portion of it slightly inspected; the necessary ceremony was soon over;
but two hours were loitered away, one knew not wherefore. The people
were civil and the day fine, so we did not feel inclined to be
discontented. The country after this grew more varied and pleasant, but
the villages deteriorated dismally. They were indescribably squalid. The
dung before the doors—the filth of the people—the wretched appearance of
the cottages, formed a painful contrast, which too often presents itself
to the traveller, between the repulsive dwellings of man and the
inviting aspect of free beautiful nature, all elegant in its forms,
delicious in its odours, and peaceful in its influence over the mind.
As we slowly proceeded, and were entering a village, a violent thunder
storm came on; the driver drew up the _diligence_ to the road-side, and
he and the _conducteur_, and all the outside passengers took shelter in
an inn, where they remained drinking beer while the storm lasted. After
we had proceeded thence about three miles, our fellow-passenger, who had
appeared a mild quiet German, and had been conversing good-humouredly
with us, discovered that he had been taken beyond his place of
destination, which was indeed the village where we had stopped during
the storm. This he considered the fault of the _conducteur_, and flew
into the most violent rage. We escaped the benefit of his angry language
since we did not understand him;—he and his portmanteau were left under
a tree, looking helpless enough; and we went on.
The disagreeable part of a slow style of travelling is, that although at
the outset we take it patiently, and may find it even amusing, yet, when
we are to reach a definite bourne, and the hours pass, and apparently we
are still as far off as ever, we become excessively weary. The country
was pretty, and after the shower, the evening wore a garb of sober gray
not unpleasing. But our fatigue increased rapidly; and mile after mile
we proceeded, not interspersed with the capricious and ludicrous
stoppages that had marked our outset, but in a sort of determined
jogtrot, that showed that the men and horses had lost the gay spirit
which had led them to play with their work, and were seriously set upon
finishing it with all the slow haste of which they were capable. We
arrived at Trèves at ten o’clock last night.
The inn (l’Hôtel de Trèves) is the best we have yet met with; the
civility and alacrity with which we are served is quite comforting,—as
well as the cleanliness of the house, and the ultimate moderation of the
charges. Our first care on arriving has been to arrange for descending
the Moselle. There is no steamer; one is promised for next year; but,
for the present, there is only a passage-boat twice a week, Thursday and
Saturday, and this is Monday. Upon inquiry, we learn that we can hire a
tolerably commodious boat, with three men to work her, at no extravagant
price. We have found also at the hotel two young Cantabs, friends of one
of our party, bent on the same voyage, on their way to a tour in
Switzerland. They have agreed to join us. By early rising and late
arriving, we might accomplish the descent in two days; we prefer a more
easy style of proceeding. We are to sleep two nights on shore, and
occupy the better part of three days going down the river.
Trèves, or, as the Germans call it, Trier, is a very interesting town,
as being one of the oldest in the northern part of Europe. It was a
metropolis, we are told, before the time of Julius Cæsar. After the
Roman Conquest, and during the decay of the empire, it was the centre of
northern civilisation. During the middle ages, and till the time of the
French Revolution of 1789, it flourished as the capital of an
archbishopric, such as existed in Germany, where the mitre was united
rather to the sword and sceptre, than to the crosier. It is now in a
state of decay, but venerable in its fall. The old Roman ruins give
token of that magnificent spirit which causes the steps of the masters
of the world to be made evident everywhere, through the solidity,
grandeur, and utility of their works.
My friends have been rambling about the town and are returned highly
delighted. I did not go, for I felt very much fatigued; I repent me
now—but it is too late.
JUNE 29TH.
We left Trèves soon after noon; our boat was rude enough, but tolerably
large. A queer-looking old man steered her, and the oars were held by
two young fellows, one with an aspect of intelligence and good humour,
the son of the old man; the other, belonging to a grade beneath him in
the human scale. Our luggage was piled aft, and we had an awning. Thus,
on a fine, but not hot, June day, we pushed off from Trèves; and, full
of curiosity and expectation of pleasure, dropped down the swift stream
between verdant banks that rose into hills—not striking in their
outline, but agreeable to the eye, while frequent villages, each with
its church and pointed spire, either nestled in the foldings of the
hills, or graced some promontory that formed a bend in this much-winding
river. Peace seemed to brood over and lull us—a deeper peace, as at
evening the green shadows of the mountains gathered on the quiet river;
and now and then a ruined castle crowned a height, and with that
peculiar impression of stately tranquillity which a time-honoured ruin
imparts, added the touch of romantic dignity, which otherwise had been
wanting, to the scene.
We arrived at Piesport at seven, and our boatmen counselled us to remain
here for the night. One of the gentlemen, who had joined us, had studied
German for this tour, and a very necessary accomplishment we found it.
Nothing can be more futile than the idea that French will carry a
traveller through Germany or Italy. At some of the best inns on the most
frequented routes, waiters are provided who can talk both French and
English; but, go ever so little off the high-road, or address a person
not especially put there for the benefit of your ignorance, and you are
instantly at fault; and wanderers, like ourselves, if they cannot speak
the language of the country, nine times out of ten, run every risk of
not obtaining the necessaries of life. We had been told on this
occasion, that one of our boatmen spoke French, but _oui_, and _non_,
and _bonjour_ was the extent of his vocabulary, and we could never make
him understand a word we said. We took great interest, therefore, in our
friend’s first experiment in German, and his success was a common
triumph. Piesport is a miserable village, with a miserable inn, and it
was matter of difficulty to procure beds for so large a party; the rooms
looked dirty and disconsolate—but there was no help; we ordered supper,
coffee and eggs, and, our great staple of consumption throughout
Germany, fried potatoes; and with the agreeable promise of the excellent
wine of the country, we hoped to restore our fatigues. While all this
was preparing, we walked up a hill and looked down on the windings of
the river, and the green hills that closed around to guard and shelter
it. We encountered a poor stray fire-fly on our road, flashing a pale
sickly light: how it came there who can tell? it looked lost and out of
place.
TUESDAY, 30TH.
We left Piesport at five in the morning; the mists gathered chill,
white, and dank around us. We met many barges towed up the stream by
horses up to their middles in the cold foggy river. The hills grew
higher and steeper—broken into precipice and peak—crowned by ruined
towers and castles. To a certain degree, it might be called a miniature
Rhine; yet it had a peculiar character of its own, more still, more
secluded than the nobler river. There were no country seats; no large
towns nor cities; but the villages, each with its spire, and overlooked
by a ruined tower on a neighbouring height, succeeded to each other
frequently. At eight o’clock we arrived at Berncastel; by the windings
of the river, it was fifteen miles to Trarbach; across the hills, it was
but three. Our boatmen advised us to cross the hill, as the boat thus
lightened would make speedier way; accordingly, with the morning before
us, we left the boat at Berncastel, and ordered breakfast. My companions
scrambled up a steep hill to a ruined castle that overhung the village.
We had a good breakfast, and then began our walk. The hill was very
steep; the day very warm; I never remember finding the crossing of a
mountain so fatiguing. The path was good, not broken into zigzags, but
for that reason steeper; and after the fatigue of the ascent, the
descent became absolutely painful. At length we reached Trarbach. It was
market-day, and the high-street was thronged. One plenteous article of
merchandise was cherries: we gave a few groschen, and in return bore off
many pounds; the woman who sold them seemed never tired of heaping up
our basket. The boat arrived soon after, and repose was delightful after
our laborious walk.
The finest scenery of the Moselle occurs after leaving Trarbach; but
words are vain; and in description there must ever be at once a
vagueness and a sameness that conveys no distinct ideas, unless it
should awaken the imagination: unless you can be placed beside us in our
rough-hewn boat, and glide down between the vine-covered hills, with
bare craggy heights towering above; now catching with glad curiosity the
first glimpse of a more beautiful bend of the river, a higher mountain
peak, a more romantic ruin; now looking back to gaze as long as possible
on some picturesque point of view, of which, as the boat floated down
but slightly assisted by the rowers, we lost sight for ever—unless you
can imagine and sympathise in the cheerful elasticity of the setting out
at morning, sharpened into hunger at noon, and the pleasure that
attended the rustic fare we could command, especially accompanied as it
was by bright pure Moselle wine; then, the quiet enjoyment of golden
evening, succeeded by still and gray twilight; and last, the lassitude,
the fatigue, which made us look eagerly out for the place where we were
to stop and repose:—there is a zest in all this, especially on a voyage
unhacknied by others, and therefore accompanied by a dash of uncertainty
and a great sense of novelty, which is lost in mere words:—you must do
your part, and feel and imagine, or all description proves tame and
useless.
We arrived at Kochheim at ten, and found a comfortable inn. In the
_salle-à-manger_ was a respectable-looking man, apparently some sort of
merchant;—he could talk English, and we entered into conversation with
him. I observed that it was sad to see the wretched villages and the
destitution of the inhabitants, and this in a land which yielded such
lucrative produce as Moselle wine, the sale of which must render the
landed proprietors rich, while the mere cultivators languished in
penury. The man replied, that it was not so—the villagers were well off,
having all they desired, all they wanted. During the French revolution,
he said, the nobles forfeited their estates, which were mostly bought up
by the peasants, and consequently these rich vineyards belonged to the
cultivators. It was true that the trade was carried on by wine
merchants, who made large profits; but the peasants might do better if
they chose. They were, however, cut off from the rest of the world; they
lived as their fathers had done before them; and had no ideas or wishes
beyond their present style of life. They had enough, and were content.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 1.
We left Kochheim at eight. The day grew warm; but a breeze sprung up,
which helped us on our way. The vine-clad hills still sheltered the
river; still villages with their spires occurred frequently; and still
the landscape was distinguished and ennobled by the ruins of feudal
towers and castles. At about four o’clock, we reached the mouth of the
Moselle as it joins the Rhine. Our boatman wished to land us on the bank
of the Moselle itself. We naturally desired to enter the Rhine and land
close to an hotel. They declared it was impossible,—the stream was too
swift. But they spoke to incredulous ears—some of my companions had
before this relieved the men in their work, being accustomed to pulling
at Cambridge. Two now took the oars: the old man continued to steer. The
rowers did not find the stream very difficult to stem, working as they
did with a will. The old boatman steered us near the banks, among the
numerous barges, apparently with some malice, to bring us into
difficulty. On one occasion, indeed, it appeared as if we should be
inevitably run down by a large barge, and my maid screamed and wanted to
jump overboard to save herself: a stroke of the oar saved us. We had not
far to go. We landed at the bridge, and betook ourselves to the Hôtel
Bellevue, close at hand.
The German hotels are all conducted with great order and regularity, and
are very clean, quiet, and good. The head-waiter is the responsible
person—he is paid for all the other servants; and the usual sum, a franc
a day for every master, is reasonable enough, as it includes every one;
and the traveller is not laid in wait for by sighing chambermaid or
imploring boots. The only fault is, that the eating is carried on in the
common room, where Germans smoke, and consider fresh air unhealthy. The
Bellevue is one of three first-rate hotels at Coblentz. The Géant,
however, is the largest, and enjoys the best reputation. There is a good
one, I believe, on the other side of the river.
THURSDAY, JULY 2.
This day was passed on board the steamer, going to Mayence. We embarked
at ten in the morning. Years had elapsed since I had passed down this
river, before steamers were in use—in an ungainly boat, managed in a
still more ungainly manner. Memory had painted the Rhine as a scene of
enchantment; and the reality came up to what I remembered. The inferior
beauty of the banks of the Moselle enhanced still more the prouder and
more romantic glories of the Rhine. The promontories stood in bolder
relief—the ruined castles and their ramparts were more extensive and
more majestic—the antique spires and Gothic abbeys spoke of a princely
clergy—and the extent of mouldering walls marked cities belonging to a
more powerful population. Each tower-crowned hill—each picturesque
ruin—each shadowy ravine and beetling precipice—was passed, and gazed
upon with eager curiosity and delight. The very names are the titles of
volumes of romance: all the spirits of Old Germany haunt the place. Even
the events of modern days have added an interesting tale:—When the
German soldiers, led by Blucher, and driving the proud fallen victor
before them, beheld the river honoured by them, so late occupied by the
enemy they hated, now open and free, the name of “The Rhine!” burst from
many thousand voices, accompanied by tears of ecstacy. Some day I should
like much to establish myself for a summer on the banks of this river,
and explore its recesses. As we glide by, we obtain but a cursory and
unsatisfactory survey. One longs to make a familiar friend of such
sublime scenery, and refer, in after years, to one’s intimate
acquaintance with it, as one of the most valued among the treasures of
recollection which time may have bestowed.
We were a large party in ourselves, and enjoyed our voyage greatly; but,
as evening came on, we left the more picturesque part of the river, and
grew weary as still we did not arrive. When it became dark, we saw,
looming up the river, a shadowy bark, with bright lanterns at its
mast-head. What boat was that? The steamer that had left Coblentz at
two—four hours later than ourselves. It neared—it passed us. “_Oui, ça
marche plus vite que nous_,” replied the phlegmatic German captain, to
our accents of surprise and discontent. _To go a-head_, never entered
his mind as desirable. One boat went quick, the other slow—that was all
the difference—their day’s work was the same. To us, however, the
difference involved, besides great unnecessary weariness, our comfort
for the night.
We did not arrive at Mayence till near midnight; and we were preceded by
our rival, which, together with another steamer, had reached the pier,
and disgorged their passengers. We had first to seize on porters, to
carry our luggage; which, for our large party, was multifarious; and
without the aid of our friend who spoke German, I know not how we should
have managed it. We went to the best inn: it was quite full. The
next—there appeared some hope; but it failed us. We were driven, at
last, to a very mediocre one; but, though we were Godsends to these
people, they were neither rude nor exorbitant: on the contrary, they
received us with a sort of cordiality; their accommodation was bad, but
they made up for it by civility. We were very tired, and very glad to go
to bed.
FRIDAY, JULY 3.
We left Mayence early. Our plan had been to go by the last train of the
previous night to Frankfort. Balked of this, we arranged to go by the
earliest of this morning. Here we separated from our chance companions;
as they stopped to view the lions at Mayence, and were destined for
Strasburg, with which city we meant to have nothing to do.
The railroad from Mayence to Frankfort is not a very good one; but the
carriages were comfortable, and the way short—twenty-one miles, which we
did in little more than an hour. We went (guide-directed by the
inestimable Murray) to the Hôtel de Russie—a most excellent one.
Frankfort looks a clean, airy, but dull town. We have walked about it a
good deal, but seen nothing worthy of remark. We missed, by stupidly not
making proper inquiries, viewing the Ariadne of Dannecker, which is held
in high estimation, as among the best modern sculpture. I am not well
all this time, and tormented by a cough that fatigues me greatly. We
have dined at the _table d’hôte_, which is thronged by English; and at
the hotel the waiters all speak English, and are cross if you speak
French, as they want to practise.
A bargain has been made this evening with a _voiturier_ to take us to
Schaffhausen for eleven napoleons. We were to stop a whole day at
Baden-Baden, and reach our destination on the seventh day after leaving
Frankfort.
LETTER III.
Darmstadt.—Heidelberg.—Carlsruhe.—Baden-Baden.
4TH JULY.
We set off from Frankfort, feeling as if we were making a fresh start,
and were about to traverse districts new and strange. The road we
pursued was perfectly flat, and presents an easy task for the
construction of the projected railway. To the right, a fertile plain
stretches for several miles to the Rhine; to the left, high hills hemmed
us in—by turns receding from, and advancing close to, the road. As usual
in this frontier part of Germany, the foldings of the uplands were
sprinkled by villages, with their spires; and the neighbouring heights
were crowned by ruined castles and towers, which ever add so much to the
interest of the scene. What lives did the ancient inhabitants of those
crumbling ruins lead! The occupation of the men was war; that of the
women, to hope, to fear, to pray, and to embroider. Very often, not
having enough of the first in the usual course of their existence, they
contrived a little more, which led to an extra quantity of the second
and third ingredients of their lives, and, in the end, to many a
grievous tragedy. Wayward human nature will rebel against mental sloth.
We must act, suffer, or enjoy; or the worst of all torments is ours—such
restless agony as old poets figured as befalling a living soul
imprisoned in the bark of a tree. We are not born to be cabbages. The
lady, waiting at home for her husband, either quaked for fear, or
relieved the tedium of protracted absence as she best might, too happy
if death or a dungeon were not the result. The young looked down from
the hills, and fancied that joy would meet them if ever they could
escape to countries beyond. Meanwhile, the peasant in the plain below
toiled, and had been far happier than his lord, but for the desolation
brought on him by the fierce wars, of which this region was perpetually
the theatre.
The peasant, at least, has gained by the change. Hard-worked, he
doubtless is; and, probably, poorly fed: but he is secure. We look round
for the mansions, which we expect should replace fortified castles, as
the abodes of the rich; but find none. It is strange; but, except in
Italy and England (and I am told, in parts of France, but in none I ever
traversed), the wealthy never seek to enjoy the delights which nature
affords; and country-houses, and parks, and gardens, are nowhere else to
be found.
We were somewhat annoyed, and much amused, at Darmstadt, where we
stopped for luncheon. The inn was good; but they were expecting the
Grand Duke of Baden: the whole of the private rooms were prepared for
him, and we were shut out from all, except the common eating-room—of
course, redolent of smoke. It was impossible not to laugh, however, at
the tokens every waiter gave that his head was turned by the expected
arrival—I use this expression literally, as well as figuratively; for,
as they unwillingly served us, still their heads were averted towards
the window, and frequently they rushed madly to gaze; and whatever
question we might ask, still their answer was—“The Grand Duke of Baden
is coming.”
Darmstadt looked, like most of the towns we traversed in this part of
Germany, clean and airy, with wide streets, and a large undecorated
building—the palace of the reigning prince; but all rather dull. The
road continued pleasant, and the mountainous district to our left became
more picturesque. Agreeable excursions might be made among the hills;
but we were bound right on, and could not indulge in extraneous rambles.
We turned in among the inclosing hills, as we approached Heidelberg. The
road lay on the right bank of the Neckar, and at every step the scenery
acquired new beauty. Heidelberg is on the left bank; to our right, that
is, as we advanced up the stream; and is situated on a sort of narrow
platform between the river and the hill on which the castle stands. The
town itself has a wholly different appearance from those we had recently
passed. It has an ancient, picturesque, inartificial look, more
consonant with our ideas of German romance. The best hotel was full; we
were transferred to the second, which was very tolerable. We went out to
walk by the river-side: the scene was tranquil and beautiful: the river
gave it life. The castellated hill crowned it with aristocratic dignity,
and the picturesque mountains around closed all in, giving an air of
repose, and yet of liberty; for mountains ever speak of the free step
and unshackled will of their inhabitants, and, at the same time, of
their limited desires and local attachments. Parties of students passed
down the streets; but all were quiet. There were numerous shops for
painted German pipes: these my companions visited, and made purchases.
SUNDAY, 5TH.
Before eight in the morning we were on the alert, that we might visit
the Castle before our departure. We walked up the hill: the way was not
long. The first aspect from the outer terraces, commanding a beautiful
view of the country around, and the ruined towers and walls of the
castle itself, all verdurous with ivy and other parasites, was
exceedingly pleasing. The woman, who showed us over the Castle, was,
without being pretty, very agreeable; with gentle, courteous, and yet
vivacious manners: she spoke English with a very pretty accent, and her
laugh was soft and joyous. It is always pleasant to meet, among the
uneducated classes, individuals with whom you lose all sense of
_caste_—who are instantly on a level with those deemed their superiors,
from mere force of engaging manners, intelligence, and apparent kindness
of heart. She took us to the ruins of the wing of the Castle built for
the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our James I. She ought to have been
happy in so beautiful a place. From her castle windows, she looked on
her fertile and rich domains. Her habitation, whose situation was so
much favoured by nature, had been adorned by the hands of fond
affection; for her husband had not only built this wing for her comfort,
but, to welcome her on her arrival, had laid out a flower-garden in the
English style, the remains of which still bloom. But she wished to be a
queen; and, to gain the shadowy crown of Bohemia, she devoted the
beautiful Palatinate to desolation. Again, in Louis XIV.’s time, this
unfortunate province was laid waste by his orders, with a barbarity that
has cast an indelible stain on the reputation of that monarch, who was,
perhaps, the most heartless and destructive among modern kings. These
circumstances, and, in later times, an accidental fire, after which it
was never repaired, has reduced the castle to a mere ruin; but it is
thus one of the most beautiful, both in itself and for situation, in the
world. And now, on this summer day, we felt how happily we could spend
months at Heidelberg, to enjoy the pleasure of loitering, day after day,
beneath these weed-grown walls, and in the surrounding grounds. The
_façade_ of the Hall of Knights, which was built by an Italian
architect, charms the eye by its exquisite finish and perfect
proportions. We saw also, of course, the famous tun, and the wax figure
of the celebrated dwarf.
On we went from Heidelberg. Our route was altogether pleasant. The road
preserved the same characteristics. I should say, that this part of
Germany was peculiarly agreeable to the mere passing traveller. The
towns have the appearance of health, comfort, and cleanliness. The
manners of the people with whom we had to deal, was courteous and
pleasing: many of the women we thought pretty. The custom of smoking is
a drawback; but some annoyance is necessary, for the culture of
toleration and patience in a traveller.
Carlsruhe, where we slept on the night after leaving Heidelberg, has
spacious streets, and some good-looking public buildings. However, we
saw them only from the windows of the inn, for it rained hard all the
evening.
MONDAY, 6TH.
About noon, we turned off from the main road, and bending in among the
green hills, without ascending any, reached Baden-Baden, which lies
picturesquely yet snugly in the valley, on the banks of the Oes—a mere
mountain torrent, it is true, but the “sweet inland murmur” of such is
ever grateful to the ear. It looked a cheerful, and even a gay place;
yet I feel that I could steal away from the throng, and find solitude at
will on the mountain tops or amidst their woody ravines. A wish has come
over me to remain here: this sounds strangely, considering my yearning
after Italy. How seldom do human wishes flow smoothly towards their
object; for a while they may steal imperceptibly on, unstopped, though
often checked; winding round, or perseveringly surmounting impediments.
Or obstacles still more mighty present themselves, and then our wishes
gather power;—they swell, and dash down all impediments, and take an
impetuous course. But when all is smooth and free for their
accomplishment, then they shrink and are frightened, as (to make a grand
similitude) the Gauls did when the open gates and silent walls of Rome
offered no opposition to their entrance. We fear treachery on the part
of fate; and objections, overlooked in the hurry of desire, present
themselves during the peace of easy attainment. With regard to the
feelings that hold my wishes in check when I think of Italy,—these are
all founded on fear. Those I loved had died there—would it again prove
fatal, and do I only please my fancy to destroy my last hope? We are
bound for the lake of Como, a place of sad renown for wreck and danger;
and my son’s passion for the water is the inducement that leads him to
fix on it for his visit. What wonder that I, of all people, looking on
the peaceful valley of Baden-Baden, with its mountain torrent that would
not sail a paper boat, wistfully incline to stay here and be safe. But
that which forms, in this sort of back-current manner, its attraction to
me, renders it devoid of any to my companions: besides, study and
solitude is their aim.
We dined at the _table d’hôte_; and a most tiresome and even disgusting
mode of satisfying the appetite we found it. The company was
disagreeably numerous; the noise stunning; and the food, to our
un-Germanised tastes, very uninviting. We were amused, however, by our
neighbours—three persons—a German, his sister, and his affianced bride,
whom he is to marry to-morrow. She was pretty—he was ugly; but she saw
him with the eyes of love, and very much in love they were, which they
took no trouble to conceal, looking at each other as Adam and Eve might
have done when no other human creature existed to observe them.
Meanwhile, a number of little sins against the rules of well-bred
behaviour at a dinner-table gave a very ludicrous turn to their
overflowing sentiment.
In the evening we visited the _salon_, and looked in on the
gamblers—often a dangerous spectacle. The _Rouge-et-Noir_ table was
densely surrounded; and gold or silver was perpetually staked, but
never, as far as I could observe, to any great amount—four napoleons at
a time being the most I saw placed on a colour, and that but once or
twice—generally one gold piece or five francs. I believe serious play is
reserved for a later hour of the night. I saw no signs of despair; but
all looked serious,—some anxious. The floor was strewed with cards,
pricked for numbers. One man I stood near, calculated very carefully,
and generally won. Once, when he felt very sure, he staked four
napoleons and was successful. He stowed his gains in a purse, which
looked gradually but surely filling. The _Rouge-et-Noir_ table was open
all day; the roulette table, in another room, only in the evening—it was
thinly attended. The multiplication of your stake at this game, if you
are lucky, is attractive; but the chances are known to be so much in
favour of the bank, that people are shy of it. _Rouge-et-Noir_, they
say, is the fairest game of any; though, in that, the bank has
advantages, which, unless under very excessive failure of luck, secures
its being largely a gainer, and the players, of course in a mass,
certain losers: thus, the players, in fact, play against each other, and
the bank has a large premium on their stakes, which renders it for its
holders a lucrative investment of money.
TUESDAY, 7TH.
We spent this day at Baden-Baden. In the morning I took a bath; the
water was exceedingly refreshing and pleasant, but the bathing rooms and
baths themselves are small, without accommodation, altogether got up in
an inferior and dirty-looking style. We have rambled among the hills;
looked on the gamblers: the _Rouge-et-Noir_ went on all day. I now
betake myself to writing letters. There is to be a dance in the evening
and a concert; the place seemed quietly gay, and there are some
well-dressed people. I should think, with the aid of ponies to explore
the surrounding country, one might spend a few months here, pleasantly.
But the circumstance that always strikes me as strange is the manner in
which the visitors always seem tied to the spot where they roost, as if
they were fowls with a trellis before their feeding yard. It is true
that they visit the _lions_ of the place now and then; but, really, to
wander, and ramble, and discover new scenes does not form a portion of
their amusements; and yet this is the only real one to be found in such
a place.
LETTER IV.
Offenberg.—Ettenheim.—Freyberg.—The Höllenthal—The Black Forest.—Arrive
at Schaffhausen.
WEDNESDAY, 8TH.
We left Baden-Baden a little before seven. The scenery had exactly the
same character—level to the right, to which indeed was now added a view
of distant high mountains; on the left, wooded hills; often picturesque
with peak or precipice crowned by ruined castles. We dined at Offenberg,
at the inn, “La Fortune,”—a very excellent one—where we had a good
dinner; the host had lived in England, and now frequently exported wine
thither. He showed us a book containing the names of his English
customers, and took my companions into his cellars, to taste his
vintage. He was a jovial, good-humoured man.[2]
Before dinner at Offenberg, we had walked towards a ruin on the hills,
but had not time to reach it; it was picturesque, and continued long to
grace the landscape as we proceeded along the plain; for the peculiarity
of this route from Franckfort to Freyberg is, that you never ascend in
the least, though the hills, wild and romantic, are so near at hand. For
several miles from the Rhine, there is a plain flat as the Maremma of
Italy, and in that country might be as unhealthy.
I have not yet spoken of our carriage and _voiturier_. The former was
roomy and commodious enough, a sort of covered _calèche_; it could have
been thrown quite open but that the roof was encumbered by our luggage.
During all this time, the weather, though dry, was by no means hot: it
was, in fact, very agreeable weather for travelling. Our driver was
quiet, civil enough, and the horses went well; our want of German
prevented our knowing much about him. This evening we had expected to
reach Freyberg, but he stopped at a road-side inn of bad promise, and no
better execution. He could not be persuaded to go on; the evening was
fine, the hour early; it was very provoking. I forget the name of the
place; indeed, the inn was a solitary house: however, it was near
Ettenheim, whither we walked, and which looked a cheerful small town,
and has the sad celebrity of being the place at which the Duke d’Enghien
was seized, whose fate was one of three crimes which cast a dark stain
on Napoleon’s name. The others were—first, the miserable death of
Toussaint l’Ouverture; second, the execution of Hoffer. The sun set
cheerfully on a pleasant landscape; we returned to our dreary inn;—it
was the first bad accommodation we had encountered on our way.
THURSDAY, 9TH.
Proceeding along the same style of country, we arrived in the middle of
the day at Freyberg, where we dined. This was not one of the regular,
formal, white-looking, modern German towns; it was antique, irregular,
picturesque. We visited its Cathedral; it is celebrated for its great
beauty: it is Gothic, and the tower, and spire that surmounts it, are of
the most exquisite tracery and finish. We were accompanied by a _valet
de place_, who had lived in a nobleman’s family in England, and spoke
English tolerably. His claims were high to the knowledge of our
language; he had not only written an English description of the
Cathedral of Freyberg in prose, but an English poem descriptive of the
route we were about to pursue through the Höllenthal and Swartzwald,
_anglicè_ Valley of Hell, and Black Forest. The poem is in heroic
measure, rhymed, meant to be in the style of Pope’s didactic poems. It
is a curious specimen of the sort of mistakes a foreigner may make in a
language which he otherwise understands very tolerably: the accents on
the syllables are nearly all misplaced, and the words used with
erroneous significations; but, make allowance for these defects, and it
reads smoothly enough.
The name of the Black Forest alone awakens the imagination. I own I like
to give myself up to the ideas excited by antique names, and by the
associations that give it vitality. Through the Swartzwald poured the
multitudinous Germans on their way to Helvetia—and the Roman legions
penetrated its depths by dint of intense labour and perseverance. The
Black Forest of the middle ages is peopled by shadows, still more grim
and fearful: the charcoal burners were a race, savage, solitary, and to
be feared: and, till quite lately, the name conjured up robbers,
cut-throat inns, and the worst ills to which travellers are liable. We
were to reach this wide track of evil renown through the pass of the
Höllenthal, or Valley of Hell. The Germans know how to give the glory of
spirit-stirring names to their valleys and their forests, very different
from the Little Woman, or Muddy Creek, of America. The pass itself
perhaps deserved its title better in times gone by:—as we passed through
it on this calm and sunny summer evening, there was nothing frightful or
tremendous, but all that is verdant and lovely. The Höllenthal is indeed
a narrow ravine shut in by hills, not very high, but rocky and abrupt,
and clothed in the rich foliage of majestic trees. In parts the ravine
closes in so as to leave only room for the road between the precipice
and the mountain river, the Dreisam, which now steals murmuring between
its turf-clad banks, and now roars and dashes in a rocky bed. Jagged
pinnacles and bare crags overhang the road; around it are strewn
gigantic masses of fallen rock, but all are clothed with luxuriant
vegetation, and adorned by noble woods. We caught points of view to
charm a painter, and others almost beyond the reach of imitative art,
that might well entice the traveller to linger on his way. The pass
opened as we ascended it, and became wilder in its character. We
remained the night at the Stern, a tolerable inn, placed amidst abrupt
crags, a brawling torrent, and dark forest land.
FRIDAY, 10TH.
We ascended out of the Höllenthal into the wilder region of the
Swartzwald. The tract, so named, extends over several hundred miles; but
is no longer the dark, impervious forest of olden time. Nearly half of
it is cleared, and the clearings have become farms, and pretty villages
are scattered here and there in the open uplands. There is nothing
gloomy, nor what is commonly deemed romantic, in the scenery, but it is
peculiar. The clearings have been made in patches, and the road
alternates between cultivated fields, with a view of dark pines
stretching away in the distance; and, amidst these straight high trees
of the forest, where the axe of the woodcutter frequently breaks upon
the ear. On the highest part of this mountainous district is a tarn or
lake, named Titi-See, which our poet celebrates; and informs us, in a
note, that from this spot, on a fine morning, we might catch a glimpse
of the distant Alps, and see “the mountains unroll themselves in a
convulsive manner.” Our morning was cloudy, and we were balked of this
curious spectacle. We breakfasted at Lenzkirch, in great comfort; and
heard the while some fine German music played by a self-acting
instrument, for the manufacture of which this part of the country is
celebrated. We were told that the women of the Swartzwald were famous
for their beauty, so I wandered about the pleasant looking village in
search of pretty girls; for beauty, in the human form, is a divine gift,
and to see it is delightful: it increases our respect for our species,
and also our love—but I saw none. The peasantry, we are told, are a
hardworking, independent, manly race; but they are dirty in their
appearance, and by no means attractive.
We dined at Stuhlingen in a new-built inn, kept by a man of high
pretensions, and had the nastiest dinner, and the most uncomfortably
served, we had encountered in our travels. However, young lady’s fare of
good bread and butter is always to be found in Germany; and with that,
and our stock-dish of fried potatoes and German wine, we always did very
well. We have had a long day’s journey, and evening was advanced when we
descended on the valley of the Rhine, a blue mountain river, brawling
and foaming among rocks. We entered Schaffhausen at last; and the
horses, with much ado, ascended its steep streets. Here we bade adieu to
our _voiturier_, a quiet fellow, not over-sullen for a German of that
class, who performed his engagement very faithfully, and from whom we
parted without any regret; a little glad, indeed, as foolish human
beings always are when they get rid of a king Log; being prone, in the
hope of doing better, to forget that they may do worse.
LETTER V.
The Rhine.—Zurich.—Journey to Coire.—Via Mala.—The
Splugen.—Chiavenna.—Colico.—The Steamboat on the Lake of Como to
Cadenabbia.
CADENABBIA, ON THE LAKE OF COMO.
Our journey has reached its termination; but this letter will tell
nothing of our present prospects and intentions, for truly they are as
yet obscure and unformed: it will but conclude the history of our
journey.
The inn at Schaffhausen is large and good, without being first-rate. We
engaged a _voiturier_ to take us the next day to Zurich, and bargained
to visit the Falls of the Rhine on our way. We wished to reach them by
water, as the best approach; but Murray had by a misprint in his
Hand-book put seventeen francs instead of seventeen batz, as the price
asked for a boat; and as we, as you well know, are perforce economical
travellers, we demurred. This misapprehension being set right by the
very civil master of the hotel, we engaged a boat, and the carriage was
to meet us at the Falls. We embarked in a rough canoe; a man held an oar
at the stern, and a woman one at the prow. We sped speedily down the
rapid river, and at one point a little apprehension of danger, just
enough to make the heart beat, was excited. We approached the Falls, we
were hurrying towards the ledge of rocks; it seemed as if we must go
right on, when, by a dexterous use of the oars, we found ourselves with
one stroke in the calm water of a little cove; the moment was just
agreeably fearful; and at the crisis, an eagle had soared majestically
above our heads. It is always satisfactory to get a picturesque adjunct
or two to add interest when, with toil and time, one has reached a
picturesque spot.
The cottage built to let out the Falls as a show is the contrary of all
this; but it has some advantages. You see the sight from various points
of view, being first on a level with the upper portion of the river, and
by degrees, as you descend to other windows and balconies, reach the
level of the lower part. The falls of Terni is the finest cataract I
have seen: I believe it to be the grandest in Europe; but it is
altogether of a different character from the falls of the Rhine. The
waters of the Velino are contracted into a narrow channel, and fall in
one stream down a deep precipice. The falls of the Rhine are broken into
many, and are spread wide across the whole breadth of the river; their
descent is never so great, but they are varied by many rocks, which they
clothe fantastically with transparent waves, or airy spray.
What words can express—for indeed, for many ideas and emotions there are
no words—the feelings excited by the tumult, the uproar and matchless
beauty of a cataract, with its eternal, ever-changing veil of misty
spray? The knowledge of its ceaseless flow; there, before we were born;
there, to be after countless generations have passed away; the sense of
its power, that would dash us to atoms without altering the tenor of its
way, which gives a shiver to the frame even while we gaze in security
from its verge; the radiance of its colouring, the melody of its
thunder—can these words convey the impression which the mind receives,
while the eye and ear seem all too limited in their powers of
perception? No! for as painting cannot picture forth motion, so words
are incapable of expressing commotion in the soul. It stirs, like
passion, the very depths of our being; like love allied to ruin, yet
happy in possession, it fills the soul with mingled agitation and calm.
A portion of the cataract arches over the lowest platform, and the spray
fell thickly on us, as standing on it and looking up, we saw wave, and
rock, and cloud, and the clear heavens through its glittering
ever-moving veil. This was a new sight, exceeding anything I had ever
before seen; however, not to be wet through, I was obliged quickly to
tear myself away.
We crossed the river in a boat, and saw the Falls from the other
side—the spot best adapted to painting—and whence the views are
generally taken. The carriage met us here, and we rolled along towards
Zurich. At first our road was the same as that which we had taken to
arrive at Schaffhausen: “We are going back,” cried one; “this won’t
do—we must not go back to Höllenthal,” which might be taken as a pun, at
least we laughed at it as such. But we soon turned aside. We dined at a
pleasant country sort of inn; the scenery was varied and agreeable,
though without any approach to magnificence; our pace was very slow, and
we became very tired, but at last arrived at Zurich.
Some very good hotels had been lately built and opened at Zurich. I
believe the Hôtel des Bergues, at Geneva, is the model, as it is the
best of these Swiss hotels, where every thing is arranged with
cleanliness, order, and comfort, surpassing most English inns. To the
door of each room was affixed a tariff of prices, moderate for such good
hotel accommodation, though not cheap as lodgings for any length of
time; but the certainty of the prices, the fixed one franc a day, per
head, for attendance, the extreme cleanliness and order, makes them very
agreeable.[3]
We went to the Hôtel du Lac. From our balcony we looked out on the lake
of Zurich. This lake is not so extensive nor majestic as that of Geneva,
with its background of the highest Alps; nor as picturesque and sublime
as Lucerne, with its dark lofty precipices and verdant isles; but it is
a beautiful lake, with a view of high mountains not very distant, and
its immediate banks are well cultivated, and graced by many
country-houses. After dinner, I went out in a boat with P——, by
ourselves; he rowed in the style of the natives, pushing forward, and
crossing the oars as they were pulled back;—we crossed the lake, which
is not wide at this point, and returned again by moonlight.
We had become tired of our slow _voiturier_ style of proceeding, and
were seized by a desire to get on. So we took our places in the
_diligence_ for Coire, determined to arrive at the end of our journey as
soon as might be.
SUNDAY, 12TH.
The _diligence_ was neither clean nor comfortable; we ought to have gone
to the end of the lake by the steamboat. The carriage-road runs at a
very little distance from the water’s edge. Half way on the lake is the
longest bridge in the world. A bridge across a lake is less liable to be
carried away, I suppose, by storms and the swelling of the waters, than
over a river, but it ceases to be the picturesque spanning arch that
adds such beauty to a landscape; it becomes a mere long low pier. At the
end of the lake we took into the _diligence_ a number of passengers, who
had come so far by the steamboat. Our road lay through a valley
surrounded by immense mountains, which became higher, closer, and more
precipitous as we advanced through the plain at their foot. At one time
it seemed as if we must be quite shut in, and then, just as we reached
the very extremity of the valley, another lake opened on us—the lake of
Wallenstadt, so surrounded by precipitous mountains, that it had been
impossible to construct a road round it; but blessings on steam—a
traveller’s blessing, who loves to roam far and free, we embarked in a
steamboat, and in an hour arrived at the other end of the lake. The lake
of Wallenstadt, surrounded by its high precipitous mountains, is gloomy;
indeed, all the region we now travelled was marked by a vastness allied
to dreariness, rather than to the majesty of picturesque beauty. Leaving
the lake we proceeded along the valley of the Rhine; vast mountain
barriers arose on each side, and in the midst was a flat valley,
frequently overflowed, with the Rhine in the midst, struggling through a
marshy bed. There was something dreary in it; but if the traveller
approaches those mountains, and turns aside into their ravines, they
instantly disclose scenes graced by all the beauty of Alpine
magnificence. I much regretted not visiting the baths of Pfeflers, which
I heard to be particularly worth seeing, and only a few miles distant.
At about nine o’clock in the evening we arrived very much fatigued at
Coire. Before leaving the diligence-office we secured our places for the
following day to Chiavenna. To my great delight I found Italian spoken
here. French does not penetrate into these parts; English, if ever
found, is a mere exotic, nurtured in particular spots; German, we had
none; so now to be able to inquire, and learn, and arrange with
facility, was very agreeable. “You _do_ speak Italian!” exclaimed one of
my companions in accents of surprise and pleasure;—so many difficulties
in the future disappeared under this conviction. I certainly did speak
Italian: it had been strange if I did not; not that I could boast of any
extraordinary facility of conversation or elegance of diction, but mine
was a peculiarly useful Italian; from having lived long in the country,
all its household terms were familiar to me; and I remembered the time
when it was more natural to me to speak to common people in that
language than in my own. I now easily settled for our places; and we
repaired to the inn to supper and to bed—we were to set out early in the
morning.
MONDAY, 13TH.
At five in the morning we were in the yard of the diligence-office. We
were in high spirits—for that night we should sleep in Italy. The
_diligence_ was a very comfortable one; there were few other passengers,
and those were of a respectable class. We still continued along the
valley of the Rhine, and at length entered the pass of the Via Mala,
where we alighted to walk. It is here that the giant wall of the Alps
shuts out the Swiss from Italy. Before the Alp itself (the Splugen) is
reached, another huge mountain rises to divide the countries. A few
years ago, there was no path except across this mountain, which being
very exposed, and difficult even to danger, the Splugen was only
traversed by shepherds and travellers of the country on mules or on
foot. But now, a new and most marvellous road has been constructed—the
mountain in question is, to the extent of several miles, cleft from the
summit to the base, and a sheer precipice of 4000 feet rises on either
side. The Rhine, swift and strong, but in width a span, flows in the
narrow depth below. The road has been constructed on the face of the
precipice, now cut into the side, now perforated through the living rock
into galleries: it passes, at intervals, from one side of the ravine to
the other, and bridges of a single arch span the chasm. The precipices,
indeed, approach so near, in parts, that a fallen tree could not reach
the river below, but lay wedged in midway. It may be imagined how
singular and sublime this pass is, in its naked simplicity. After
proceeding about a mile, you look back and see the country you had left,
through the narrow opening of the gigantic crags, set like a painting in
this cloud-reaching frame. It is giddy work to look down over the
parapet that protects the road, and mark the arrowy rushing of the
imprisoned river. Midway in the pass, the precipices approach so near
that you might fancy that a strong man could leap across. This was the
region visited by storm, flood, and desolation in 1834. The Rhine had
risen several hundred feet, and, aided by the torrents from the
mountains, had torn up the road, swept away a bridge, and laid waste the
whole region. An English traveller, then on his road to Chiavenna,
relates that he traversed the chasm on a rotten uneven plank, and found
but few inches remaining of the road overhanging the river.[4] It was an
awful invasion of one element on another. The whole road to Chiavenna
was broken up, and the face of the mountain so changed that, when
reconstructed, the direction of the route was in many places entirely
altered. The region of these changes was pointed out to us; but no
discernible traces remained of where the road had been. All here was
devastation—the giant ruins of a primæval world; and the puny remnants
of man’s handiwork were utterly obliterated. Puny, however, as our
operations are, when Nature decrees by one effort that they should cease
to exist, while she reposes they may be regarded proudly, and
commodiously traversed by the ant-like insects that make it their path.
We dined at the village of Splugen. It was cold, and we had a fire. Here
we dropped all our fellow-travellers,—some were going over the St.
Bernardin,—and proceeded very comfortably alone. It was a dreary-looking
mountain that we had to cross, by zigzags, at first long, and
diminishing as we ascended; the day, too, was drear; and we were
immersed in a snow-storm towards the summit. Naked and sublime, the
mountain stretched out around; and dim mists, chilling blasts, and
driving snow added to its grandeur. We reached the dogana at the top;
and here our things were examined.
The custom-house officer was very civil—complained of his station, where
it always rained—at that moment it was raining—and, having caused the
lids of one or two trunks to be lifted, they were closed again, and the
ceremony was over. More time, however, was consumed in signing passports
and papers; and then we set off down hill, swiftly and merrily, with two
horses—the leaders being unharnessed and trotting down gravely after us,
without any one to lead or drive them.
All Italian travellers know what it is, after toiling up the bleak,
bare, northern, Swiss side of an Alp, to descend towards ever-vernal
Italy. The rhododendron, in thick bushes, in full bloom, first adorned
the mountain sides; then, pine forests; then, chesnut groves; the
mountain was cleft into woody ravines; the waterfalls scattered their
spray and their gracious melody; flowery and green, and clothed in
radiance, and gifted with plenty, Italy opened upon us. Thus,—and be not
shocked at the illustration, for it is all God’s creation,—after dreary
old age and the sickening pass of death, does the saint open his eyes on
Paradise. Chiavenna is situated in a fertile valley at the foot of the
Splugen—it is glowing in rich and sunny vegetation. The inn is good; but
the rooms were large and somewhat dreary. So near our bourne, low
spirits crept over some of us, I know not why. To me, indeed, there was
something even thrilling and affecting in the aspect of the commonest
objects around. Every traveller can tell you how each country bears a
distinctive mark in the mere setting out of the room of an inn, which
would enable a man who had visited it before, if, transported by magic,
he opened his eyes in the morning in a strange bed, to know to what
country he had been removed. Window-curtains, the very wash-hand stands,
they were all such as had been familiar to me in Italy long, long ago. I
had not seen them since those young and happy days. Strange and
indescribable emotions invaded me; recollections, long forgotten, arose
fresh and strong by mere force of association, produced by those objects
being presented to my eye, inspiring a mixture of pleasure and pain,
almost amounting to agony.
TUESDAY, 14TH.
This morning, we were to proceed to Colico, at the head of the lake of
Como, there to embark on board the steamer. We engaged a _voiture_,
which cost more than we had hoped or expected. We drove through a
desolate region,—huge, precipitous, bare Alps on either side,—in the
midst, a marshy plain. The road is good, but difficult to keep up. The
Adda flows into the lake, over a wide rock-strewn bed, broken into many
channels. It is a mountain torrent, perpetually swollen by rain and snow
into a cataract that breaks down all obstacles, and tears away the road.
We arrived at Colico two hours too early. The inn was uninviting: we did
not enter it. We tried to amuse ourselves by strolling about on the
shore of the lake. The air was bleak and cold; now and then it
threatened rain. At length, welcome signal of release, the steamer,
appeared; another hour had yet to pass while it crossed over to us, and
we were on board.
Our plan, formed from the experience of others, had been to take up our
quarters at Bellaggio—look at a map, and you will see the situation. The
Lake of Como is long, and, in proportion, narrow. About midway between
Colico and the town of Como, in its widest part, it is divided into two
lakes—one taking a more eastern course to Lecco; the other, to Como. On
the narrow, rocky promontory that divides these two branches, looking
towards the north, Bellaggio is situated. The steamer, however, did not
stop there, but on the opposite shore, Cadenabbia, which looked
southward, and commanded a view of Bellaggio and the mountains beyond,
surmounting Varenna. We were landed at the Grande Albergo di Cadenabbia.
A tall, slight, rather good-looking, fair-moustached master of the inn,
welcomed us with a flourish. And here we are.
Strange to say, there is discontent among us. The weather is dreary, the
lake tempest-tossed; and, stranger still, we are tired of mountains. I,
who think a flat country insupportable, yet wish for lower hills, and a
view of a wider expanse of sky: the eye longs for space. I remembered
once how the sense of sight had felt relieved when I exchanged the
narrow ravine, in which the Baths of Lucca are placed, for the view over
the plains of Lombardy, commanded from our villa among the Euganean
hills. But it was not this alone that made us sad and discontented. This
feeling frequently assails travellers when their journey has come to a
temporary close; and that close is not _home_. It will disappear
to-morrow. Meanwhile, to relieve my thoughts from painful impressions, I
have written this letter. And now, it is night; the sky is dark; the
waves still lash the shore. I pray that no ruin, arising from that fatal
element, may befal me here; and I say good-night to you—to myself—to the
world.—Farewell.
LETTER VI.
Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia.—The Brothers Brentani.—The view from
our windows.—The Madman.—Arrival of the boat.
CADENABBIA, JULY 17TH.
The morning after our arrival we began to consider where and how we
should live for the next two months. Two of my companions went by the
steamer to Como, for money; and I remained with the other, to arrange
our future plans. We at once decided not to remove to Bellaggio, but to
remain on this side of the Lake. One chief motive is, that the steamer
stops each day at Cadenabbia; and our communication with the world is,
therefore, regular and facile. We looked for lodgings in the
neighbouring village of Tremezzo, and found several, not bad, nor very
dear; though rather more so than we expected. But this was not our
difficulty. There were five of us, including my maid, to be provided
for. We must have food: we must have a cook. I knew that, in a strange
place, it requires at least a month, and even more, to get into its
ways, and to obviate a little the liabilities to being cheated. But we
are only going to stay six weeks or two months; and the annoyance
attendant on my initiation into housekeeping will scarcely be ended
before my acquired knowledge will have become useless. The host of the
inn declared we must have everything from his house, or, by steamboat,
from Como: he insinuated we should be better off at his hotel. At first,
we turned a deaf ear; then we listened; then we discussed: in brief, we
finally settled to remain at the Albergo Grande. We have one large
_salon_; four small bedrooms contiguous, for three of us and my maid,
and one up stairs: we are provided with breakfast, dinner, and tea; the
whole (rooms included) for seven francs a-head for the masters, four for
the servant. This was reasonable enough; and we agreed for a month, on
these terms. Thus I am delivered from all household cares; which
otherwise, in our position, might prove harassing enough.
These arrangements being quickly made, our manner of life has fallen at
once into a regular train. All the morning, our students are at work. I
have selected a nook of the _salon_, where I have established my
embroidery-frame, books, and desk. I mean to read a great deal of
Italian; as I have ever found it pleasant to embue oneself with the
language and literature of the country in which one is residing. Reading
much Italian, one learns almost to think in that language, and to
converse more freely. At twelve, the steamer arrives from Como; which is
the great event of our day. At two, we dine; but it is five, usually,
before the sun permits us to go out. During his visit to Como, P—— went
over to the neighbouring village of Caratte, where lives a boat-builder,
who studied his trade at Venice. All the boats of the country are
flat-bottomed. P—— has selected one with a keel, which he is now
impatiently expecting.
Descriptions with difficulty convey definite impressions, and any
picture or print of our part of the lake will better than my words
describe the scenery around us. The Albergo Grande della Cadenabbia is
built at the foot of mountains, close to the water. In front of the
house there is a good bridle-road, which extends to each extremity of
the lake. One door of the house opens on an avenue of acacias, which
skirts the water, and leads to the side-gate of the Villa Sommariva.
Continuing the road towards Como, we come to the villages of Tremezzo
and Bolvedro, with frequent villas interspersed, their terraced gardens
climbing the mountain’s side. In the opposite direction towards Colico,
we have the village of Cadenabbia itself, with a silk mill: but after
that, the road, until we reach the town of Menaggio, is more solitary.
In parts, the path runs close upon the lake, with only a sort of beach
intervening, sprinkled with fragments of rock and shadowed by
olive-trees. Menaggio is three miles distant; it is the largest town in
our vicinity, and properly our post-town, though our letters are usually
directed to Como, and a boatman fetches them and posts ours, three times
a week, with great fidelity.
High mountains rise behind, their lower terraces bearing olives, vines,
and Indian corn; midway clothed by chesnut woods; bare, rugged, sublime,
at their summits. The waters of the lake are spread before; the
villa-studded promontory of Bellaggio being immediately opposite, and
further off the shores of the other branch of the lake, with the town of
Varenna, sheltered by gigantic mountains. Highest among them is the
Resegone, so frequently mentioned by Manzoni in the Promessi Sposi, with
its summit jagged like a saw. Indeed, all these Alps are in shape more
abrupt and fantastic than any I ever saw.
I wish I could by my imperfect words bring before you not only the
grander features, but every minute peculiarity, every varying hue, of
this matchless scene. The progress of each day brings with it its
appropriate change. When I rise in the morning and look out, our own
side is bathed in sunshine, and we see the opposite mountains raising
their black masses in sharp relief against the eastern sky, while dark
shadows are flung by the abrupt precipices on the fair lake beneath.
This very scene glows in sunshine later in the day, till at evening the
shadows climb up, first darkening the banks, and slowly ascending till
they leave exposed the naked summits alone, which are long gladdened by
the golden radiance of the sinking sun, till the bright rays disappear,
and, cold and gray, the granite peaks stand pointing to the stars, which
one by one gather above.
Here then we are in peace, with a feeling of being settled for a year,
instead of two months. The inn is kept by the brothers Brentani, who
form a sort of patriarchal family. There is, in the first place, an old
mother, who evidently possesses great sway in the family, and a loud
voice, but with whom we have nothing to do, except to return her
salutation when we meet. The eldest brother, Giovanni, a tall stout man,
attends to the accounts. He is married. Peppina, his wife, is of good
parentage, but being left an orphan in childhood, lost her all through
the rascality of guardians during the troubled times of Napoleon’s wars
and downfall. She waits on us; she is hardworking, good-humoured, and
endowed with all the innate courtesy which forms, together with their
simplicity of manner, the charm of the Italians. Luigi, the next
brother, who welcomed us from the steamboat, is put forward to do the
honours, as the beau of the establishment. He has all the airs of one,
when each day he goes to receive guests from the steamer, with his
white, low-crowned hat, and velvet jacket, his slim figure, and light
mustachios; he waits on us also. Then there is Battista, who acts as
cook: Bernardo, who seems as a sort of under-waiter: and Paolo, or
Piccol, as he is usually called, to his great disdain, a handsome lad,
who runs about, and does everything: these are all brothers. There is a
woman besides, to clean rooms, and a scullion or two: all the family
work hard. Poor Battista says his only ambition is to get a good-night’s
sleep; he is up early and down late, has grown infinitely thin upon it.
Bernardo nourishes the ambition of going to England—the frequent resort
of the natives of the lake of Como—and try, as others of the villages
about had done, to make a fortune. My young companions are great pets in
the house. You can be on excellent terms with this class of people in
Italy without their ever forgetting themselves: there is no
intrusiveness, no improper familiarity, but perfect ease joined to
respect and ready service. For the rest, they of course are not
particularly addicted to truth, and may perhaps cheat if strongly
tempted, and, I dare say, their morals are not quite correct. But in all
their doings, as yet, they keep their compact with us faithfully, taking
extreme pains to serve us to our liking; far from having the slightest
cause of complaint, we have every reason to praise.
SUNDAY, 19TH.
We begin to feel settled, but to-day a strange and disagreeable incident
occurred. Peppina came in with wild looks, to say that a madman—an
Englishman—had arrived by the steamer, and was frightening everybody
with a pistol.
It seems that two gentlemen had landed from the steamer, and had
proceeded, as was the wont of visitors, to the Villa Sommariva, to look
over it. One was an Italian, the other an Englishman, who spoke Italian
perfectly. Suddenly, as they reached the gate of the Villa which opened
on the road, the Englishman said to the Italian, “Are you not afraid of
being set upon? Are you not afraid of being assassinated?” The other,
who had come from Milan with him, and was not otherwise acquainted, and
had no idea of his malady, replied, “No, why should he?” “Do you not
know that we are watched, and there is treachery everywhere about us?”
“No,” said the other, “and if there were, you have as much cause to be
frightened as I.” “But I am armed,” said the madman, “this is loaded,”
and he drew a pistol from his pocket, and still more excited by the
sight of the weapon, began to shriek “Tradimento! Tradimento! Alla Villa
Sommariva! Tradimento!” His companion, frightened enough, ran off and
alarmed the inn and village, and as Englishmen, my companions were
summoned to see if they could do anything with their countryman.
There he stood on the steps before the gate of the villa leading down to
the lake, shrieking “Tradimento;” he kept every one at bay with his
pistol, which was cocked, capped, and ready. Some people from across the
lake tried to land at the steps to visit the villa, but he soon made
them row away; the inhabitants around all flocked, hiding behind trees
and peeping from coverts. He was well content to talk or to be spoken to
in Italian or English, but no one must approach; and his position,
standing on a semicircular flight of steps leading down to the lake, was
sufficiently impregnable: it gave him the whole command of the road in
front, and no one could outflank, or come behind him. After three or
four hours, however, he grew less watchful. As the people talked to him,
he allowed them insensibly to approach nearer, till one fellow getting
behind, threw up his arm with the pistol, and then throwing his arms
round him, took him prisoner. His pistol was double-loaded. But with all
his madness he was aware, that if he had fired it, his power was at an
end; and this latent sanity saved, perhaps, a life.
He was brought to the hotel, and a dismal day my friends have passed
watching over him. Poor fellow! he is quite mad. He had given English
lessons at Milan for some years, and earned a sufficient livelihood. His
insanity has taken the turn of believing, that the Austrian police want
to poison him. He said he never went to the theatre but a police officer
was behind, who scattered a poisonous powder over him. He will not take
any food in consequence; neither touch bread nor water. My maid took him
a cup of tea made by herself, and, to her great indignation, he refused
it, as poisoned. He tried to escape several times. First, he made
friends with his countrymen; but when he found that they watched him, he
turned to the Italians, calling us, according to the phrase of the
country, “non Cristiani,” and begging them to save him. He had sixteen
napoleons with him. It seems that the doctor who attended him (he was
without relations or English friends) had advised him to go to England,
had put him into the _diligence_ for Como, introducing him to a Milanese
in the vehicle, without mentioning his malady, and thus he was delivered
over to the miserable wanderings of his mind. A doctor had been sent for
from Menaggio at the first moment; of course, he could do nothing. With
difficulty he was induced to go to bed; he was thoroughly persuaded he
should be murdered in the night, and his expostulations on the subject
were shocking and ghastly enough. The next morning, having taken an
aversion to all those with whom he had been friendly the preceding day,
he consented to go back to Milan, under the escort of a police officer.
I saw him as he got into the boat; he was a spare man, with an adust,
withered face and unquiet eye; but not otherwise remarkable. We heard
that at Como he selected a pear from the bottom of a basket in the
market place, and ate it; it was the first food that had passed his lips
since he left Milan, two days before.
TUESDAY, 21ST.
In our hotel are an English gentleman and lady, with whom the adventure
of the madman brought us acquainted. Mr. and Mrs. F—— had been spending
the last two years in Italy; they are passed middle life: he is a
scholar and a gentlemanly man; he has printed a volume of poetry, and
aims at connoisseurship in pictures. She appears one of those dear,
gentle, sensible, warm-hearted women, the salt of the earth. Her
acquaintance, alone as I am with my son, and his youthful friends,
promises to be a great resource to me.
This evening P——’s little boat has come; small, indeed, it is. In shape
it is something of a sea boat, and it has a keel, and a tiny sail; but
it is too small to convey a feeling of safety. I look at it and shudder.
I can bring no help, except constant watchfulness; and many an anxious
hour it will cause me to pass. Do not call me a grumbler. A tragedy has
darkened my life: I endeavour, in vain, to cast aside the fears which
are its offspring; they haunt me perpetually, and make too large and too
sad a portion of my daily life.
The arrival of the boat, you see, has dashed my spirits, so I break
off.—Adieu.
LETTER VII.
Excursions on the Lake.—Manzoni’s Ode of “Cinque Maggio.”
CADENABBIA, MONDAY, 27TH JULY.
Yester evening there was a thunder storm, and this morning the loftier
Alps to the north are covered with snow, a sign that we shall have a
boisterous wind from Colico until the snow disappears; this is the wind
that brings heavy waves, and renders the navigation of the lake
dangerous. P—— desired to sail; I walked round to the bay of Bolvedro,
and watched while he tacked in and out. I afterwards got into the boat
to return; but it seemed to me that the little craft must run into the
depths of the crested waves which met her. For the first time in my life
I took thorough fright, and insisted on our landing at the steps of the
villa Sommariva. The most dangerous thing we could do: for the waves
might dash us against them, and the lake is fathomless deep in that
spot; it is said who went down there, was never seen again. We landed,
however, in safety.
TUESDAY, 28TH.
The arrival of the steamer at noon is the event of our day. Several
times acquaintance have come by it, chance visitants to the lake of
Como. When we hear the bell, my companions leave their books to run down
to see the disembarkation: to-day I heard one of them exclaim, “Ah,
here’s D——!” This announced the arrival of a fellow-collegian, who
joined our party for two or three weeks, to the great satisfaction of
his friends.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 3.
The snow is gone from the mountain tops; warm, really warm weather has
commenced, and we begin to enjoy one of the most delicious pleasures of
life, _in its way_. The repose necessitated by heat during the day, the
revival in the evening, the enjoyment of the cooler hours, the
enchantment of the nights—to stroll beside or linger upon the divine
lake, to see the sun’s declining rays gild the mountain peaks, to watch
the stars gather bright over the craggy summits, to view the vast
shadows darken the waters, and hear the soft tinkling bells, put by the
fishermen to mark the spot where the nets are set, come with softened
sound across the water: this has been our lot each evening. Each
evening, too, at dusk, the girls from the silk mill close by, pass our
inn on their way from work to their own village; they sing as they go,
and look happy: some of them are very beautiful. They are all well
conducted, I am told, keeping sharp watch on one another. The unmarried
in Italy are usually of good conduct, while marriage is the prelude to a
fearful liberty.
MONDAY, 5TH.
We have crossed to Bellaggio several times, without visiting the villas
on that shore. To-day has been excessively hot; at five a breeze sprung
up: we crossed the lake, and, landing at the port of Bellaggio, went up
the hill to visit the villa Serbelloni.
The extreme and narrow shoot of the promontory that divides the lake
into two, is covered by the gardens of this villa. To the north, towards
Cadenabbia, the descent is somewhat gradual to the water, and the hill
is cut into terraces, planted with vines and olives. To the south,
looking over the lake of Lecco, it is abrupt; dark, precipitous rocks,
rise at once from the deep waters, broken into crags and pinnacles,
crowned with rich vegetation, and adorned by majestic trees. Paths have
been formed along the outmost brink of these picturesque precipices and
ravines; and it is impossible to imagine anything more beautiful than
the sight, looking down on the clear deep lake, and its high rocky
barriers, broken into gorges and watercourses, tree-grown and verdant. A
tower in olden time had been built on the height of the promontory—it is
now in ruin—and through this there is an entrance to a summer-house that
overlooks the deepest and most beautiful of the ravines, with its
graceful wood. On the other side of the lake are the huge mountains
surmounting Varenna, and, softened by distance, the roaring of a torrent
falls on the ear; the sound of a mysterious fountain, called, from its
milky colour, _fiume latte_, whose bed is full and noisy in summer, and
empty and still in winter. The grounds of the Villa Serbelloni are
peculiarly Italian. One path is cut through a cavern; and at a
particular point a view is caught of the opposite bank and of the Villa
Sommariva—a picture, as it were, set in a frame; descending terraces
lead from the summer-house to the water’s edge. The gardens are not kept
in English order; but Art has done much in laying them out to advantage,
and the exuberant richness of Nature stands in place of trimness, which
is not an apposite epithet for gardens in this country.[5] There is a
great deal of ground; the demesne is princely in its extent, and in the
grandeur of the natural beauties it contains. Its great defect is the
absence of a suitable residence.
In times gone by this estate belonged to the ducal family of Sfondrati,
whose escutcheons adorn the walls. The Sfondrati were a family of
Cremona, and the name appears in the pages of Italian history. In
Charles V.’s time, a Sfondrati was employed in various negotiations by
Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan, and was among the most distinguished of
the followers of the Emperor himself. Unfortunately, in those days the
Italians of Lombardy were patriots no more, for they had no longer a
country. Francesco Sfondrati was named by Charles V. Governor of Siena,
and restored order to that distracted town; so that the Sienese named
him Father of their country. As Siena had always been a Ghibelline city,
it may be supposed that the majority of her citizens looked favourably
on the acts of a governor appointed by the German Emperor. Sfondrati had
married a lady of the illustrious house of Visconti, and was thus
connected with the reigning family of Milan. When he lost his wife, he
entered the Church. He became, first, Bishop of Cremona, and afterwards
Cardinal. The youngest of his sons was also an ecclesiastic, and became
Pope, under the name of Gregory XIV.; he was known as an author of some
works on jurisprudence; and besides, there exists a poem of his,
entitled “De Raptu Helenæ, Poema heroicum, libro tres,” published in
Venice, in 1559. Another member of the same family, also a churchman,
made himself conspicuous by defending the pretensions of the court of
Rome in answer to the declaration of the French clergy, in 1682; and
was, as a reward, made cardinal.
Nor is the name Serbelloni much less illustrious. This family was
originally Burgundian; and three brothers of the name left France during
the anarchy of the reign of Charles VI., when the factions of Burgundy
and Orleans, and the English invasion, distracted that unfortunate
country. One brother established himself in Spain, another at Naples,
the third in Lombardy.
One of the descendants, Gabriel Serbelloni, was particularly famous. Had
he supported a good cause, he had been a hero. But the Italians had
ceased to be a nation, and fought for France or Spain, as circumstances
might direct. Gabriel was a Knight of Malta, and fought against the
Turks with reputation and success in Hungary. His military skill and
prowess introduced him to the notice of Charles V.; and he invited him
to enter his service. He fought in Germany and Brabant, and acquired a
high reputation. The most honourable circumstance attending his career
occurred when Don John of Austria undertook his famous expedition
against the Turks. This prince refused to sail till Serbelloni was added
to the number of his Generals. Everything that was most illustrious in
Italy and Spain made a part of his expedition. The inimical fleets
encountered each other near Lepanto. The greater number of the Generals,
both Spanish and Italian, were for avoiding the conflict, the Turkish
fleet having greatly the advantage in numbers. Serbelloni alone
supported the opposite opinion. Don John yielded to his arguments; and
Serbelloni, by his subsequent bravery, as well as by his counsels, was a
chief cause of the victory. It was in this battle that Cervantes fought
and lost his hand: it is one of the most famous naval combats in modern
history. Serbelloni was rewarded by the Vice-Royalty of Sicily. He was
employed on other occasions of difficulty and peril against the Turks,
and was made prisoner at one time and exchanged for thirty-six Turkish
officers of rank, taken in the battle of Lepanto.
He reaped a better glory when named Lieutenant by the Governor of Milan.
The plague broke out in the city, and the Governor abandoned his post;
Serbelloni remained, and exerted himself, by wise and humane measures,
to alleviate the horrors of the time. He was again chosen by Don John to
accompany him in his last campaign in Flanders; he was with him when he
died, nor did he long survive him.
A more recent Serbelloni—probably grandfather of the present
representatives of the family—served under the Emperor Charles VI., and
distinguished himself in the wars of Italy, and more particularly during
the Seven Years’ War. He was afterwards appointed Governor of Lombardy.
I can scarcely explain why I send you these details. These grounds are
so attractive—their site so romantic—the name of the Sfondrati sounded
so dignified to our ears, that we have been hunting for information with
regard to them and their successors. I send you a portion of the result.
Two brothers now remain of the Serbelloni family—one a general, who
served during the wars of the French Empire; the other, a church
dignitary. Both are childless, and the estates will, on their death, be
inherited by their sister.
Probably, in ancient days, all the habitation that existed was the
ruined tower on the summit of the promontory. The escutcheons on the
walls show, however, that the present villa was built by the Sfondrati;
but it is much out of repair and quite unworthy of the grounds, being
little better than the house of a _fattore_ or steward. The plan of a
new residence on a splendid scale is under consideration, as well as the
completion and ornamenting the grounds. But the brothers discuss, and
can never come to one mind; so things remain as they are.
TUESDAY, 6TH.
This evening we crossed again to visit other seats on the opposite bank.
Villa Melzi is a very pleasant country house; its marble halls and
stuccoed drawing-rooms are the picture of Italian comfort—cool, shady,
and airy. The garden has had pains taken with it; there are some superb
magnolias and other flowering trees, but one longs for English gardening
here. What would not some friends of mine make of a flower-garden in
Italy; how it would abound and run over with sweets—no potting and
greenhouses to check, no frost to decimate. The Italians here know not
what flowers and a flower-garden are.
After loitering awhile, we ascended the bank by a convenient and wide
flight of some eighty steps, and reached the villa Giulia, whose grounds
look upon the lake of Lecco. It was all shut up, as we were late. We
found our way however, across the promontory to a little harbour on the
water’s edge. Surely on earth there is no pleasure (excepting that
derived from moral good) so great as lingering, during the soft shades
of an Italian evening, surrounded by all the beauty of an Italian
landscape, sheltered by the pure radiance of an Italian sky—and then to
skim the calm water towards one’s home; while the stars gather bright
overhead, and the lake glimmers beneath. These delights are, indeed, the
divinest imparted by the visible creation; but they come to us so
naturally as our due birthright, that we do not feel their full value
till returned to a northern clime; when, all at once, we wonder at the
change come over the earth, and feel disinherited of, and exiled from
its fairest gifts.
THURSDAY, 6TH.
The weather is now delicious; yet at times a cloud is spread over the
sky; and wind and rain threaten us. This evening I had the pleasure of
finding that I had not become quite a coward, and that I feared for P——
more than for myself. I crossed the lake with Mr. ——; the wind rose, and
our little sail was hoisted; but the waves rose with the wind, and our
craft is so small that a little breeze seems much. However, I had been
scolded, and had scolded myself for my timidity, and would not now
display even prudence, but went on; and though twenty times I was on the
point of proposing to return, I did not, for I was not aware that my
companion silently shared my alarm. At length we had nearly reached the
opposite side of the lake; the wind and waves had both risen, and if
they increased, danger was at hand. I did not feel fear, but I felt the
risk. At length Mr. —— said, “I think we might as well return;” and at
the word we tacked. It was a side wind, and our skiff was apt to make
great leeway, which would take us below Cadenabbia, and heaven knows
where we could land. Just then the wind fell, and danger passed away;
but the waves continued high, and the sail grew useless, while sculling
became fatiguing. It was hard work: at last we reached the port of
Tremezzo; and getting a boy to row the boat back to Cadenabbia, we
gladly walked home.
MONDAY 10TH.
The moonlight nights are most inviting. I spent several hours on the
water this evening. We put out just at sunset: when we reached Menaggio
the full moon had risen above the mountain tops, and strewed a silver
path upon the waves; instead of returning, we rowed along the shining
track, towards the lake of Lecco. We hunted for the tinkling
fisher-bells, and loitered delicious hours away. This evening I heard
for the first time Manzoni’s Ode on Napoleon—strange, I had never before
met with it. It was now repeated to me. It is a glorious poem; the
opening calls at once the attention; its rapid sketching of events is
full of fire; the recurrence to the poet’s self noble and appropriate;
and the last stanza instinct with charity and pious hope. The hero, with
all his faults, was fitly praised in verse as majestic as ever yet a
poet wrote. It is a double pleasure to find poetry worthy of its better
days spring up in modern Italy, showing that the genius of the Italians
survives the blighting influence of misrule and oppression. The more I
see of the inhabitants of this country, the more I feel convinced that
they are highly gifted with intellectual powers, and possess all the
elements of greatness. They are made to be a free, active, inquiring
people. But they must cast away their _dolce far niente_. They must
learn to practise the severer virtues; their youth must be brought up in
more hardy and manly habits; they must tread to earth the vices that
cling to them as the ivy around their ruins. They must do this to be
free; yet without freedom how can they? for the governments of Italy
know that to hold their own they must debase their subjects; they
jealously bar their doors against all improvement; and every art and
power is used to crush any who would rise above the vices and indolence
of the day.
I love the Italians. It is impossible to live among them and not love
them. Their faults are many—the faults of the oppressed—love of
pleasure, disregard of truth, indolence, and violence of temper. But
their falsehood is on the surface—it is not deceit. Under free
institutions, and where the acquirement of knowledge is not as now a
mark inviting oppression and wrong, their love of pleasure were readily
ennobled into intellectual activity. They are affectionate, simple, and
earnestly desirous to please. There is life, energy, and talent in every
look and word; grace and refinement in every act and gesture. They are a
noble race of men—a beautiful race of women; the time must come when
again they will take a high place among nations. Their habits, fostered
by their governments, alone are degraded and degrading; alter these, and
the country of Dante and Michael Angelo and Raphael still exists.
LETTER VIII.
Voyage to Como.—The Opera.—Walk towards Menaggio.
CADENABBIA, AUGUST 15.
Time speeds on; yet every hour being occupied, it appears to move
slowly. How often do a few weeks—such as we have spent here—seem a mere
shred of life, hardly counted in the passage of a year! But these weeks
“drag a slow length along,” day succeeding day, each gifted with the
calmest yet most living enjoyment. Calm; for no event disturbs us:
instinct with glowing life, inspired by the beauty of the scenery and
the delicious influence of the climate.
We hear from the boatmen on the lake snatches of the “Lucia”—the _Bell’
Alma innamorata_, especially. The Opera-house at Como is open; and, now
and then, to vary their day, my companions have visited it, going by the
steamer at four in the afternoon, and returning the next morning. I have
been tempted thither once. The steamer, the _Lario_ (a better is
promised for next year), is a very primitive and slow boat. I now made a
voyage I had made years before, when putting off from Como in a skiff we
had visited Tremezzo. How vividly I remembered and recognised each spot.
I longed inexpressibly to land at the Pliniana, which remained in my
recollection as a place adorned by magical beauty. The abrupt
precipices, the gay-looking villas, the richly-wooded banks, the
spire-like cypresses—a thousand times scarcely less vividly had they
recurred to my memory, than now they appeared again before my eyes.
Sometimes these thoughts and these revisitings were full of
inexpressible sadness; a yearning after the past—a contempt for all that
has occurred since, that throws dark and chilling shadows over the soul.
Just now, my mind was differently attuned; the young and gay were
around; and in them I lived and enjoyed.
Madame Pasta has a villa on the lake, some miles distant from Como. She
has an excessive fear of the water, and never goes to Como by the
steamer. Unluckily there is no road on her side of the lake; and she has
a house on the opposite shore, in which to remain, if the weather is
stormy, to wait for the smoothing of the waters. Methinks the elements
are rude indeed not to obey her voice—never did any so move, so
penetrate the human heart. In “Giulietta,” in “Medea,” and, above all,
in the melting and pathetic tenderness of the opening air of the “Nina
Pazza per Amore” of the divine Paesiello, she has in truth taken from
the heart its last touch of hardness, and melted it into sweetest tears.
Pasta and Paganini alone have had this power over me, but yet different
in its kind. By Pasta, the tenderest sympathy was awakened, joined to
that soft return to one’s own past afflictions, which subdued the soul
and opened the fountain of tears. Paganini excited and agitated
violently—it was rather nervous hysterics than gentle sorrowing—it was
irresistible—as a friend said, it realised the fables of Orpheus—it had
the power of an enchantment. We heard him in a garish theatre, seeing
him on a stage, playing simply to attract admiration and gain money. The
violent emotions he excited, rose and faded in the bosom without any
visible sign. But could we have listened in the wooded solitudes of
Greece or Italy, and known that he himself was animated by some noble
purpose, surely he might have inspired passion, animated to glorious
action, and caused obstacles seemingly irresistible to give way—no
fabled power of music ever transcended his.
It is bathos to return to the opera of Como—but it was very creditable.
The house was clean and pretty. Teresa Brambilla sang the part of
“Lucia” very tolerably, and it was an agreeable change. In the hotel at
Como were staying some Italians, whose singing, however, far transcended
that of the theatre. Prince B——, in the days of his exile and poverty,
often said jestingly, that were his fortunes at their last ebb, the
stage would be a sure resource. Perhaps no finer voice than his has been
heard in a theatre for many years.
AUGUST 30TH.
It is not always calm upon the lake. Sometimes a mighty storm comes down
from the Alps, bringing with it driving rain, which resembles the mist
of a cataract, and wind that lashes the water into waves and foam,—and
then, in half an hour, all is sunny, sparkling—and calm is spread again
upon the waters. Several times we had music on the lake: once we got the
musicians over from Bellaggio—they were artisans of the place, who had
formed themselves into a musical society—to the number of twenty-one,
and they played a variety of airs of modern composers. Often we have
visited our favourite Villa Serbelloni, and each visit discovered some
new beauty. Once, in P.’s little boat, we doubled the promontory, and
rowed beneath the crags we had looked down upon from the terraced walks
above. Black, abrupt, and broken into islet, pinnacle, and cliff, but
all crowned by greenest vegetation, they rose high ground us. Sometimes
we visited the high terraced gardens of Villa Giulia, that overlooked
the same branch of the lake.
Nor, nearer home, must I forget the Villa Sommariva. The grounds are not
extensive, and, of course, broken into terraces, from the nature of the
site; with overarching trees, forming shady alcoves and covered walks.
It is a cool and pleasant retreat at noon: the house is a very good one,
large and cheerful. It possesses a renowned work of Canova, the Cupid
and Psyche. The expression of their faces is tender and sweet; but—I
like not to confess it—I am not an admirer of Canova’s women. He is said
to have had singular opportunities of studying the female form; but
place his Venus, or any other of his female statues, beside those of
Grecian sculpture, and his defects must strike the most untaught eye.
There was a little antique of a sleeping nymph in the halls of the Villa
Sommariva, which formed a contrast with the modern Psyche. It looked as
the finger could impress the marble, as the imitated flesh had yielded
to the posture of the figure. Canova’s seemed as if it moved only at the
joints, and as if no other portion of the frame was influenced by
attitude.
When alone in an evening, I often walk towards Menaggio. I have selected
a haunt among rocks close to the water’s edge, shaded by an olive-wood.
I always feel renewed and extreme delight as I watch the shadows of
evening climb the huge mountains, till the granite peaks alone shine
forth glad and bright, and a holy stillness gathers over the landscape.
With what serious yet quick joy do such sights fill me; and dearer still
is the aspiring thought that seeks the Creator in his works, as the soul
yearns to throw off the chains of flesh that hold it in, and to dissolve
and become a part of that which surrounds it.
This evening my friends are gone to Como, and I sat long on my favourite
seat, listening to the ripplet of the calm lake splashing at my feet; to
the murmur of running streams, and to the hollow roar of the mysterious
torrent—the _Fiume Latte_—which is borne, softened by distance, from the
opposite shore; viewing the magnificent mountain scene, varied by the
lights and shadows caused by the setting sun. My heart was elevated,
purified, subdued. I prayed for peace to all; and still the supreme
Beauty brooded over me, and promised peace; at least there where change
is not, and love and enjoyment unite and are one. From such rapt moods
the soul returns to earth, bearing with it the calm of Paradise:
Quale è colui, che sognando vede,
E dopo ’l sogno la passione impressa
Rimane, è l’altro alla mente non riede;
Cotal son io, che quasi tutta cessa
Mia visione, ed ancor mi distilla
Nel cor il dolce, che nacque da essa.
Cosi la neve al sol si dissigilla;
Cosi al vento nelle foglie lievi
Si perdea la sentenzia di Sibilla[6].
It has seemed to me—and on such an evening, I have felt it,—that this
world, endowed as it is outwardly with endless shapes and influences of
beauty and enjoyment, is peopled also in its spiritual life by myriads
of loving spirits; from whom, unawares, we catch impressions, which
mould our thoughts to good, and thus they guide beneficially the course
of events, and minister to the destiny of man. Whether the beloved dead
make a portion of this holy company, I dare not guess; but that such
exists, I feel. They keep far off while we are worldly, evil, selfish;
but draw near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy, when we are
animated by noble thoughts, and capable of disinterested actions. Surely
such gather round me this night, and make a part of that atmosphere of
peace and love which it is paradise to breathe.
I had thought such ecstacy as that in which I now was lapped dead to me
for ever; but the sun of Italy has thawed the frozen stream—the cup of
life again sparkles to the brim. Will it be removed as I turn northward?
I fear it will. I grieve to think that we shall very soon leave
Cadenabbia—the first sad step towards quitting Italy.
LETTER IX.
Italian Poetry.—Italian Master.—The Country People.—The Fulcino.—Grand
Festa.—Adieu to Cadenabbia.
CADENABBIA, 7TH SEPT.
We leave Cadenabbia in a day or two. I go unwillingly; the calm weather
invites my stay, by dispelling my fears. (P.’s boat has left us. I bade
it a grateful adieu, glad that it went leaving me scatheless; sorry to
see it go, as a token of our too speedy departure.) The heat is great in
the middle of the day, and I read a great deal to beguile the time,
chiefly in Italian; for it is pleasant to imbue one’s mind with the
language and literature of the country in which one is living: and
poetry—Italian poetry—is in harmony with these scenes. The elements of
its inspiration are around me. I breathe the air; I am sheltered by the
hills and woods which give its balmy breath, which lend their glorious
colouring to their various and sunny verse. There are stanzas in Tasso
that make themselves peculiarly felt here. One, when Rinaldo is setting
out by starlight on the adventure of the enchanted forest, full of the
religion that wells up instinctively in the heart amidst these scenes,
beneath this sky. But I have chiefly been occupied by Dante, who, so to
speak, is an elemental poet; one who clothes in the magic of poetry the
passions of the heart, enlightened and ennobled by piety, and who
regards the objects of the visible creation with a sympathy, a
veneration, otherwise only to be found in the old Greek poets. I have
read the _Purgatorio_ and _Paradiso_, with ever new delight. There are
finer passages in the _Inferno_ than can be found in the two subsequent
parts; but the subject is so painful and odious, that I always feel
obliged to shut the book after a page or two. The pathetic tenderness of
the _Purgatorio_, on the contrary, wins its way to the heart; and again,
the soul is elevated and rapt by the sublime hymns to heavenly love,
contained in the _Paradiso_. Nothing can be more beautiful than the
closing lines, which I quoted in a late letter, which speak of his
return to earth, his mind still penetrated by the ecstacy he had lately
felt.
My companions wanted a master for Italian. I asked Peppina if there was
one to be found near. She recommended a friend of her’s at Menaggio: he
was not accustomed to give lessons, but would for her sake. This did not
sound hopeful. I tried to understand his charges; but though I put the
question fifty times, she, with true Italian subtlety, slid out of the
embarrassment, and left me uninformed: while I, for the hundredth time,
did that which a hundred times I had determined not to do—engaged a
person’s services at no fixed sum. The whole thing turned out ill. The
man belonged to the dogana at Menaggio; his Italian was no better than
Peppina’s own—who could talk it very tolerably for a short time; but in
longer conversations soon slid into Comasque, or something like it. The
man had no idea of teaching; and came so redolent of garlic, that the
lessons were speedily discontinued. Of course, his charges were double
those of a regular master.
I have spoken in praise of the Italians; but you must not imagine that I
would exalt them to an unreal height—that were to show that misrule and
a misguiding religion were no evils. It is when I see what these people
are,—and from their intelligence, their sensitive organisation and
native grace, I gather what they might be,—that I mourn over man’s lost
state in this country.
The country people, I have already told you, hereabouts are a fine
handsome race; many of the young women are beautiful, but their good
looks soon go off. There are silk mills at Cadenabbia and Bolvedro,
which employ a great many girls, who laugh and sing at their work, and,
leaving it in troops at the Ave Maria, pass under our window singing in
chorus with loud, well-tuned voices. Their dress is picturesque; they
wear their hair bound up at the back of the head in knotted tresses, to
which are fixed large silver bodkins, which stand out like rays, and
form a becoming head-dress; but, unfortunately, as they seldom take
these bodkins out, and even sleep in them, they wear away the hair. You
may guess, from this fact, that neatness and cleanliness are not, I
grieve to say, among their good qualities.
It is strange that, though the men and women here are mostly handsome,
the children are very plain. The contrary of this occurs in parts of
Switzerland. Here, it a good deal arises from the diet: all the children
look diseased—as well they may be, considering their food—and the wonder
is, so many arrive at maturity. The deaths, however, are in a much
larger proportion than with us. I hear of no schools in this part of the
country, and the people are entirely ignorant: neither are the priests
held in esteem. Thus thoroughly untaught, the wonder is that they are as
good as they are. The church indeed is respected, though its ministers
are not; but the enactments of the church are most rigorous with regard
to fastings and ritual observances. If toil be virtue, however, these
poor people deserve its praise. They work hard, and draw subsistence,
wherever it can be by any toil abstracted, even from the narrow shelving
of the mountains on which rich grass grows. The young men go to cut it
each year; and it is so dangerous a task, that each year lives are lost,
through the foot of the labourer slipping on the short grass, and his
falling down the precipice. Fishing, of course, affords employment; and
there is a good deal of traffic on the lake, which is carried on by
flat-bottomed barges, impelled by large heavy sails, or by long oars,
which they work by pushing forward. Unfortunately, in this part of
Italy, they are not as sober as in the south, and drunken brawls
frequently occur. The drunkenness of these men is not stupifying, as
usually among us, but fierce and choleric. Great care is taken by
government to prevent their carrying arms of any kind, even knives. They
have, however, an implement called a _fulcino_, in shape like a small
sickle, which is used for weeding, and cutting grass on the mountains;
this they are apt to employ as a weapon of offence. It is, consequently,
forbidden to carry it polished and sharpened, but simply in the
tarnished worn state incident to its proper uses. This enactment is, of
course, constantly evaded. They are drawn in every brawl; and the wound
they inflict—a long ugly gash—is less dangerous, but more frightful than
a stab. One evening, there was great excitement on a man being
_fulcinato_ at a drinking bout, at a neighbouring inn. One of my
companions went to see him, and came back, horror-struck; he had a
large, deep gash in the thigh, and was nearly dead from loss of blood.
When a surgeon came, however, it was found that the wound was not
dangerous. He was carried home in a boat; but it was two or three weeks
before he could get about again. When these outrages occur, the police
carry the aggressors to prison, where they are kept, we are told, ill
off enough, till they consent to enlist. The life of a soldier in the
Austrian service is so hard, ill-fed, and worse paid, that these poor
wretches often hold out long; but they are forced, at last, to yield:
nor is the punishment ill imagined, that he who sheds blood should be
sent to deal in blood in the legal way. But the root of the evil still
rests in the absence of education and civilisation; and one must pity
the poor fellows, taken from their glorious mountains and sunny lake,
and sent to herd among the sullen Austrians, far in the north, where the
sound of their musical Italian shall never reach them more.
SEPTEMBER 8TH.
This is our last day. We are leaving the Lake of Como just when its
_season_ is beginning; for the Italians always make their
_villeggiatura_ in the months of September and October, when the fruit
is ripe, and the vintage—the last gathering in of the year—takes place.
The nobles, therefore, are now beginning to visit their villas. English
visitants have built a few keeled boats, which, on going away, they
either sold or made presents of to their Italian friends. There are two
or three pretty English-built skiffs on the lake, which render it more
gay and busy than before.
Numbers of the middling classes also, shopkeepers from Milan, congregate
at Como and the villages, at this season. In some respects, however,
this is not so pleasant, as there are many more visitors at the Albergo
Grande. Each day crowds come by the steamer; tables are spread for them
in the avenue of acacias, where they eat, drink, and are merry. We live
at the other end of the house; and as these chance-comers all leave by
the steamer, at four o’clock, they do not inconvenience us. But an
English lady, who had taken rooms overlooking the avenue, grew very
angry at the disturbance, called the Albergo Grande a pothouse, scolded
Luigi, mulcted his bill, and crowned her revenge by writing in his
disfavour in the traveller’s book of the Hotel at Como. For my own part,
I love Cadenabbia more and more every day: every day it grows in beauty,
and I regret exceedingly leaving it. My dearest wish had been to visit
Venice before I turned my steps homewards, as there is a friend there
whom I greatly desired to see; but I cannot go, and must resign myself.
I write these few last words from an alcove in the gardens of the Villa
Sommariva, whither I have fled for refuge from the noise and turmoil of
our hotel.
This is a very grand _festa_, named of the _Madonna del Soccorso_, and
relates to the progress of the plague being stopped on one occasion
through the intercession of the Virgin. The church is on a hill, about
two miles from Cadenabbia, and twelve chapels are built, as stations, on
the road leading to it. The whole of the inhabitants of the mountains
around were concerned in the vow, and flocked in multitudes to celebrate
the feast. In one village in particular, far away among the mountains to
the north, the inhabitants had vowed always to wear woollen clothes cut
in a peculiar fashion, and of a certain colour, if the remnants of their
population—for nearly all had perished—were saved. These people walked
all night, to arrive about noon at Cadenabbia. Their dress was ungainly
enough, and must have been very burthensome to the walkers this hot day.
It was made of heavy dark-blue cloth, with a stripe of red at the bottom
of the petticoat—I speak of the dress of the women. I forget in what
that of the men differs from that of the peasants of Cadenabbia. The
crowd is immense; and the Albergo Grande is the focus where, going to,
or coming from paying their devotions on the hill, they all collect. I
grew tired of watching them from my window, and have retired to a shady
bower of the gardens of the Villa Sommariva, where the hum of many
thousand voices falls softened and harmless on my ear. “Eyes, look your
last!” Soon the curtain of absence will be drawn before this surpassing
scene. You are very hard-hearted, if you do not pity me.
MIDNIGHT.
And now the moon is up, and I sit at my window to say a last good-night
to the lake. The bells, so peculiar a circumstance in this night-scene,
“salute mine ear,” across the waters. Many a calm day, many a delicious
evening, have I here spent. It is over now, lost in the ocean of time
past. It is always painful to leave a room for ever in which one has
slept calmly at night, and by day nurtured pleasant thoughts. I grieve
to leave my little cell. But enough—I will add a few words, the history
of our last evening, and say good-night.
Very noisy and uproarious was our last evening; so that till now, when
all is hushed, it seemed as if instead of quitting a lonely retreat
among mountains, we were escaping from the confusion and crowd of a
metropolis. The peasants drank too much wine; they quarrelled with
Luigi, and the _fulcini_ were drawn. Care had been taken, however, to
have police-officers near; on their appearance, all who could threw then
weapons into the lake; two were taken with the arms in their hands, and
hurried off to prison, which they will only leave as soldiers.
Late in the evening we paid our bill, and gave presents to the servants,
usually a disagreeable and thankless proceeding. But here, all was so
fair, the people so pleased and apparently attached, that no feelings of
annoyance were excited. Poor people! I hope to see them one day
again—they all gathered round us with such shows of regret that it was
impossible not to feel very kindly towards them in return.
Good-night!
LETTER X.
Voyage to Lecco.—Bergamo.—The Opera of “Mosè.”—Milan.
BERGAMO, 10TH SEPT.
For the sake of visiting scenes unknown to us, we arranged not to go by
the steamer from Como to Milan, but hired one of the large boats of the
place to take us to Lecco. We quitted Cadenabbia yesterday at five in
the morning. Sadly I bade adieu to its romantic shores and the calm
retirement I had there enjoyed. The mountains reared their majestic
sides in the clear morning air, and their summits grew bright, visited
by the sun’s rays. We doubled the promontory of Bellaggio, and quickly
passing the picturesque rocks beneath the gardens of the Villa
Serbelloni, we found that the lake soon lost much of its picturesque
beauty. Manzoni and Grossi have both chosen this branch of the lake for
the scene of their romances; but it is certainly far, very far, inferior
to the branch leading to Como, especially as at the end of the lake you
approach the flat lands of Lombardy and the bed of the Adda. We
breakfasted comfortably at Lecco, and hired a _calèche_ for Bergamo. It
was a pleasant but warm drive. Oh, how loth will the Austrian ever be to
loosen his gripe of this fair province, fertile and abounding in its
produce,—its hills adorned with many villages, and sparkling with
villas. These numerous country-houses are the peculiarity and beauty of
the region: as is the neighbourhood of Florence, so are all these hills,
which form steps between the Alps and the Plains of Lombardy, rendered
gay by numerous villas, each surrounded by its grounds planted with
trees, among which the spires of the cypress rise in dark majesty. The
fields were in their best dress; the grapes ripening in the sun; the
Indian corn—the second crop of this land of plenty—full-grown, but not
quite ripe.
Variety of scene is so congenial, that the first effect of changing the
mountain-surrounded, solitary lake for the view of plain and village,
and wide-spread landscape, raised my spirits to a very springtide of
enjoyment. We were very merry as we drove along.
There is a fair at Bergamo; it has lasted three weeks, and the great
bustle is over. We had been told that the inns are bad; I do not know
whether we have found admission into the best, but I know we could
scarcely anywhere find a worse. The look of the whole house is neglected
and squalid; the bedrooms are bare and desolate, and a loathly reptile
has been found on their walls. The waiters are unwashed, uncouth
animals, reminding one of a sort of human being to be met in the streets
of London or Paris—looking as if they never washed nor ever took off
their clothes; as if even the knowledge of such blessings were strangers
to them. The dinner is uneatable from garlic. Of course, the bill
to-morrow morning will be unconscionably high.
We have come to Bergamo chiefly for the sake of the opera, and to hear
Marini, a basso—boasted of as next to Lablache—but, though fine, the
distance is wide between. Being fatigued, I did not go to the upper town
to see the view, which is extensive, and at the setting of the sun
peculiarly grand. But to the opera we went. The house is large and
handsome; but the draperies and ornaments of the boxes were heavy and
cumbersome; they carried, too, the usual Italian custom of having little
light in their theatres, except on the stage, to such an excess, that we
were nearly in the dark, and could not read our libretto. The opera was
the _Mosè_. That which is pious to a Catholic is blasphemous to a
Protestant, and the _Mosè_ is changed, when represented in England, to
_Pietro l’Eremita_. None of the singers were good except Marini; but the
music is the best of Rossini, and we appreciated this admirable master
the more for having been of late confined to Donizetti. The quartetto of
_Mi manca la voce_ is perhaps his _chef-d’œuvre_. The way in which the
voices fall in, one after the other, attracts, then fixes the attention.
I listen breathlessly; a sort of holy awe thrills through the notes; the
soul absorbs the sounds, till the theatre disappears; and the
imagination, deeply moved, builds up a fitter scene—the fear, the
darkness, the tremor, become real. The whole opera is rich in impressive
and even sublime vocal effects. In the ballet we had Cerito—her first
appearance at Bergamo—and she was received most warmly. She danced three
_pas_, and after each she was called on seven times. I had not seen her
before; and, though not comparable to Taglioni for an inexpressible
something which renders her single in the poetry of the art, Cerito is
light, graceful, sylphlike, and very pretty.
MILAN, 11TH.
This day has taken us to Milan, a long and rather dreary drive. We
turned our backs on the hills, and proceeded through the low country
round the capital of Lombardy, which is indeed the centre of a plain,
whose shortest radius is twenty-five miles. The road is shut in by deep
trenches, which serve as drains, and is lined by vines, trellised to
pollard trees. We felt shut in by them, and unable to gain a glimpse of
the mountains we had left to the north. Our drive was uninteresting, and
grew very tiresome, till at last we arrive, and find rest and comfort,
at the Hôtel de la Ville, an extensive hotel, kept by a Swiss, with a
pretty English wife, and very comfortable in all its arrangements.
We expected letters here, on the receipt of which we instantly turn our
steps northward. For in vain I have debated and struggled, wishing to
visit Florence or Venice. My son must return to England; and, though I
shall not myself cross the Channel immediately, I do not like being
separated by so great a distance. Our letters, however, have not come,
and we shall employ a day or two in sightseeing.
SEPT. 14TH.
First we visited the fading inimitable fresco of Leonardo da Vinci. How
vain are copies! not in one, nor in any print, did I ever see the
slightest approach to the expression in our Saviour’s face, such as it
is in the original. Majesty and love—these are the words that would
describe it—joined to an absence of all guile that expresses the divine
nature more visibly than I ever saw it in any other picture. But if the
art of the copyist cannot convey, how much less can words, that which
only Leonardo da Vinci could imagine and pourtray? There is another
fragment of his in the gallery—an unfinished Virgin and Child—in the
same manner quite inimitable: the attitude is peculiar; with a common
artist it had degenerated into affectation: with him it is simplicity
and grace,—a gentle harmony of look and gesture, which reveals the
nature of the being pourtrayed,—the chaste and fond mother, lovely in
youth and innocence, thoughtful from mingled awe and love, with a touch
of fear, springing from a presentiment of the tragical destiny of the
divine infant, whose days of childhood she watched over and made glad.
In the gallery is Raphael’s picture of the Marriage of the Virgin, in
his first and most chaste style; where beauty of expression and grace of
design are more apparent, than when, in later days, his colouring grew
more rich, his grouping more artificial. A catalogue of pictures is
stupid enough, except that I naturally put down those that attract my
attention, and I try in some degree to convey the impression they made,
so as to induce you to sympathise in my feelings with regard to them.
The galleries are rich in Luinis—ever a pleasing artist. The Ambrosian
library we, of course, visited; but they keep things now rigidly under
lock and key: for some one, whose folly ought to have met with severe
punishment, had endeavoured to purloin, and so mutilated, some of the
relics of Petrarch.
Among other lions we went to a silk manufacture, where many looms were
at work on rich silks and velvets. We saw here specimens of cloth of
glass, which, hereafter, I should think, will be much used for hangings.
It is dear now—as dear as silk, because the supply of the material is
slight; but spun glass must, in itself, be much cheaper than silk. The
fault of this cloth is, that it is apt to chip as it were, and get
injured; it will, therefore, never serve any of the purposes of dress,
but it is admirably fitted for curtains and hangings. What I saw was all
bright yellow and white, resembling gold and silver tissue; of course,
the glass would take other colours: it would not fade as soon as silk,
and would clean without losing its gloss or the texture being
deteriorated.
At the Opera they were giving the _Templario_. Unfortunately, as is well
known, the theatre of La Scala serves, not only as the universal
drawing-room for all the society of Milan, but every sort of trading
transaction, from horse-dealing to stock-jobbing, is carried on in the
pit; so that brief and far between are the snatches of melody one can
catch. Besides this, they have the uncomfortable habit of giving the
_ballet_ between the two acts of the opera. The only good singer was
Salvi—a bad actor, but with a tenor voice of good quality and great
sweetness. He had some agreeable airs in the first act: but that over,
came a _ballet d’action_. In this theatre I had seen Othello acted in
_ballet_, with such mastery of pantomime, that words seemed superfluous
for the expression of passion or incident; but no such good actors as
were celebrated then, exist now. The _ballet_, founded on the last
fortunes of Ali Pasha, was splendidly got up, but full of tumult, noise,
and violence, till it ended in a grand blowing-up of Ali, his palace,
and treasures. Amidst the din and dust the audience mostly departed, and
I went also, thoroughly fatigued; but there was another act of the
opera, and on a subsequent night I staid to hear it, though paying for
the pleasure by a head-ache. Some of the best airs are in this; and the
_finale_, an air of Salvi, is exquisitely tender and touching, and sung
so sweetly by him, that I would rather have heard it than any other part
of the opera.
On Sunday I went to the cathedral, and heard mass. There was a
sermon—the text, the good Samaritan—the gloss, love your neighbour—an
admirable lesson; the preacher, however, had but this one idea: and it
was curious, during his sermon of half an hour, to hear the various and
abundant words in which he contrived to clothe it. To a passing
stranger, the Duomo comprises so much of Milan. It is chiefly the
outside, with its multitudinous and snow-white pinnacles, that arrests
the attention and charms the eye; a moonlight hour passed in the Piazza
del Duomo—now beneath the black shadow of the building, then emerging
into the clear white light—and looking up to see the marble spires point
glittering to the sky, is a pleasure never to be forgotten.
LETTER XI.
Non-arrival of a Letter.—Departure of my Friends.—Solitude.—The
Duomo.—Table d’Hôte.—Austrian Government.
MILAN, 23RD SEPTEMBER.
A most disagreeable circumstance has occurred. I told you that we
expected letters at Milan; one especially, that was to contain the
remittance for our homeward journey: it did not—has not come. Perplexed
and annoyed, we held council; our friends were all departing; and it
seemed best that P—— should go with them, and that I should remain to
await the arrival of my letter. I did not like the idea of the solitary
journey; but in every point of view this seemed the best course. I gave
what money I had to P——, barely sufficient to take him to England: he
went, and here I am, feeling much like a hostage for a compact about to
be violated. I left England with a merry party of light-hearted
youngsters; they are gone, and I alone: this, the end of my pleasant
wanderings. Such, you know, is the picture of life: thus every poet
sings—thus every moralist preaches. I am more dispirited than I ought to
be; but I cannot help it. It rained and blew for several days after the
travellers left me,—inclement weather for them; but would I had been
with them!
Each day I go to the post-office, and look over the huge packet of
English letters; but there are none for me. I did not even ask P—— to
write to me; for on any day I may get the expected letter, and at once
leave Milan. This excessive uncertainty is the worst part of my
troubles. To a rich person, such an accident were scarcely felt; and,
indeed, with me, though if protracted it may entail on me a good deal of
embarrassment, still it is only annoyance—while I, most unreasonably,
feel it as a misfortune. I am miserable. Returning each day from the
post-office I cannot rally my spirits; my imagination conjures up a
thousand evils; yet, in truth, none as consequent on this accident,
sufficient to justify the dismay that invades me. Feeling this, my fancy
dreams of other ills—of which this shadow over my mind may be the
forerunner; for often, as you know, “in to-day already walks to-morrow;”
and yet the evil that comes is not the evil we fear—for, as another poet
truly sings—
“Fears! what are they? voices airy
Whispering harm, where harm is not;
And deluding the unwary,
Till the fatal bolt be shot.”[7]
The uncertainty is the worst part, as I have said; for, as I never
contemplated staying more than a day or two here, I did not provide
myself with any letters of introduction, and it is useless asking for
any now, as I shall, I trust, be gone before they could arrive. Besides
that, most of the Milanese are at their country-houses; and it is with
them that I should have liked to form some acquaintance. By chance, I
had a letter to the French consul; but his family is away, and he,
meanwhile, dines at the _table d’hôte_ of this same hotel; but he is
also a good deal absent, visiting, and is no resource to me.
I spend my time, therefore, as I best may, in alternate walks and
reading, or working. Each morning I pass a considerable time in the
aisles of the cathedral. The interior is not of course to be compared to
Westminster Abbey. The ceiling, for instance, is painted, not carved in
fretwork; nor are there the solemn shadows, nor the antique venerable
tombs; but, on the other hand, it is unencumbered by the hideous modern
monuments which deform our venerable cathedral; nor is it kept in the
same dirty state. My favourite haunt is behind the choir, where there is
a magnificent painted window, which throws rich and solemn shadows all
around. The influence of this spot soothes my mind, and chases away a
thousand grim shadows, prognosticating falsehood, desolation, and
hopeless sorrow. I throw off the strange clinging presentiments still
more entirely when I have on fine days mounted to the outside of the
Duomo. You know, by pictures and descriptions, how the exterior is
covered by pinnacles and statues; many put up but yesterday, are
snow-white and glitter in the sun. The city and the plain of Lombardy,
are at my feet; to the north, my beloved mountains—magnificent shapes,
which the heavens stoop to visit, and which, speaking of power and
inspiring adoration, excite and delight the imagination, made lethargic
by mere plain country. The Resegone is there, reminding me of the
ecstasies I felt on the Lake of Como, which I remember as dreams sent
from heaven, vanished for ever. I turn my eyes southward, and try to
trace the route to Florence. I am much tempted, when I do get my
expected letter, to go thither to see the friend whom I wished to visit
at Venice, but who is now at Florence. Much of my desire in visiting
Italy was derived from the hope of seeing her and her sister, whom I
left gay blooming children;—but I must defer this pleasure.
Milan is not a pleasant town for one so strangely placed as I am, who
would fain leave streets and houses to take refuge in solitary walks and
country rambles. The country immediately round is low and uninviting,
especially now that the autumnal rains seem to have set in; and the
roads are dirty—indeed, to all appearance, impassable. Still, you may be
sure I walk when I can; and when, on leaving the hotel, I do not turn to
the left, towards the cathedral, I turn to the right, along a wide
street, with the best shops, and where the shops cease there are some
fine large palaces. The French have a laudable passion for public
gardens; though their notion of what is agreeable in that respect does
not coincide with ours; and grass and turf is, as I have before said,
unknown out of England. They have laid out gardens in the outskirts of
Milan, into which I turn; and then, ascending some steps, I enter on the
Boulevard, a wide drive on the walls of the town, planted with trees.
This is the _Corso_, where every evening the Milanese resort in their
carriages—not now, however, as all of any rank are out of town. From
this _boulevard_, which is elevated on the walls, one looks down on the
vine-planted low lands beneath. A more agreeable spot—but it is too far
for a walk—is the triumphal arch, begun by Napoleon, that forms the
entrance to the city from the road of the Simplon. It is surrounded by a
grassy plain. As a harrier, at the distance of some twenty miles, rise
the Alps, the resting-places of the wandering clouds, the aspiration of
earth to reach the heavens. When I see these majestic ranges, I always
feel happier: those know not why who have never felt the love of
mountains, which is a real passion in the hearts of mountaineers; and,
though I am truly English-born, and bred in plains, yet in my girlhood I
visited Scotland, and saw from my window the snow-clad Grampians, and I
then imbibed this love for the “palaces of nature,” which, when far off,
haunts me still, with a keen desire to be among them, and a sense of
extreme content when in their vicinity.
At four o’clock, is the _table d’hôte_. I have been tempted to dine in
my own rooms. I feel so cast away, going down alone; but I have resisted
this feeling, for it is here only I can mingle at all with my
fellow-creatures; and though the mode is tolerably disagreeable, yet I
am the better for it afterwards. When we came, our party was at the foot
of the table. I have mounted gradually, till now I am next my
acquaintance, the French Consul, at top. All the guests are changed, and
are always changing. They form a curious assemblage—mostly English, and
some whom I cannot make out: they talk English as their native language,
but there is something unlike ourselves about them. I have been told
that where one encounters these Anglicans, who are not English, Scotch,
or Irish—they are Americans; and so it may be. Sometimes I amuse myself
by classifying the party. There is a round, good-humoured clergyman,
with his family, who is the Curious Traveller. He is very earnest in
search of knowledge, but gentlemanly and unintrusive. There is the
Knowing Traveller: he pounced upon a poor little man sitting next him,
to-day. “So you have been shopping,—making purchases; been horridly
cheated, I’m sure. Those Italians are such rogues! What did you buy?
What did you give for those gloves? Four _swanzigers_—you _have_ been
done! A _swanziger_ and a half—that’s the price anywhere. Two
_swanzigers_ for the best gloves to be found in Milan—and those are not
the best.” This gratuitous piece of misinformation made the poor
purchaser blush up to the eyes with shame at his own folly.
I wish I could see a few Carbonari; but I have no opening for making
acquaintance—I should like to know how the Milanese feel towards their
present Government. Since the death of one of the most treacherous and
wicked tyrants that ever disgraced humanity—the Emperor Francis,[8]—the
Austrian Government has made show of greater moderation. As the price of
the restoration of Ancona by the French, the exiles were permitted to
return. While we were at Como, we had seen the honoured and noble
Gonfalonieri, returned from Spielberg, the shadow of a man; his wife no
more—his life withered, as a glorious exotic transported to the North,
nipped by frosts it was never born to feel. In commerce, also, the
Austrian is trying to improve. A railroad is projected to Venice—a
portion of it is already constructed. They are endeavouring to revive
trade, as much as it can be revived in a country where two-thirds of the
produce of taxation is sent out of it; and it may be guessed what a
drooping, inert revival it is. But the curious thing about the policy of
present arbitrary governments is the encouragement they give to the
education of the poor. Even the Emperor Nicholas, we are told, desires
to educate the serfs. From whatever motive this springs, we must cling
to it as a real blessing, for the most extensive advantages must result
to the cause of civilisation from the enlightenment, however partial and
slight, of the multitude. Knowledge must, from its nature, grow, and
rooting it out can alone prevent its tendency to spread.
We ought, however, to consider one thing in the establishment of the
normal schools by Austria. To our shame be it spoken, the education of
the poor is far more attended to in Germany than with us. In Prussia,
Würtemberg, and, above all, in Saxony, the normal schools are admirable.
Austria was forced to appear to do the like; and they do so in a way
which they hope will increase and consolidate their power. Government
allows no schools but its own; and selects teachers, not as being
qualified for the task, but as servile tools in their hands. The books
they allow can scarcely be guessed at in this country, so totally void
are they of instruction or true religion. The Austrian hopes to bring up
the new generation in the lights he gives, and to know no more than he
teaches. He has succeeded, and will probably long continue to succeed in
Austria, but in Italy he will not. If the physical state of the poor in
Lombardy is ameliorated, they will be tranquil; but hatred of the
stranger must ever be a portion of the air he breathes.
It is against the rich and high-born, however, that the Austrian wages
war. A hatred of the German is rooted in the nobility of Milan; they are
watched with unsleeping vigilance: above all, the greatest care is taken
that their youth should not receive an enlightened education. From the
moment a young man is known to hold himself free from the prevalent
vices of the times, to be studious and high-minded, he becomes marked;
he is not allowed to travel; he is jealously watched; no career is open
to him; he is hemmed in to a narrow and still narrower circle; till at
last the moss of years and hopelessness gathers over and deadens his
mind. For the present governments of Italy know that there is a spirit
abroad in that country, which forces every Italian that thinks and
feels, to hate them and rebel in his heart.
26TH SEPT.
Still no letter: the mystery of its non-appearance grows darker. I have
been better off these last few days, from the arrival of the friends who
accompanied us down the Moselle. With them I have revisited the Brera,
and their society has cheered me. They are gone, and I am fallen again
into solitude and perplexity.
27TH.
At last there is change; my letter is come, or rather I have found it,
for it has been here almost ever since our arrival—long before I was
left alone. I had as usual visited the post-office, and looked over the
letters arrived this day—in vain. I then asked for yesterday’s letters;
yesterday was not post-day from England, and I had not visited the
office; but letters might have come to me from Venice or Florence. The
huge packet of all the English letters was handed me; I looked it over
listlessly, when—a bright light illumined my darkness—my letter—lost
amidst the crowd—yet I had often looked over this same heap of letters,
and it had not been there. I mentioned this to the clerk, who replied,
“O, then it must have been out at the time.” It seems that they send the
uncalled-for English letters round the town to the different hotels, to
be claimed; but by ill luck mine did not reach me. By mistake it had
been directed in the first place to Como; but it had arrived in Milan on
the 17th, and this is the 27th.
All is changed now—all is hurry and bustle—I am making inquiries for my
journey to Geneva. I sit down to close this letter, and to say that I
quit Milan the day after to-morrow. My next letter will reach you from
Paris. Adieu.
LETTER XII.
Departure from Milan.—Journey across the Simplon.—Lake of
Geneva.—Lyons.—Steamboat to Chalons.—Diligence to Paris.—History of the
eventful Journey across Mont St. Gothard.
MILAN, 28TH SEPT.
I have made a compact with a _veturino_, to take me and my maid to
Geneva for ten napoleons, in six days. He is to provide us with
sleeping-rooms, a dinner, and coffee in the morning. This is very
reasonable; but we are not to have the carriage to ourselves: he is
already engaged to take three English ladies, and I am to join the
party. I sent M—— to their hotel to look at our companions; she brings
back word that they are certainly ladies—three sisters they are; but,
from their accent, she thinks them Irish. Three Irish ladies out on
their travels without any attendant, seems odd; but I trust to my maid’s
tact as to their being, as she phrased it, really ladies. The whole day
has been occupied in getting a passport. P—— had taken mine; and there
is always a good deal of trouble in getting a fresh one _visé_ in
Austrian Italy.
The weather is beautiful: it seems, on looking back, that unwillingly as
I had remained behind, yet thus I have secured for myself a pleasant
journey in fine weather, while my friends encountered inclement skies,
and perhaps disasters thereon attendant. It had been agreed that they
were not to write, as I should probably leave Milan before a letter
could arrive. I cannot, therefore, hear how it has fared with them in
their passage across Mont St. Gothard till I reach Paris.
I have taken leave of the Cathedral. I have said adieu to the gardens
and walks, which I have paced with a heavy heart the last fortnight. I
do not think I should like to live at Milan. The Milanese nobility live
much among themselves, keeping their palaces sacred from the Austrian;
they do not entertain; and their chief assembly-room is the
Opera-house—at least this is the account that strangers give. Probably,
if the veil were lifted, and the truth known, we should find something
very pleasant hidden behind.
ARONA, TUESDAY, 29TH SEPTEMBER.
I quitted Milan at five in the morning. The ladies I was to accompany
had desired to spend a day at Como: they had gone the day before, and we
were to join at Sesto Callende, at the southern extremity of the Lago
Maggiore. The drive thither had nothing greatly to recommend it: but
Sesto itself is agreeably situated on the borders of the Ticino, just as
it leaves the lake, with, to the north, the amphitheatre of the Alps we
were about to cross. Here I met the companions of my journey. The first
word they spoke discovered their country; they are Scotch, with as rich
a Doric accent as the Lowlands can produce. I cannot well explain the
reason, but the enigma vanishes on the discovery of their native land;
for there is something in Scotch-women more independent than in English
and Irish; above all, one expects a better style of person on smaller
outward means. They are three sisters, who have been seeing sights all
over Italy, and are now returning home. The elder one has mingled
something with the world; and besides being acquainted with good
Edinburgh society, she has visited our poets of the Lakes. She is well
informed, and with a full, unebbing flow of conversation, which, though
much, is always sensible and anecdotic; and, when I am not overtired, I
find it agreeable. I have no wish to describe or designate further
ladies, who, though chance companions, have a right to enjoy the shelter
of privacy, undragged into public by one, who has only to congratulate
herself that she is for a few days thrown in their way.
Crossing the Ticino from Sesto, we left Austrian Lombardy for the
territories of the King of Sardinia, and were, of course, detained a
considerable time at the Dogana. The road lay along the margin of the
Lago Maggiore. This lake differs considerably from that of Como: it is
wider; higher mountains form its barriers, but they are much further
off, and the immediate banks are less precipitous, more cultivated, and
diversified with many villages and some considerable towns. The culture,
vines and Indian corn, have arrived at maturity, and the fields are
alive with labourers, gathering in the last harvest and busied with the
vintage. These gay varied fields on one hand, the picturesque and placid
lake on the other; the majestic Alps before, and blue sky to dress all
in cheerful and summer hues, impart every delight which this journey can
have, but one—I cannot help repining that the horses’ heads are not
turned the other way, and that I am not entering Italy instead of
leaving it. We reached Arona, where we are to sleep, early in the
glowing sunny evening, and have walked up a neighbouring height to see
the bronze statue of San Carlo Borromeo. It is very striking, of
gigantic stature, the attitude commanding and simple; standing as it
does on a grassy plot of ground on a hill side, with huge mountains all
around, the beautiful lake at its feet,—there is something in it that
inspires awe. A colossal figure in a building cannot have the same
effect; one is accustomed to it, one knows what it means, and no
unexpected emotion is excited. But placed thus, amidst a sublime and
majestic scene, the first impression is, not that it is one’s petty self
on a larger scale, but a being of a higher order and of grander
proportions, better fitted than we pigmies are, to tread the huge round
earth and scale the Alps. There is a church adjoining, containing the
room where the saint died, and a waxen mask, taken after death; it looks
ghastly, but the features are good: it was from this that the face of
the statue was modelled.
30TH SEPT.
We still wound along the margin of the lake, which opened wider, and its
Alpine boundaries grew higher and nearer. At the usual spot we received
the usual invitation from boatmen to visit the islands, which I
accepted. My companions were tired out by sightseeing, and declined. I
do not minutely describe: these islands are well known. Islands in a
lake have a peculiar charm; they are rare too. Three only exist on this
lake: Isola Madre; Isola Bella, on which stands the mansion of the
Borromeo family, with its terraced grounds; and one other, covered by a
town inhabited by fishermen. They are at some little distance from
shore. An island all to one’s self is ever flattering to the
imagination. No one to intrude unknown; the whole rule of the demesne in
one’s sovereign hands; and to look from this natural throne amidst the
clear waters on the populous shores and glorious mountains that surround
the Lago Maggiore, affords a picture of dignified seclusion one covets
to realise. Fault has been found with the artificial structure of the
gardens of Isola Bella; but it must be remembered that its shape is so
conical, that without the assistance of these terraces the soil would be
washed into the lake. It is acknowledged that Italian taste in gardening
is not our taste; but with the wild mountain paths so near, and scenery
impending over on such a scale, that man’s art vanishes among it, as the
path of a boat on the sea, one the less objects to a little nook of
ground—one’s immediate habitation—being adorned with artificial
embellishments. English culture and taste would, indeed, turn these
islands into a wilderness of sweets. The palace itself could not be
mended. Taken all in all, I should like to live here; here to enjoy the
aspect of grand scenery, the pleasures of elegant seclusion, and the
advantages of civilisation, joined to the independent delights of a
solitude which we would hope to people, were it ours, with a few chosen
spirits.
Such reveries possessed me, as I fancied life spent here, and pictured
English friends arriving down from the mighty Simplon, and Italians
taking refuge in my halls from persecution and oppression—a little world
of my own—a focus whence would emanate some light for the country
around—a school for civilisation, a refuge for the unhappy, a support
for merit in adversity: from such a gorgeous dream I was awakened when
my foot touched shore, and I was transformed from the Queen of Isola
Bella into a poor traveller, humbly pursuing her route in an
unpretending _vettura_. Such, for the most part, has been my life.
Dreams of joy and good, which have lent me wings to leave the poverty
and desolation of reality. How without such dreams I could have past
long sad years, I know not.
We stopped at a pleasant inn at Baveno. A party of English were staying
there—sketching, and making excursions in the neighbourhood. They were
enjoying themselves, apparently, very much. At Baveno begins the ascent
of the Simplon. What it must be, I continually said to myself, to
descend this road into Italy, and on the first entrance, to meet this
glorious lake, with its luxuriant vegetation; its rich chesnut woods;
its thoroughly Italian aspect, so indescribably different from
Switzerland! With a heavy heart I gazed, till a turn in the road shut
out Lago Maggiore and Italy from my sight.
The weather was beautiful. As I have mentioned, two days before there
had been rain and storm, the effects of which were very visible. Among
them, at different inn-books, were dolorous complaints of travellers
detained for days at wretched huts among the mountains. The road was
broken up in many places—a circumstance we made light of, for it was no
annoyance to alight, and cross the subsiding torrent on a plank. Had it
rained, our difficulties had been great. And here we find one of the
great evils of the division of Italy. The southern side of the Simplon
belongs to the King of Sardinia, but its road leads at once into
Lombardy. This sovereign, therefore, purposely neglects the most
magnificent Alpine pass that exists, and devotes it as well as he can to
ruin, that travellers may be induced to prefer Cenis. If there were no
choice except between Cenis and the Simplon, there might be a selfish
policy in this; but there are now so many passes, that no one desirous
of visiting the north-east of Italy, need be forced to cross Cenis, even
if the road of the Simplon were destroyed. However, so it is. A bridge
had been carried away five years before. It is rebuilding, but very
slowly; and the river, when swollen by the melting of the snows or by
rains, is a formidable obstacle; besides that, broken by floods and
torrents, the Piedmontese portion of the road is in a very rough and
inconvenient state. So much for what Pope calls—
“The low ambition and the pride of kings;”
which here shows itself in destroying a work, which if pride, only less
pernicious, achieved, yet is a monument of the best and most useful
powers of man.
1ST OCTOBER.
We slept at Duomo d’Ossola, at the Post, a very comfortable inn, and the
next morning we commenced early the passage of the mountain. The
carriage was light and comfortable; three sat inside and two in a sort
of _coupée_ outside, so we had plenty of room. Our _veturino_ was of
Turin; and if any one going to that city see a carriage with the name of
Amadeo on it, and he is in search of a _veturino_, let him engage him at
once—a more civil, obliging fellow I never met. He was engaged to
provide us with rooms; and every evening he came to me to ask if I was
content, or wished for another. We crossed the mountain with the speed
of post; indeed, from Duomo d’Ossola to the village of the Simplon, he
rode forward with his own horses to spare them, and we had four posters;
and afterwards two posters, in addition to his own, till the summit of
the mountain was passed.
The weather was admirable; not a cloud. I walked a great deal of the
way. I desired to enjoy to the full the sublime scenery of this grand
pass: two circumstances occurred to prevent my seeing it in all its
sublimity. One, that our horses’ heads were not turned the other way;
and I do not repeat this from the sentiment of the thing, but as the
simple fact, that to have the best point of view of the mighty features
of the scene, you must look towards Italy; and thus as I walked, I
stopped continually and turned to catch those views which I had studied
with such longing to really see them, in Brockedon’s prints. But the
scene was indeed different. He speaks of Alpine horrors; the cascade of
icicles; the ice-bound torrent; the snow which, with fantastic shapes
covered all, and spreading wide and desolate around, gave a wild and
awful appearance to the bare rocks and mighty pines, speaking of storm
and avalanche, of danger and death. The snow had fled. We caught
glimpses of where it lay eternally on the far summits of the impassable
Alps; but we had none. Still the scene in its summer appearance was
sublime; abrupt precipices, majestic crags, and naked pinnacles, reared
themselves on each side of the ravine formed by the torrent, along which
the road is constructed: waterfalls roared around; the pines spread
abroad their vast weather-beaten arms, distorted by storms into strange
shapes. The road also, now free from snow, gains rather than loses, as
we can judge better of the torrents its bridges span, the living granite
crags its grottoes perforate, the tumultuous cascades it almost seems to
bridle and direct, as their living waters were led by various channels
away from our path. There was no horror; but there was grandeur. There
was a majestic simplicity that inspired awe; the naked bones of a
gigantic world were here: the elemental substance of fair mother Earth,
an abode for mighty spirits who need not the ministrations of food and
shelter that keep man alive, but whose vast shapes could only find, in
these giant crags, a home proportionate to their power. As we approached
the village of Simplon, the features of the scene became softer; the
summit of the mountain was spread into a grassy meadow, with a lake:
villages and cottages peeped out; cattle were grazing; flowers decked
the fields; afar off we saw the Alpine ranges towering above, clad in
perpetual snow. This sight alone reminded us, that the almost rural
scene we viewed, was removed far above the usual resorts of man; and,
for at least eight months in the year, was bound in frost and hidden by
snow—the resort of tempests, where it becomes labour and pain to exist.
We breakfasted at the Simplon. We found there an English traveller, who
told us of the failure of Hammersley’s bank: this was a bathos from
sublimity which, yet to many, would have been pathetic; a great blow was
given also to many English tourists, his notes being in wide
circulation. Fortunately, neither I nor my companions were troubled by
it. A few miles after leaving Simplon the descent began. I still walked,
for the weather was fine, the air elastic, and I desired greatly to gaze
my fill on the mighty and glorious shapes around, so that I could not
endure remaining in the carriage. The descent is pretty steep: I believe
the greatest difficulties for the construction of the road, presented
themselves on the Swiss side. On the Italian, the road is cut for the
greater part on the face of the precipices beside the Vedro, and follows
the windings of the ravine; but northward, the mountain falls more
abruptly. It was necessary to follow the sinuosities of its shape along
its shoulder, as it were, and so to reach a neighbouring mountain,
divided only by a torrent; this is crossed by a bridge, and then the
road turns at an acute angle. I looked long, to study with untaught
eyes, why this exact route had been chosen by the engineer; and could
judge, by the large circuit he took, of the immense difficulties of his
task. This portion of the road belonging to the Swiss, is kept in
admirable order, forming a striking contrast with its ruinous condition
on the Italian side. We reached Brigg at sunset, and had the
satisfaction of knowing that the post could not have taken us quicker;
and, for my peculiar instruction, I found that had I left Milan when I
intended, I might have joined my grumblings to those of many travellers,
who recorded their impatient annoyance of being detained three or four
days at the miserable village of Isella, or in a wretched hovel at
Divedro, weather-bound by the storms that raged from the 20th to the
24th of September; while for me, all unworthy, the heavens were
cloudless and serene.
3RD OCTOBER.
Our road now lay along the valley of the Rhone, more picturesque far
than the valley of the Rhine near Coire. Some of the finest waterfalls
in Switzerland precipitate themselves from the cliffs of rock that
border the road, or can be reached by a short walk. After the rains, we
saw them in great perfection. As I looked on some of these, my
imagination was hurried on to endow with life and will these elemental
energies. It seemed Love—the love of burning youth, forcing through all
obstacles, and with hurry, and dash, and fury making its way; yet
beauteous from its nature, sublime from its uncontrollable
determination, and thus proceeding right onward to its object, in spite
of every let and hindrance, till, having accomplished it, it steals
away, almost hidden, almost still, gently murmuring its happiness.
My guide to one of these waterfalls was a deaf and dumb child. She was
interesting from the intelligence as well as the beauty of her
countenance, and a certain grace of gesture, whose vivacity and
distinctness became as intelligible as words.
The valley we threaded is diversified by towns. At Martigny, there are
many tablets let into the walls of the houses to say where the waters
had reached during the memorable inundation, caused by the tremendous
overflow of the Dranse, in 1818. In some parts, conical rocky hills rise
in the midst of the valley, crowned by castles. The scenery wants the
southern sunny glow which I prefer, but is grand and full of variety.
GENEVA, 4TH OCT.
On Friday night, we slept at Sion. The next day, at noon, we reached
Saint Maurice, where I left my companions. I had a whim, instead of
coasting along the side of the lake by Saint Gingoux, to go to Vevay,
and make the voyage in the steamer. I was in the wrong, I afterwards
found; for, being alone, I had no heart to walk about and see sights at
Vevay, and the day for my voyage proved cloudy and cold, so that I could
not gain sight of Mont Blanc, for the sake of which I had undertaken it.
However, on this account, I bade adieu to my companions at Saint
Maurice, and jumped into the _coupée_ of a _diligence_, which took me to
Vevay. And the next morning, bleak and cloudy, as I have said, I
embarked on board the steamer.
I felt now that I had passed a boundary-line, and was in another
country, meeting people with a totally different set of ideas and
associations. The subject of the war with Mehemet Ali, and of the
dissensions with France, was raging at its height; and several persons
thought me very rash to venture into that country. The fate of English
travellers at the time of the peace of Amiens can never be forgotten. It
was not a pleasant day for my voyage, as I have said. The far Alps were
hid; the wide lake looked drear. At length, I caught a glimpse of the
scenes among which I had lived, when first I stepped out from childhood
into life. There, on the shores of Bellerive, stood Diodati; and our
humble dwelling, Maison Chapuis, nestled close to the lake below. There
were the terraces, the vineyards, the upward path threading them, the
little port where our boat lay moored; I could mark and recognise a
thousand slight peculiarities, familiar objects then—forgotten since—now
replete with recollections and associations. Was I the same person who
had lived there, the companion of the dead? For all were gone: even my
young child, whom I had looked upon as the joy of future years, had died
in infancy—not one hope, then in fair bud, had opened into maturity;
storm, and blight, and death, had passed over, and destroyed all. While
yet very young, I had reached the position of an aged person, driven
back on memory for companionship with the beloved; and now I looked on
the inanimate objects that had surrounded me, which survived, the same
in aspect as then, to feel that all my life since was but an unreal
phantasmagoria—the shades that gathered round that scene were the
realities—the substance and truth of the soul’s life, which I shall, I
trust, hereafter rejoin.
Disappointed in my voyage, for it was dreary, I arrived at Geneva, and
took refuge in the Hôtel de Bergues—the model and perfection of these
Swiss hotels, where all is conducted on a system that no number of
guests can disturb, and a certainty of expense, always convenient. I
dined at the _table d’hôte_. The tables lined three sides of a large
_salle-à-manger_, and were crowded by a happy flock of travellers, all
turning their steps towards Italy. The talk was Hammersley’s failure,
the consequence of which had been very disastrous to the poorer race of
travellers. It was a fine evening; and I walked a little about the town,
and took my place in the _diligence_ for Lyons.
10TH OCT.
I left Geneva in the _coupée_ of the _diligence_, and found myself alone
in it. Our fine weather returned, and the drive was pleasant; but still,
from the height of Jura, Mont Blanc was veiled from my sight.
Here we fell into the hands of the French _douane_, a long and
troublesome operation. One is always impatient of stoppages in
travelling. At length we were allowed to proceed. The way, amidst the
vast range of the Jura, was interesting. I remembered it as dreary; but
summer dressed all in smiles and cheerfulness. We continued near the
Rhone; and the aspect of the river lent life and variety to the scene. I
enjoyed it in a melancholy grumbling way, losing myself, as I best
might, in fantastic dreams and endless reveries. In some things, the
travelling in the _coupée_ of a _diligence_ is not so bad. Your limbs
are not confined and manacled as in an English stage-coach. I never
travelled all night in the latter, and cannot imagine how it can be
endured: it is bad enough for a few hours. The meals are the worst part
of French public travelling—turned out all together to feed at one
table, loaded with badly-dressed French dishes, with difficulty
persuading a servant to allow you to make yourself comfortable with cold
water and a towel, being perpetually reminded in consequence you must go
without your dinner.
By this time I became aware of a truth which had dawned on me before,
that the French common people have lost much of that grace of manner
which once distinguished them above all other people. More courteous
than the Italians they could not be; but, while their manners were more
artificial, they were more playful and winning. All this has changed. I
did not remark the alteration so much with regard to myself, as in their
mode of speaking to one another. The “_Madame_” and “_Monsieur_,” with
which stable-boys and old beggar-women used to address each other, with
the deference of courtiers, has vanished. No trace is to be found of it
in France. A shadow faintly exists among Parisian shopkeepers, when
speaking to their customers; but only there is the traditional
phraseology still used: the courteous accent, the soft manner, erst so
charming, exists no longer. I speak of a thing known and acknowledged by
the French themselves. They want to be powerful; they believe money must
obtain power; they wish to imitate the English, whose influence they
attribute to their money-making propensities: but now and then they go a
step beyond, and remind one of Mrs. Trollope’s description of the
Americans. Their phraseology, once so delicately, and even to us more
straight-forward people, amusingly deferential (not to superiors only,
but toward one another), is become blunt, and almost rude. The French
allege several causes for this change, which they date from the
revolution of 1830. Some say it arises from every citizen turning out as
one of the National Guard in his turn, so that they all get a _ton de
garnison_: others attribute it to their imitation of the English. Of
course, in the times of the _ancien régime_, the courtly tone found an
echo and reflection from the royal ante-chambers down to the very ends
of the kingdom. This had faded by degrees, till the revolution of ’30
gave it the _coup-de-grâce_. I grieved very much. Perhaps more than any
people, as I see them now, the French require the restraint of good
manners. They are desirous of pleasing, it is true; but their _amour
propre_ is so sensitive, and their tempers so quick, that they are
easily betrayed into anger and vehemence. I am more sorry, on another
score. The blessing which the world now needs is the steady progress of
civilisation: freedom, by degrees, it will have, I believe. Meanwhile,
as the fruits of liberty, we wish to perceive the tendency of the low to
rise to the level of the high—not the high to be dragged down to the
low. This, we are told by many, is the inevitable tendency of equality
of means and privileges. I will hope not: for on that hope is built
every endeavour to banish ignorance, and hard labour and penury, from
political society.
This is a long digression: but I have not much more to say. We arrived
in Lyons at half-past three in the morning, and with difficulty got
admitted into an hotel. The system of French hotels has no resemblance
to that of the Swiss; and you must conclude from this, that they do not
emulate them in activity, order, and comfort. I was bound for Paris; and
proceeded by the steamer, up the Saône, to Chalons. On board these long,
narrow, river steamers, I found the same defects—the air, most agreeable
to a traveller, of neatness, and civility, was absent. There is,
however, no real fault to be found, and I should not mention this were
it not a change; and I sincerely wish the French would return to what
they once were, and give us all lessons of pleasing manners, instead of
imitating and exaggerating our faults, and adding to them an impress all
their own—a sort of fierceness when displeased, which is more startling
than our sullenness. As I said, this has no reference to any act towards
myself; but the winning tone and manner that had pleased me of old no
longer appeared, and it was in the phraseology used among each other
that the change was most remarkable.
SATURDAY, 10TH.
The worst bit of the journey is from Chalons to Paris. The road is much
frequented. I was obliged to wait a day for places in the _diligence_,
and then could only get bad ones, in the _intérieur_, with three little
boys going to school in Paris from Marseilles, and a sort of tutor
conveying them; for boys are never trusted, as with us, to go about
alone; such a proceeding would be looked upon as flagrantly improper.
Nothing can equal the care with which French youth are guarded from
contact with the world; girls in our boarding-schools are less shut up.
They rise early, work hard—(a boy once said to me, “We are always at
work; but we do it very slow”)—little or no exercise, and poor fare.
Such is the fate of the noblest French youths, as well as those of an
inferior class, at the highest public schools.
It had been pleasant travelling under different circumstances, in a
picturesque country, for the weather continued serene and warm; but the
drear extent of this part of France is uninteresting; and besides, two
days and two nights in a _diligence_ was, if nothing else, extremely
fatiguing. We came to an end at last—the dreary, comfortless moment of
arriving in a metropolis by a public conveyance, especially in Paris,
where the luggage must be examined before it leaves the _diligence_
office—this moment was also over, and in a short time I found myself
comfortably lodged in Hotel Chatham—a quiet hotel—not more expensive, I
fancy, than any other, and _Madame l’Hôte_ herself is an agreeable
person to deal with.
PARIS, 12TH OCT.
I send you the following graphic account of the perilous journey of my
friends, after they parted from me at Milan, sent me by P——’s
fellow-traveller. I had let them go without anticipation of evil, and
felt not a pang of fear on their account, while lingering so
disconsolately behind; so blind are we poor mortals to events near at
hand, while we tremble at unseen ills! Imagine what the difficulties of
the journey had been, if I, as we intended, had accompanied them. I
_could not_ have crossed the mountain as they did. Compare, I entreat
you, my easy pleasant drive, with their perilous exposure to the
elements.
“We started from Milan at four o’clock, p.m., on the 20th of
September—raining cats and dogs—alone inside the _diligence_ as far as
Como—recognised by the good folks _dell’ Angelo_ (what a fuss they made,
landlord and all!), though we only stayed in the town five minutes,
waiting for the mail letters. Went on to a little dirty pothouse, a post
from Como, to supper, as they called it—all garlic (the cost, one franc
and a half)—quite uneatable. About a quarter past ten arrived at
Bissone, on the borders of the Lake of Lugano.
“At Como we picked up a very agreeable priest, who, observing on the
continued rain for many days past, and pouring doubly down at the time,
said that he feared we should not be able to get across the lake, as
they had been unable to make the passage the day before for many hours.
“After waiting at Bissone for an hour, and after many misgivings as to
the result of the quarrel going on outside between the Austrian
mail-guard and the deputation of boatmen, we learned gladly, and yet
with some alarm, that we were about to embark. The wind was howling,
shrieking, roaring, and, more than all, it was blowing, pulling,
tearing, and tugging. It had ceased to rain, and the clouds were
driving, as if they were behind their time, and afraid of being
overtaken by the fellow behind. We were ushered on to a raft, about
twelve yards long and six broad, whereon the _diligence, horses and
all_, were quietly standing. There were no sides to the raft, but a
parapet of about a foot high, so that the water rushed every now and
then over our feet. When we got full into the wind, we expected to be
upset every moment. The priest prayed, evidently sincerely, for he was
quite calm and engrossed. P—— and I pulled and pushed alternately at the
_diligence_, to moderate the alarming vibrations, which threatened to
topple the whole thing over, assisted by the whole number of boatmen,
incapacitated, by the breaking of their oars, for anything active in the
propelling way, but oaths. (We had had double the usual number of men,
at double the usual price per man.) I asked P—— what we had better
do?—we were dreadfully hot with our exercise. He said, ‘Jump over and
swim till the horses are drowned, and then swim back to the raft.’ This
would have been the best plan if, as seemed inevitable, we had gone
over. So we took off our coats and boots, and put them inside the
_diligence_. But we _did_ get safe over, though very far from the proper
landing-place, and after a very unusually long passage.
“We, after some delay, at about one o’clock, got under weigh for Lugano
(by coach and horses). Lovely ride, by this far the loveliest of the
lakes; quite fine, barring the clouds—full moon—the road lay close by
the lake, but very high above it—no parapets. Arrived at Lugano about
two. Shivered and smoked for an hour, and started again. Got to
Bellinzona about nine in the morning, and over a road much impaired by
the rain as far as Giornico. Here the road became so bad, that the
horses did little else than walk, the alternative being a standstill. At
last, at Faido, a man opened the door, and, with a perfectly
uninterested air, gave us _some_, we did not know what, information, and
then joined a group of silent staring idlers like himself. We paid no
attention for some time, till it struck us they were long in changing
horses. We then learned that the road towards Airolo was utterly broken
up and carried away; and if the rain ceased, and the torrents consented
to shrink _au plus vite_, the road could not be restored in much less
than a month. After long consultations—we were seven: an Italian of
Genoa, in bright blue trousers; an Uri grazier, about seven feet high;
P——, myself, two other passengers, and the mail-guard—the two nameless
travellers and myself were for sleeping where we were, and off in the
morning. The guard said he _must_ be off if he could get a guide. There
_was_ found to be a track, avoiding the Dazio Grande, over the
mountains; but only one guide could be found who had ever gone the road,
and he only once, in the great floods of 1834.
“Well, after dining, we started off. I was lame, but P—— promised he
would stick by me; it still rained boa-constrictors, its constant
practice of an afternoon, forenoon, and early morning. We had about 30
guides, variously laden with our lighter _impediments_; the _obstacles_
were escorted by a larger detachment, at a slower pace. The guides
squabbled, and it was dark, with rain and clouds; it was about 3
o’clock. The guides divided; P—— was involved in a mist of guides, so
that I could not discover him. They and he set off on the higher road. I
waited till I was nearly left alone, and then followed the only guide
who knew the route. I should have been lost, no doubt, but for that man,
who came back for me once when I had been standing a quarter of an hour
alone—scarcely able to keep my footing on the slanting sides of the
mountain, and by my obstruction creating quite a shallow or rapid in the
stream in which I stood. No road, nor track, nor print of a footstep to
be seen, before or behind, and no one in sight for a quarter of an hour.
The torrent 100 yards below, sheer below, roaring till I was deaf; and
its foam rising higher than my position, nearly blinded me, together
with the incessant rain. This was just over the worst part of the Dazio
Grande; where the road, at least what was left of it, was 60 feet under
the torrent in its present state. The Ticino had carried away about 150
yards of road here, and about 30 yards further on. The pass is called
Dazio Grande, on account of the tolls exacted to pay the great expense
occasioned by the casualties to which its dangerous position subjects
it. We saved the toll, at any rate. Well, _the_ guide came back for me,
and made holes for my feet, and rescued me; it was a _rescue_, and no
mistake. The blue Italian here joined us, crying like a child. In
another place we had to wait a quarter of an hour, to improvise a bridge
over an extempore torrent, which, on this its first public appearance,
was rolling rocks the size of a cow about like marbles. It carried its
antidote, however, with it in the shape of a tottering pine, over which
we crossed. The danger was probably not less than being principal in an
ordinary duel; but to this we had become indifferent by this time; also
perfectly indifferent (I at least) to the want of either shoes or
stockings—the soles of each had utterly disappeared. Our pace during the
greater part of this road (to which the tops of the houses in a London
street would be a royal road) was a fast run.
“After about three hours we rejoined the road, and arrived at an inn, at
Piota; here we waited, and then P—— and his twenty fellow-travellers
rejoined us, with certainly an equally momentous account of their road;
theirs was the _wrong_ one, and they were really providentially saved.
After two hours quick walking, re-inspirited by a tumbler of
_kirch-wasser_ per man, we got to Airolo—a nice clean but cold inn,
jolly English-loving fat landlord, and pretty daughters. The next day up
St. Gothard—very cold—the snow falling so fast, that, looking back, the
tracks of the wheels and horses were filled up and imperceptible before
we were out of sight of the place where they had been. This pass,
though, perhaps, not equal to the Splugen, as a work of engineering (_je
n’en sais rien_), is, I swear, infinitely more terrific in bad, and, I
should think, more beautiful in fine weather.
“At Hospital we dined, and got into a car alone, which drove for a
league through a lake, somewhere in which was the road: we might have
been _near_ it. Through Andermatt, thence by a shocking, most perilous
road—no parapets—over the Devil’s Bridge before we were aware of it: it
is very fine on looking back; but there is another by it, quite as grand
in position, though something safer. Thence at last to Amstag; whence,
indifferent at last to broken roads and torrents dashing across our
path, half carrying the horse away into the Reuss, we got to Altorf and
Fluelen; good inn. To our joy and surprise the honourable Austrians took
all additional expenses on themselves, and our payment at Milan covered
all. We here embarked on board the steamer on the lake of Lucerne, which
you know as well as I. Excuse this incoherent scrawl, if you read it;
and excuse the extreme personality of my narrative.”
RAMBLES
IN
GERMANY AND ITALY.
PART II.—1842–1843.
LETTER I.
Steam Voyage to Amsterdam.—Rubens’ Picture of the Descent from the
Cross.—Various
Misadventures.—Liege.—Cologne.—Coblentz.—Mayence.—Francfort.
FRANCFORT, JUNE, 1842.
I have delayed writing hitherto—for this is our first _stazion_. I know
not of what clay those persons are made who write on board steamers, or
before going to bed, when they reach an inn, after a long day’s journey.
I rather disbelieve in such achievements. A date or reference may be put
down; but during a voyage, I am at first too interested, and then too
tired; and at night, on arriving, I confess, supper and the ceremonial
of retiring to rest, are exertions almost too much for me: I cannot do
more. And then we have travelled amidst a hurricane of misfortunes—money
and other property disappearing under the malignant influence of the
Belgian railroad and some rogue at the Hotel at Liege. Our missing
luggage has been restored, but we have found no remedy for the loss of
our money. Sixteen pounds were seized upon at one fell swoop. Imagine
such an accident happening when we were abroad, two years ago! At
present, it is not pleasant; but it is not fatal, as it would then have
been.
Our last week in England was most delightfully spent at the seat of a
friend near Southampton, on the skirts of the New Forest. A little quiet
sailing in a yacht; drives in a beautiful neighbourhood, strolling about
the grounds; the rites of good old English hospitality—varied the day.
Our host was all kindness, and added the crowning grace of being really
sorry when we departed; his saddened countenance, as the engine whistled
and we were whirled towards London, gave us the flattering assurance
that we were regretted; and we sincerely returned the compliment.
We spent a day or two in London, taking leave of a few old friends; and
on Sunday, 12th of June, we embarked on board the “Wilberforce,” for
Antwerp. I hate and dread the sea; having suffered—oh, what suffering it
is!—how absorbing!—how degrading!—how without remedy! And then to wish
for _terra firma_—only so much as the feet will stand upon: thus no
longer to be the abject victim of the antipathetic element—a speck of
rock, one-foot-by-one, would not that suffice to stand upon, and be
_still_? I speak of times past. The mighty Power had, when trusting to
its awful mutability, shewn itself merciful as great, as I crossed and
re-crossed from and to Dover, in 1840. But this was a longer voyage; and
as we steamed down the river, the wind was directly adverse, and felt
strong. The sea looked dreary; and the evening set in gray, cold, and
unpleasant. I was the last passenger that kept on deck. About ten
o’clock, the increasing spray drove me down. However, I escaped the
doleful extremity of seasickness, and slept till morning, when the slow
waters of the Scheldt received us. The sun was bright; but nothing can
adorn with beauty the low, nearly invisible banks of an almost Dutch
river; and there was no busy craft to enliven the scene. It is strange
to think how a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look
at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a
perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonises the hues
of sky and water.
Though it may be done a thousand times, still English people must always
experience a strange sensation when they disembark on a foreign strand,
and find every familiar object startlingly changed: but, if strange, it
is very pleasing. I have a passionate love of travelling. Add to this, I
suffer in my health, and can no longer apply to my ordinary employments.
Travelling is occupation as well as amusement, and I firmly believe that
renewed health will be the result of frequent change of place.
Besides, what can be so delightful as the perpetual novelty—the
exhaustless current of new ideas suggested by travelling? We read, to
gather thought and knowledge; travelling is a book of the Creator’s own
writing, and imparts sublimer wisdom than the printed words of man. Were
I exiled perforce, I might repine, for the heart naturally yearns for
_home_. But to adorn that home with recollections; to fly abroad from
the hive, like the bee, and return laden with the sweets of
travel—scenes, which haunt the eye—wild adventures, that enliven the
imagination—knowledge, to enlighten and free the mind from clinging,
deadening prejudices—a wider circle of sympathy with our
fellow-creatures;—these are the uses of travel, for which I am convinced
every one is the better and the happier.
JUNE 13TH.
We landed on the quay at Antwerp, and walked to the hotel—a long walk,
under a hot sun. After refreshing ourselves by a _toilette_, we hastened
to the Cathedral—for we had no time to spare—to view the Descent from
the Cross, the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Rubens. Several people were being
admitted as we arrived; but, with a rudeness of gesture and tone that
far surpassed Westminster, the door was pushed to, and held jealously
ajar, till we had paid a few _sous_, the price of entrance. The interior
is spacious and lofty, and remarkable for its simplicity and its being
totally unencumbered by screens of wood or stone. The Descent from the
Cross is a very fine picture. You may remember that Sir Joshua Reynolds,
in his Lectures, mentions the boldness of the artist in enveloping the
dead body with a white cloth. A painter, less sure of his powers, would
have relieved the livid hues of death by a dark background: the white
sheet, under the pencil of Rubens, contrasts yet more fearfully with the
livid tints of the corpse.
This is all we saw of Antwerp—this half hour spent in the lofty nave and
the dim aisles of the Cathedral. Do not despise us! Some day, I mean to
make a tour of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Holland. But we found it
quite impossible to combine sightseeing at the commencement of our
journey with our intention of proceeding as far as Italy. You know what
it is that enables the tourist to loiter on his way; and you know how
slenderly we are provided with the same. I have read, somewhere, the
remark of a French lady, expressive of her astonishment at the English
mania for travelling. She understood, she said, rich people, with
comfortable carriages, amusing themselves thus; but how women, who can
command the comforts of an ordinary English house, could leave the same,
and by _diligence_ and _voiturier_, harassed and fatigued, should find
pleasure in exposing themselves to a thousand annoyances and privations,
surprised her beyond measure. I have travelled in both ways. To
undertake the last, requires a good deal of energy and an indefatigable
love of seeing yet more and more of the surface of this fair globe,
which, like all other passions or inclinations, must spring naturally
from the heart, and cannot be understood except by those who share it.
After having been confined many a long year in our island, I broke from
my chains in 1840, and encountered very rough travelling. I did not find
it more fatiguing than the more luxurious species, and enjoyed as much
as I had ever done its pleasures. Now I have set out again, my choice
being between staying at home and travelling as I could. I preferred,
very far, the latter: I should prefer it to-morrow. Still, I do not deny
that I did repine much, on various occasions, that I could not linger
longer on my way, and visit a thousand places left unvisited. I hope to
go to them another time. What I did see is all gain; and I ought rather
to rejoice in the spirit of enterprise that enabled me to see so much,
than to grumble at the smallness of the means that forced me to see so
little.
We returned to dine at the _table d’hôte_, and were then hurried into
the omnibus, waiting to take us to the railway. I have always avoided
this mode of reaching the terminus in England, as too full of confusion;
and I cannot tell why I changed my notion on the subject here abroad. I
repented heartily afterwards, and renewed my resolve always to reach the
station in a private conveyance. Just as we left the hotel, our three
passports were put into our hands, one a piece: in the hurry I dropped
mine—the first loss of a day, rendered memorable by many. On our
arrival, everybody in the various omnibuses that arrived at the same
time, at once went mad from hurry and confusion. Loss the second
occurred here. M—— forgot her handbasket, containing a lady’s-maid’s
treasures for a journey: many things of English birth were gone
irreparably. A noisy crowd surrounded one window of the station at the
terminus, eager for tickets, as if the train would set off without them.
Before another door was piled all the luggage brought by all the
omnibuses. It was only admitted piecemeal; and the selection of the
articles belonging to each traveller was a scene of indescribable
confusion. We none of us understood German—confession of shame! I had
taken lessons in the winter; but my health prevented my making any
progress. French was of little avail. We had divided our forces, to
master the difficulties we encountered. K—— went for the tickets; P——
with the luggage, and I remained to wonder and expect. After a time, the
noise ceased, the crowd disappeared, a bell rung, I had got my ticket,
and, the gates being open, I walked into the yard. I found the carriages
nearly full, and ready to start—it seemed very odd. My companions had
left me, and had gone to look after the luggage. I saw nobody, so I took
my seat in a carriage, and in a few seconds, we started.
The carriages are inconvenient, bearing no similitude, indeed, to
carriages, but are small rooms or cells, boxed off into eight seats, and
placed on a sort of platform. One merit they possessed—we were not
locked in; there was no door, and the egress from the front was easy to
the platform, and that was scarcely raised from the ground. The
carriages were very full, the heat excessive; and several unruly
children did not add to our comfort. At Malines (I think it was), we
were to be transferred to another train: the one in which we commenced
our journey going on to Brussels. Changing carriages is always a
tiresome operation. I alighted in the middle of a large square, and was
glad to find my companions safely assembled. Our luggage was turned out
here; and, as we waited some time before we were taken up again, we
amused ourselves with examining our property. With dismay, we discovered
that two cloaks and a carpet-bag were missing. Certainly, for travellers
somewhat experienced, our conduct appeared disgraceful. P——, who had
passed the luggage, had witnessed that all was weighed; but he had not
been allowed to remain in the weighing-room to see the things off, and
his want of German had rendered the task difficult.
On our arrival at Liege, another scene of confusion at the unloading
ensued. It must be said, however, that their method was good, and the
noise arose from the numbers of travellers, and their exceeding
vociferations. On weighing the luggage, they paste a piece of paper on
each article, inscribed with a number—the same number for all the goods
belonging to one name; and to this is added the number of articles. Thus
all our things were marked “21,” and we had a paper given us that gave
us a claim to nine articles marked “21.” The men, as they unload, cry
out the number pasted on the articles; and the passengers, with their
papers in their hands, claim their own. Seven only, however, appeared
for us; the cloaks and the carpet-bag were missing. Waiting, in hopes
that these might at last be forthcoming, detained us among the last. The
omnibuses were nearly full; no carriages, nor post-horses for the
carriages on the train, nor any other means of getting to Liege, were to
be found. We got places, and we heard afterwards, that the confusion in
some of the omnibuses had arisen to a scuffle. This we escaped.
Murray’s Hand-book was our guide: usually an admirable one. Among other
useful information, none is more satisfactory to the traveller than to
know the best hotel in a town. Murray directed us to the Aigle Noire,
which we found large, clean, and pleasant.
JUNE 14TH.
Morning brought with it the discovery of another loss:—“_Encore un objêt
de perdu!_”—and this _objêt_ was more serious and irreparable than our
former. We had changed what English bank notes we had at Antwerp, for
German gold. My companions counted the contents of their purses—£8 in
each. It so happened that they could not get lodged separately, and they
occupied a double-bedded room. After counting their money, they left
their purses on a large table in the middle of the room: they did not
lock their door. In the morning, the door was ajar, and the purses gone.
Fortunately, they had placed their watches nearer to them. Perhaps it
was the boots of the hotel, who, coming in for their clothes, was
tempted by the sight of their glittering purses so easily to be taken.
However it may be, they were gone. The master of the hotel behaved
excessively ill; talked of sending for the _Maire_, to _constater_ our
loss, but professed his disbelief in our story; travellers, he declared,
never leave their purses on a table, and always lock their door. We did
nothing. We should probably have been tempted to do something; but we
had to record our missing articles, and to arrange for their being sent
after us. I, too, had dropped my passport. “_Mais, Madame, vous êtes
vraiment en malheur_,” said the daughter of the hotel-keeper, who was as
civil as her father was rude. We were; so we could only say—or rather, I
said—in the Greek fashion: “Welcome this evil, so that it be the only
one!” I said it from my heart; for, alas! I ever live with a dark shadow
hovering near me. One whose life has been stained by tragedy can never
regain a healthy tone of mind—if it be healthy—that is consonant to the
laws of human life, not to fear for those we love. I am haunted by
terror. It stalks beside me by day, and whispers to me, in dreams, at
night. But this is being very tragical, _apropos_ of our stolen money.
We hired a carriage to take us to Aix-la-Chapelle. It was a pleasant
drive: the country is varied into hill and dale, and is very pretty.
About five in the evening we arrived at the railway station, without
entering the town of Aix-la-Chapelle, which looked agreeably placed in a
valley encircled by hills. The works for the railroad are in full
progress, and the mounds are on a vast scale. They spoil rather the
beauty of a landscape; yet a railroad gives such promise of change and
novelty to the traveller—transporting us at once from the known to the
unknown—that, in spite of all that can be said against them, I delight
to see or hear of them.
Everything connected with travelling in Prussia is in the hands of
Government, and admirably managed. The carriages on this railroad were
of the usual construction, and very comfortable. We could not see much
of the country as we were whisked through it: the little we could glance
at appeared to deserve visiting at leisure. In a very short time we
arrived at Cologne, and drove at once to an hotel, near the river. We
arrived too late—we departed too early—to see anything of Cologne. Do
not despise us: I intend to go there again.
JUNE 15TH.
During my last journey, I had not seen the portion of the Rhine between
Cologne and Coblentz, and one of my companions had never visited these
scenes. We gazed, therefore, with eager curiosity, as at each succeeding
mile the river became more majestic, its shores more picturesque; and
every hour of the day brought its store of delight to the eye. One or
two chance acquaintance on board the steamer were agreeable; and a few
incidents of travel, such as are familiar to wanderers, and form the
history of their days, amused us. The man who acted as steward on the
steamer, a thin, pale, short, insignificant-looking fellow, had taken
his bill to him of our party whom, I suppose, long experience in such
matters had led him to divine was the most _insouciant_. The bill was
paid without a remark, and then brought to me. I was startled at its
amount, and examined it. First I cast it up, and found an overcharge in
the addition. This was pointed out to the man. He acknowledged it very
_debonairely_. “_Ah, oui, je le vois, c’est juste_;” and he refunded.
Still the bill was large; and I showed it to a lady on board, who had
paid hers, and had mentioned the moderation of the charges. I found that
the man had charged us each half a florin too much for dinner. Again the
bill was taken to him. This time he was longer in being convinced; but
when our authority was mentioned, with a look of sudden enlightenment,
he exclaimed:—“_Madame, vous avez parfaitement raison_,” and refunded.
But this was not all: my maid came to me, to say she hoped I had not
paid for her, as she had paid for herself. True enough, she was charged
for in our bill. We were almost ashamed to apply again; but a sense of
public justice prevailed, and again we asked for our money back. In this
instance, the man yielded at once. Clasping his forehead, he
exclaimed:—“_Mon Dieu! que je suis bête!_” and repaid us. In the evening
of this day, as K—— was gazing on the splendour of the setting sun, the
false steward stood beside him, sharing the rapture, and
exclaimed:—“_N’est ce pas, Monsieur, que c’est magnifique!_”
We passed the junction of the Moselle with the Rhine, and under the rock
of Ehrenbreitstein; and, landing, proceeded to the Hotel of Bellevue,
where we had lodged for a night, very comfortably, two years before.
You know the fair town of Coblentz—its wide, white, clean, rather
dull-looking streets: you know the monument erected by French vanity at
the time of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, to commemorate with pompous
vauntings an expedition that caused his downfall. Even before the
carving of the empty boast had been overspread by a little dust, the
Commandant of the Russian army, pursuing the flying invader, had the
power, but disdained to erase it; adding only in the style of the
Emperor’s passports—“_Vu et approuvé par nous, Commandant Russe, de la
ville de Coblence, Janvier 1^{er}, 1814._” You know the lofty rock and
impregnable fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, which rises majestically on the
opposite bank of the river, and looks proudly down on old Father Rhine
and its picturesque assemblage of guardian hills.
JUNE 16TH.
We left Coblentz at eight in the morning, and embarked in a larger and
more convenient boat. We left here our accidental acquaintance who had
made the voyage in the “Wilberforce” with us, and kept on the same way
ever since—they were bound for Wiesbaden, and meant to linger awhile on
the banks of the Rhine. By some chance few travellers seemed to be
making the voyage just now. The only English were a family, who had
frequently been this route, and so despised it that the lady remained in
a close carriage on deck, with the blinds drawn down, all day.
I believe I am nearly the first English person, who many years ago made
a wild, venturous voyage, since called hacknied;—when in an open
flat-bottomed sort of barge we were borne down the rapid stream,
sleeping at night under the starry canopy, the boat tethered to a willow
on the banks; and when we changed for a more commodious bark, how rude
it was, and how ill-conducted, as it drifted, frequently turning round
and round, and was carried down by the sheer force of the stream; and
what uncouth animals were with us, forming a fearful contrast between
their drunken brutalities and the scene of enchantment around. Two years
ago I renewed my acquaintance with the Rhine, and emerging on it from
the Moselle, it gained in dignity by contrast with the banks of a river
only less beautiful. Then the diorama, as it were, of tower-crowned crag
and vine-clad hills—of ruined castle, fallen abbey, and time-honoured
battlements, sufficed to enchain the attention and satisfy the
imagination; and now—was I really _blasée_, and did my fancy no longer
warm as I looked around? No; but I wanted more: I had seen enough of the
Rhine, as a _picture_, all that the steam-voyager sees;—I desired to
penetrate the ravines, to scale the heights, to linger among the ruins,
to hear still more of its legends, and visit every romantic spot. I
shall be very glad some summer of my future life to familiarise myself
with the treasure of delight easily gathered by a wanderer on these
banks; but as it is—on, on, the Castle of Stolzenfels, restored by the
present King of Prussia when Crown Prince, is passed,—but I will not
make a list of names, to be found in a guide-book: on we went rapidly,
now catching sight of, passing, and losing in distance the “castled
crags,”—the romantic hills of the glorious Rhine.
I looked with pleasure also on the lower uplands, with their vineyards.
Surely, the inhabitants of this region worship the sun. On one side,
that of shadow, forest-trees clothe the ravines, and pine woods crown
the mountains—a beautiful but poor growth. On the other, the open,
sun-visited banks are rich in vines, whose vintage is almost the best in
the world. What a store of merry hours clusters together with the grapes
on those old snake-like roots; and how much glittering coin is pressed
out from those clusters of fruit into the pockets of their owners. We
had a specimen of the first part of its power; some young Germans on
board got gloriously tipsy, and called for another, and yet another
bottle—becoming with every glass more affectionate and happy.
On this occasion we arrived at Mayence in time to proceed to Francfort
the same evening; more than in time; when we reached the station we
found the train would not start for three hours. My companions passed
the interval in viewing the Cathedral and other sights at Mayence. Most
unfortunately, I was so indisposed as to be obliged to remain at the
waiting-room of the station. O Life! O Time!—how dear and valuable are
ye in the aggregate; how still more dear and valuable are certain
gem-like portions that at intervals fall to our lot—treasures in
themselves, dearly prized and hoarded; but how contemptible seems a
shred torn off and unusable; such as these three hours spent on a
horse-hair incommodious chair, in the bare dull waiting-room, incapable
from illness of putting to use the avenues to perception; and uneasy and
wearied, in no humour to exercise the jaded powers of the soul. Such
three hours slowly dragged themselves along; at last we took our places,
and were whirled to Francfort.
We have betaken ourselves as before to the Hôtel de Russie. We have
better rooms, for then the hotel was full, and now it is empty; it was
about the same season of the year; but there appears a capricious reflux
in the tide of travellers, and we have encountered few. You know the
peculiar physiognomy of these German hotels; more comfortable than
perhaps any others in the world; characterised by order, comfort, and
civility; also at this one in particular, by an excellent table; the
cook is renowned; people come to the _table d’hôte_, for the sake of the
dinner; the price whereof is a thaler, or three shillings.
Good-night. I will tell you more to-morrow of our plans and future
proceedings. I cannot now, for I have not the slightest idea at present
what they will be.
18TH JUNE.
Madame de Sevigné sagely remarks, that “nothing seems to impede the
exercise of our free will so much as not having a paramount motive to
urge us one way or the other.” Here lies, in a great measure, our
difficulty: we intend spending this next winter at Florence, but we have
no fixed idea as to how to pass the summer. I incline to some German
Bath, as I think it would benefit my health. I should like the Tyrol—any
part of the world where the scenery is beautiful; but then I want a few
months of peace, and not to be near a lake, so to live in one ecstasy of
fear. We find it very difficult to decide, and have determined meanwhile
to visit Kissingen. I have heard that it is a pleasant place, very
prettily situated. I have an idea that the waters will benefit me; at
least it is something new: we penetrate at once into Germany. It is
true, we do not understand German; but where better learn a language
than in its native country?
“What’s in a name!”—You know the quotation: it applies to things known;
to things unknown, a name is often everything: on me it has a powerful
effect; and many hours of extreme pleasure have derived their zest
simply from a name; and now a name is drawing me on—Germany—vast, unseen
Germany! whence has poured forth nearly the whole population of the
present civilised world,—a world not gifted, like the ancient, with a
subtle organisation which enabled them to create the beauty, which we do
little more than admire—nor endowed with that instinctive grace that
moulded even every stone which the Greeks touched into imperishable
types of loveliness—nor with that vivacious imagination that peopled the
unseen universe with an endless variety of beautiful creations,—but the
parent of a race in which women are respected—a race that loves justice
and truth—whose powers of thought are, if slow, yet profound, and, in
their way, creative. Tacitus’s Germany—a land of forests and heroes.
Luther’s Germany, in which sprung up the Reformation, giving freedom to
the souls of men. The land of Schiller and Goëthe. Do you remember La
Motte Fouqué’s Magic Ring—and the old Baron, sitting in his ancestral
hall, where banners waved and armour clashed, and the wild winds
whispered prophecies, and Power brooded ready to fly abroad and possess
the world? Such a mysterious shape is Germany to me. And this, too, is
the stage on which Napoleon’s imperial drama drew to a close. What
oceans of human blood have drenched the soil of Germany even since my
birth. Since I love the mysterious, the unknown, the wild, the renowned,
you will not wonder that I feel drawn on step by step into the heart of
Germany. It will doubtless continue a mysterious and unknown region,
since we cannot speak its language; but its cities and its villages will
no longer be dim shadows merely; substance and reality will replace
misty imaginings; my rambles will be something novel; of the people whom
I cannot understand, I shall have so little to say. A mighty outline is
all I can present, if, indeed, I do penetrate at all into its recesses.
But our plans are so vague, that really, till something is done, I
scarcely can conjecture what we may do.
There is nothing very amusing at Francfort for a passing visitor. This
time, however, we did see Dannecker’s Ariadne. It is among the best
modern statues representing a woman. She is sitting on, and being
carried along by, a panther. Her attitude is of repose, of enjoyment:
there is something harsh in the face, which I do not like; but there is
softness and roundness in the limbs; nothing angular; nor anything
narrow or pared away like Canova’s female figures. This statue is one in
the collection of Mr. Bethman; being the gem of his Gallery, it has a
room to itself, and by shutting shutters and drawing down a crimson
blind, the statue is seen clad in roseate light, beaming amidst
darkness. Such arts for showing off marbles have been termed
meretricious; but the finest statues of the Romans were found in
chambers where the light of day never entered, and were therefore
illuminated artificially.
Goëthe was born at Francfort, and we saw the outside of the house with
the three prophetic lyres over the door.
My companions have just returned from the opera; they say that “they
found a good orchestra, and singers with very tolerable voices, but
mortally ugly, and their action totally devoid of grace; so that it
would be much better if they did not ape it, as their abortive attempts
make the deficiency more glaring.” So it was, you may remember, with the
company we had in London, with the exception of Staudigl, whose voice
and style is full of elegance as well as power. In spite of the
enchantment of the _Zauberflaüte_, how happy and at home I felt at the
Italian Opera, after several visits to that of their rivals in the art.
We have engaged a _voiturier_ to take us to Kissingen in two days, a
distance of about eighty miles. With a thrill of pleasure I feel I am
going to scenes entirely new. I am not sure that I am rich enough for
such an enterprise: yet I suspect much of the half eager, half timid
feeling that urges me on, arises from our being comparatively poor,—all
is so easy and same to the wealthy. As it is, there is the dangerous
attraction of forbidden fruit in our wanderings.—Adieu.
LETTER II.
Journey to Kissingen.—Taking Lodgings.—The Public Gardens.
KISSINGEN, JUNE 21ST.
The country immediately round Francfort is flat and uninteresting; but
as soon as we entered Bavaria, we came upon very agreeable scenery. The
valley of the Main, which we thridded during our first day’s journey, is
quite beautiful. Magnificent forests of oak and beech cover the hills;
and the little rural plain at their foot, bordering the river, is rich
in pasture and ripe grain. There is a steamboat from Francfort to
Wurzburg, of which I am half sorry we did not avail ourselves; for I
like following the course of a river as it meanders through a country.
But Wurzburg is at some distance from Kissingen, and the intervening
country by no means so pretty as that we have just traversed. For
several miles our route ran close to the river; then, quitting the low
valley, we wound along the ridges of the hills, entering the forests,
which gathered round us with their pleasant shade. We slept at Lohr.
This town is delightfully situated on the Main; the inn, good; the only
drawback was, that they had no bread—an extraordinary circumstance, it
appeared to me, in Germany, as I have always enjoyed and vaunted its
peculiar blessing of excellent bread, even when all else was repulsive.
There was some very black bread I could not touch, and some sort of
cakes, stale, and even mouldy. We showed them complainingly to our
dirty-handed waiter, who caught them up. “These not good,” he cried,
turning them about and tossing them from one hand to the other—from bad
to worse—“they were new yesterday—they are excellent.” This manipulation
succeeded in rendering them absolutely uneatable. We did not like even
to look at them.
Our next day’s journey was hilly, as we crossed a height and passed from
the valley of the Main to the valley of the Saale. The hills are lower,
but the country bears the same characteristics—a clear stream, bordered
by a grassy plain—wooded hills, forming amphitheatres, closing around.
The villages are miserable enough.
With eager eyes we caught a view of Kissingen, as we descended the hill
from Hammelburg. It looked a small village interspersed with a few large
houses on the banks of the Saale. The river meanders through green
meadows from east to west, and wooded hills close in the vale. It was a
scene of great tranquillity, without any striking beauties; verdant,
peaceful, and secluded.
We alighted at the hotel of the Kurhaus, a spacious and good inn. They
were expecting the Queen of Wurtemburg and her suite in a few days, but
were tolerably empty; and we easily procured rooms. Our next care was to
look for a lodging. My companions went on this task, I was so very
tired. There is a _Commissaire des Voyageurs_ appointed by Government,
to whom strangers can apply, who keeps lists of lodgings and mediates
with regard to the price. He pretended to speak French and English; but,
as Dangle says in “The Critic,” “Egad, I think the interpreter is the
hardest to be understood of the two!” He said he should spend the winter
in England, and really learn English for the next season. He seemed
straight-forward in his dealings, and went with my friends to various
houses. They selected one across the bridge, out of the town. I went to
look at it. The terms were tolerably moderate. The rooms had a southern
aspect; they were large; and the floors, of white new deal, only wanted
a little scouring: in short, though of course somewhat bare of
furniture, the lodging, in this summer season, looked cheerful, and even
pleasant. We agreed for it and instantly took possession.
I despair of describing the scene of our entrance. Madame Fries, the
landlady, was an invalid, and did not appear. Herr Fries, a tall, fair
German, is an _employé_ in the police, and was absent. No one spoke a
word of anything but German in the house. We were at our wits’ end.
Dictionary in hand, we tried to impart our wants; there was an ugly
good-humoured looking maid, and a rather pretty girl to wait on us, in
addition to an uncouth sort of lad. These people gathered round us very
earnest to please; but how were we to be pleased? We wanted the floors
washed, for they looked unhealthy. We wanted our beds arranged in our
own way (German beds are so strangely uncomfortable from the queer odds
and ends of mattresses with which they are garnished); and above all, we
wanted something besides a pie-dish and water-bottle for our washing
apparatus. The way to secure this was to insist on a _fuss-bad_ in each
room; so small tubs were at last provided. Then we wished for tea: by
dint of gesture and dictionary we tried to make ourselves understood.
The women stood by laughing; the lad looked all eagerness to catch our
meaning. At length he gave an exulting hop, snapt his fingers and rushed
out, and brought back a tea-pot. Happy apparition! but it was more
difficult to procure boiling water.
After about two hours order was established, and hopes of cleanliness
for the morrow brightened round us. We sat down to tea, when lo! Herr
Fries entered with another German, whom he introduced as a German
Master. We did not like his appearance, and his attempts at English
less, so we declined engaging him. This, however, was not the real
object of Herr Fries’s visit. It was to inform us, by means of his
interpreter, for he himself spoke German only, that we had taken his
rooms for four months. This startled us; as our bargain was really for
four weeks. Our compact, however, had been made by the Commissaire, and
we referred to him. Reluctantly, and still arguing the point, Herr Fries
at last withdrew.
I shall see a physician to-morrow and begin the waters; the place is
rather empty as yet. We walked in the public gardens, in which the
medicinal springs flow. Crossing the bridge we entered the gardens at
one extremity; they are oblong, occupying about a couple of acres, of
course gravelled, or rather shingled, and planted with avenues of trees.
To the left they are bordered by the high-road, on the other side of
which are all the large hotels. On the right is the _Conversation Haus_,
consisting of a very large and well-built assembly-room with various
appendages. At the other end are the springs; they are in a sort of
paved court, about twenty feet below the soil; a low iron railing runs
round the court; and they are covered with a light open-worked wire
canopy. Two springs are here—the Pandur and Ragozzi: there is another,
the Max Brunnen, resembling Seidlitz water, but without iron, which is
in another part of the garden. A band plays under the trees from six
till eight in the morning, and from six till eight in the evening; at
which hour the visitors walk and drink the waters.
LETTER III.
Kissingen.—The _Cur_.—The Table d’Hôte.—The Walks.—German
Master.—Bathing.
KISSINGEN, JULY 4.
I am in the midst of my _cur_, and we are all in the midst of a general
cure of a regiment of sick people. It is odd enough to seek amusement by
being surrounded by the rheumatic, the gouty, the afflicted of all
sorts. I do not think I shall be tempted to a German bath again, unless
I am seriously ill.
Kissingen, until lately, was not much visited, even by the Germans, and
was quite unknown to the English. The Bubbles of the Brunnens brought
the baths of Nassau into fashion with us. Doctor Granville’s book
extended our acquaintance with the spas of Germany; and, in particular,
gave reputation to those situated in Bavaria. Kissingen has thus rapidly
acquired notoriety; and soon the English, who are flocking hither, will
effect a change in the homely habits we have found. A throng of our
country people soon effects a revolution, increasing both comforts and
prices in a very high degree.
All the Germans get up at four, and parade the gardens to drink the
waters till nearly eight; I contrive to get there soon after five. These
waters are not mere salts, like Carlsbad, nor mere iron, but a very
diluted mixture of both. I believe them to be very conducive to the
restoration of health; but they must only be taken under a physician’s
superintendence, as it is dangerous to play with them. The morning walk
I find pleasant: I leave the gardens after each glass, and stroll beyond
into the meadows bordering the Saale, away from the garish spectacle of
the smart toilettes, and the saddening sight of the sick. I return to
breakfast at eight, if that may be called breakfast, which is not one.
So many things are supposed to disagree with the waters, that not only
everything substantial, but also butter, fruit, tea, coffee, and milk
are prohibited. We dine at one at the _table d’hôte_ of the Kurhaus; the
ceremony is, to the last degree, unsatisfactory and disgusting. The King
of Bavaria is so afraid that his medicinal waters may fall into
disrepute if the drinkers should eat what disagrees with them, that we
only eat what he, in conjunction with a triumvirate of doctors, is
pleased to allow us. Every now and then a new article is struck out from
our bill of fare, notice being sent from this council, which is stuck up
for our benefit at the door of the _salle-à-manger_, to the effect that,
whoever in Kissingen should serve at any table pork, veal, salad, fruit,
&c. &c. &c., should be fined so many florins. Our pleasures of the
palate are thus circumscribed, not to say annihilated; for the food they
give us is so uninviting, that we only take enough barely to sustain
life: for, strangely enough, though butter is prohibited, their dishes
overflow with grease. Oh! the disgust of sitting down with two hundred
people in one hall, served slowly with uneatable food: each day we
resolve to try to get a dinner at home; but there is a little knot of
English about us, and we agree to endure together; but it is sad.
Our evening walks are pleasant. We desert the public gardens, as you may
believe: sometimes we walk in the meadows bordering the Saale to the
Soolen Sprudel, where the salt works are established, and where there is
a spring of water strongly impregnated with gas, which boils up
furiously at intervals. People have gas baths here—they ought to be
carefully conducted; for though I believe efficacious cures, they
sometimes kill. A Russian nobleman since our arrival, died under the
operation of bathing in one.
Sometimes we cross the valley, and ascend the hills to the ruined castle
of Bodenlauben, which commands a view of this rural vale; but our
favourite walk is in the wood that clothes the hill on our side of the
valley. They have the practice in Germany, in the neighbourhood of
Baths, of laying out innumerable paths all through the woods, and across
the hills, for the convenience of the visitors—long walks entering into
the course of treatment. The woods, oak and elm, varied by magnificent
silver birch, with their graceful tresses, are very fine. We find here a
few fire-flies: like unfortunate Italian exiles, they gleam with subdued
brightness in an ungenial clime, and one wonders how they can endure so
northern a temperature.
We have tried to get a German master. Our first attempt was
infelicitous, being an “unwashed” metaphysician, who fairly beat our
faculties of enduring disagreeable odours. We have now another, who
assures us that he is first-rate; and that it is much better to learn
German of the rough Bœotian (Bavarian) sort, than the effeminate
softness of Saxony and Hanover. I am afraid I shall not make much
progress. We _malades_ are forbidden to exert our intellects; and, to
make this prohibition more stringent, the gas one imbibes with the water
produces a weakness in the eyes, which has rendered this letter the work
of many days.
The progress of the _cur_, or treatment, indeed, is not pleasant; I find
the waters have a very agitating effect on the nerves. I drink the
Ragozzi, which contains more iron than the Pandur. It is not
disagreeable; that is, the first glass seemed so; but after that one
forgot that it had any taste, and the effervescence of the gas makes it
rather agreeable. Those to whom iron is hurtful put the glass in warm
water, when the gas quickly flies off. We bathe in the water of the
Pandur, brought boiling in casks to the house; the baths are mere wooden
coffins, and on first entering them their shape rather shocks the
feelings. The water made hot has the colour of iron rust, and is opaque.
The bathing rooms in our house are badly managed and very dirty; but it
is soothing to sit for an hour in hot water, which does not, like a
common warm bath, weaken afterwards.
I trust to receive benefit in the end; but it is rather an infliction
upon my companions to be dieted by the King of Bavaria, and to live, as
they say, surrounded by _lepers_. We are still undecided as to our
ulterior movements.
LETTER IV.
Medical Treatment.—Amusements.—German Master.—Broklet.—Preparations for
Departure.
KISSINGEN, 10TH JULY.
As I was sitting at breakfast this morning I had a visit from my
physician. He looked with consternation on the table. “Butter!” he
exclaimed; “strawberries! tea! milk!” There was a crescendo of horror in
his voice. One by one, these slender luxuries were withdrawn, and I was
left with a _little_ bread, and water (the staple of the place) _ad
libitum_.
Though the _cur_ of these waters is not an agreeable process, I have
great faith in the advantages that accrue. There is a day or two called
the crisis, which I have just passed—about the fifteenth or sixteenth
after beginning the waters—which, indeed, resembles the crisis of a
serious illness. The body becomes inert and languid, with a sense of
illness pervading the frame; the mind is haunted by apprehension of
evil, and is disturbed by a nervous restlessness and irritability of the
most distressing kind. After a day or two these symptoms disappear. I
experienced it most painfully, and am now quite well, but rather eager
to get away: I am heartily tired of the waters, the promenade, the
dinners, the sick; and the surrounding scenery is by no means
interesting enough to compensate for our disagreeable style of life.
Generally, the assembling at a German bath is a signal for gaiety; but
the physicians here discountenance every sort of excitement, and their
_malades_ are very obedient. The Queen of Wurtemburg is here _incog._ as
Frau Grafinn von Teck, with two Grafinnin her daughters—fine girls, with
all the beauty of youth and health. The artificers of Kissingen
celebrated her arrival by walking in procession, with torches, into the
court-yard of her hotel, where the band played, and the torches flared
and smoked, till everybody was blinded and begrimed. The Queen walks in
the morning early to drink the waters, and the centre allée of the
gardens is left free for her. Such persons as have been presented, she
has asked to dinner, but gives no further sign of life. Once a week
there takes place what they call a _reunion_, when everybody meets in
the _Conversationhaus_ built by the King of Bavaria for the benefit of
the baths. It is as good a ball-room as that of Almack, or in the palace
of the King of Holland at the Hague; but the miserable use they made of
it shocked us. At half-past eight the room is crowded; but the company
do not dance, although there is a good band playing quadrilles, waltzes,
and galoppes, the whole evening; sometimes two couples may be seen
turning in the midst of the crowd; sometimes these may augment to
six—but it is rare—and this in a room where several hundred people are
assembled. The cause is the despotic decree of the triumvirate of
doctors above-mentioned, who maintain dancing to be absolutely
incompatible with drinking the waters.
They tried to get up the appearance of a _fête_ on the birthday of the
Queen of Bavaria. They dressed the _salle a manger_ at the Kurhaus with
boughs of trees; the Governor dined at our table, and gave a toast, “the
Queen;” while the band (we always have music at dinner) played our
National Air, which the Bavarians claim for their own. The ceremony of
dining was thus longer and more tiresome than usual. There was an
illumination in the evening; and the canopy to the mineral springs
looked pretty, picked out in lamps.
JULY 13TH.
The King of Bavaria came over this morning. He is popular as a good king
and a clever man, fond of the arts; but is esteemed to have “a bee in
his bonnet,” which “bee” appears to have degenerated into a wasp with
his son Otho. The Crown Prince of Bavaria is much respected, and has the
reputation of being gifted with his father’s talents, with judgment
superadded. The appearance of the King is droll enough; tall, with long
legs and arms, he walks furiously fast, talks earnestly and loud, and
gesticulates violently; he dresses shabbily, and his thin, adust face is
inconceivably wrinkled.
The baths which he particularly patronises are those of Brukenau, about
twenty miles distant, where he has a palace: these are steel waters, and
most people go to strengthen themselves there, after being diluted by
the Kissingen springs. The King has perceived the flow of money brought
into other States by the resort of strangers to the baths, and is very
anxious that his should be celebrated. For this reason, he decorated Dr.
Granville’s button-hole with a bit of ribbon, much to the disgust of the
native physicians, who are provoked to remark, “Our King is sometimes
one fool.” Dr. Granville is practising here, also to the discontent of
the native medical people, who see the rich current of English guineas
turn away from themselves. However, as he is the cause of many coming
here, he has certainly a right to profit by their visits. The King is
very fond of receiving the English; he understands our language, and
asks, in royal style, a thousand rapid questions; being somewhat deaf,
he does not always hear the reply, and droll equivoques have taken
place.
Now that the Queen of Wurtemburg, who changes her dress three times a
day, and never wears the same gown twice, promenades the gardens, the
ladies pay more attention to their _toilettes_; but there is a great
absence of beauty among us. There are no good-looking Germans,—and the
handsomest women are one or two Russians. The English do not shine as
much as usual. As yet, few persons of rank are arrived; the season for
touring with us is not yet commenced, and the good people of Kissingen
will hail a second harvest when we hurry across the channel at the end
of the London season. Most of the men here are really ill, and come to
take care of their health. Accordingly, they obey the physicians, who
forbid gambling. It is only on Sunday, when it is the fashion for all
our neighbours, from many miles round, to come over to dine at
Kissingen, and that gaming-tables are opened in some rooms of the
Kurhaus, but they are thinly attended. No gaiety goes on in the
Conversation House, with the exception of the _réunions_; but it is
always open—a retreat and a lounge from the promenade in the gardens.
There is a piano in it; and it is a specimen of German manners, that
ladies go in all simplicity to practise, and even exercise their voices
in a public room, without any of the false shame, or vanity, or modesty
that an Englishwoman would experience, and also without exciting any
observation.
I am ashamed to say I make no progress in German; my eyes and health
have both held me back, and our master does not lead me on. Yet, though
it is the fashion of his pupils to rebel, he has a practice which I am
sure is a good one for any person desirous to speak the language
quickly. With perseverance, and a haughty sense of our duty towards him,
he gathers us together (about six or eight) in the rooms of some one of
us, to read aloud a play of Schiller—we each having a copy of the play
with a literal translation on the other side. It is strange how quickly
the eye can turn from the original to the translation, and the ear get
habituated to remember the words and phrases; it is a royal road to a
smattering of the language to which I shall certainly have recourse
again, so to try to acquire a better knowledge of this crabbed, and to
my memory, antipathetic German.
JULY 17TH.
This evening we drove over to Brocklet, about four miles off, described
by Murray as “another watering-place, possessing four strong chalybeate
springs, in which the salts and soda are largely mixed with iron. The
action of the water is powerfully tonic and exciting.” They taste like
ink, but I liked them much, and drank several glasses, with a great
sense of deriving benefit from them. I really believe I ought to take a
course of steel waters after those of Kissingen; but we are so tired of
living at a watering-place that I shall not.
Brocklet is situated in a little wooded dell, quite shut in; it is as
secluded, shadowy and still, as the abode of Morpheus, described by
Ovid. A few convalescent sick wandered silently under the trees, and a
band tried to play, but only produced a lulling murmur, in accordance
with a trickling rill and the gentle rustling of the leaves of the
trees. In this dim limbo you can live as well and cheaper than at
Kissingen. The expense here is not large, but for a family it is not
small; our household (three of us and my maid) cost us about eight or
nine pounds a week—house-rent and everything included. We could easily
spend more, but it is impossible, from the system of things, to spend
less. The most agreeable luxury, indeed the only one that there is any
opportunity of enjoying, are horses to visit the surrounding country. I
wish we had our little Welsh ponies to scamper over the hills away from
the _malades_.
The incidents of our day are few. Now and then Herr Fries, sometimes
accompanied by his _soi-disant_ English master, sometimes in all the
desolating impotence of his unintelligible German, presses on our
attention our pretended compact for four months; we have but one
answer—the _Commissaire_ through whose mediation we made the bargain. I
do not think Herr Fries has even applied to him, and when we mention the
subject he treats it with lofty contempt. Meanwhile our month is nearly
concluded, and we shall soon leave Kissingen. I assure myself that I
have benefited by the waters, though I gain no belief from my companions
who do not drink them, and find the place and its dinners very
intolerable. In the midst of our balancing whither to go, a few
circumstances have turned the scale. Letters have arrived from a college
friend of P. and K., begging us to come to Dresden. There is a railroad
we find from Leipsig to Berlin, and from Leipsig to Dresden. My mind has
for years been set upon seeing the galleries of pictures in these towns.
We have had no warm weather; at the end of July the summer may be
considered as well-nigh over. We shall quit this place in a day or two,
and penetrate still deeper into Germany, visit cities renowned in
history, and pass over ground—the fields of ten thousand battles.
LETTER V.
Leave Kissingen.—Baths of Brukenau.—Fulda.—Eisenach.—Castle of
Wartburg.—Gotha.—Erfurt.—Weimar.—The Elster.—Leipsig.
LEIPSIG.
At length we have left Kissingen; and though, while there, we made the
best of it, we find, on looking back, that it was very intolerable, and
that it is a great blessing to escape from the saddening spectacle of a
crowd of invalids assembled _en masse_. Enormously fat men trying to
thin down—delicate women hoping to grow into better case—no children.
This is another decree of the physicians: children are prohibited,
because the mind must enjoy perfect repose, and children are apt to
create disturbance in the hearts of tender parents. It is surprising
that, to forward the cure, all letters are not opened first by the
doctors, and not delivered if they contain any disagreeable news. As
yet, they only exhort the friends of the sick to spare them every
painful emotion in their correspondence; but Kissingen will not be
perfect, until the post is put under medical _surveillance_. Do not
misunderstand me. I believe the waters of Kissingen to be highly
medicinal, and the hours and walks and everything, but the dinners,
exceedingly conducive to the restoration of health; but during this
season it has not offered any attraction to those who come to a
watering-place in search of amusement.
By the help of our German master, Mr. Wertheim, of Munich, who showed
himself most zealous and kind, we engaged a _voiture_ to take us to
Leipsig in six days. The only error we have found in Murray is, that the
price he mentions for the hire of carriages and horses is less than we
find it. He may retort, and say we are cheated: but we apply to natives,
and, if it be possible, I am sure it would be difficult, to make a
better bargain than we have done.
JULY 19.
The town of Brukenau lay in our route; the Baths, two miles beyond, were
out of it: however, we bargained to visit them. The road lay along the
level close under the hills, and we wound for twenty miles through the
wooded ravine. The characteristic of Franconia, on the edges of which we
still were, appears to be gentle valleys, thridded by small clear
streams; the immediate banks either meadow or arable, and closed in by
hills, covered with forests of beech, interspersed by the weeping birch.
Brukenau itself is beyond this circle, and entered into the territories
of the Bishops of Fulda: but in the new distribution of kingdoms,
Brukenau fell to the share of Bavaria, and the town of Fulda to the Duke
of Hesse Cassel. At Brukenau, leaving the high-road, we entered the
valley of the Sinn, and penetrated into the very sheltered bosom of the
hills towards the Baths. There is a sense of extreme tranquillity in
these secluded spots in Bavaria, where you seem cast on an unknown,
unvisited region, and yet, on reaching the watering-place itself, find
all the comforts of life “rise like an exhalation” around.
The hills round Brukenau are much higher and more romantic than at
Kissingen. They are covered with fine beech forests, and traversed in
every part by paths, interspersed with seats, constructed for the
convenience of the visitors; and so extensive, that you may wander for
ten or twenty miles in their depths. The public gardens, instead of
being a melancholy strip of ground, planted with dry and dusty-looking
trees, are extensive, and resemble an English pleasure-ground; a
brawling stream, the Sinn, adorns them; everything invites the wanderer
to stroll on, and to enjoy in fine weather Nature’s dearest gifts, shady
woods, open lawns, and views of beautiful country; loitering beside a
murmuring stream, or toiling on awhile, and then resting as you gaze on
a wider prospect. The waters here are chalybeate and tonic; they taste
of ink, but sparkle in the glass, and I found them pleasant. We arrived
at the dinner hour, and sat down in the large and well-built Kursaal,
where the tables were spread, to a dinner somewhat better than that
allowed us at Kissingen, and we enjoyed the novelty of salad, fruits,
and ice. We found several familiar faces from Kissingen come here to
strengthen themselves with steel waters. Altogether the place looked at
once more sociable and more retired; and, above all, the country around
was, without being striking from crag and precipice, far more
picturesque than at Kissingen. The whole establishment is in the hands
of government, and the houses where the visitors lodge are placed in the
midst of the garden. Things are managed both more cheaply and more
agreeably than at Kissingen. The visitors, however, are never so
numerous, and the style of the place is more quiet. The king has a
palace, where he spends the season, and is very courteous to the
English. We wished to sleep at the Baths, but unfortunately no beds were
to be had, though great exertion was made by several good-natured
visitors to procure them for us. Oddly enough, persons we had been
accustomed to meet, without speaking, day after day at Kissingen, here
had the air of familiar acquaintance. We were sorry to go away, and
loitered several hours in the gardens, and visited the old kursaal, a
rather dilapidated room. The walls were hung with portraits of the
ancient Prince-Bishops of Fulda—the discoverers, and erst the
possessors, of these medicinal springs. I should have been glad to stay
at least a week in this agreeable retirement, and drink the waters; but
we could not now alter our arrangements.
We were obliged to return to the town of Brukenau to sleep; as the
golden hues of evening increased at once the beauty and the stillness of
the happy valley, with regret we tore ourselves away. Murray bids us go
to the Hotel of the Post at Brukenau, and we learned afterwards that
this is really a good and comfortable inn. I fancy the master has had
some quarrel with the authorities at the Baths, for we were bidden go to
another inn; in an evil hour we obeyed. It was very dirty and
comfortless.
JULY 20TH.
Leaving Brukenau the following morning early, we by degrees quitted the
wooded hills and grassy valleys of Franconia, and entered the domains of
the Prince of Hesse Cassel.
It was in these territories that a scene was enacted during the last
century, so overlooked by history, that I believe by-and-bye it will
only be remembered (how is it even now?) by the commentators on
Schiller. When we read of the _Hessians_ in the American war, we have a
vague idea that our government called in the aid of foreign mercenaries
to subdue the revolted colonies; an act which roused Lord Chatham to
exclaim in the House of Peers, “If I were an American, as I am an
Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country I never would
lay down my arms, never—never—never!” We censure the policy of
government, we lament the obstinacy of George III., who, exhausting the
English levies, had recourse to “the mercenary sons of rapine and
plunder;” and “devoted the Americans and their possessions to the
rapacity of hireling cruelty.” But our imagination does not transport
itself to the homes of the unfortunate Germans; nor is our abhorrence of
the tyranny that sent them to die in another hemisphere awakened. Lord
Chatham does indeed in the same speech, from which the above quotations
are made, cast a half-pitying glance on the victims of their native
sovereign, when he talks of “traffic and barter with every little
pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles
of a foreign sovereign.” Schiller, in his tragedy of “Cabal and Love,”
describes the misery brought on his own countrymen more graphically. “A
petty German prince,” namely, the Duke of Hesse Cassel, or perhaps the
Margrave of Anspach, who also dealt in this unholy traffic, sends a
present of jewels to his mistress—she is astonished at their
magnificence, and asks the bringer of them, how the Duke could pay for
such immeasurably costly jewels? The servant replies—“They cost him
nothing. Seven thousand children of the soil started yesterday for
America; they pay for all.” “But not compelled?” the lady demands; the
poor man, who has two sons among the recruits, replies—“O God, no!
perfect volunteers. True, some forward lads stepped out of the ranks and
asked the colonel, how dear the prince sold his yoke of men? But our
gracious lord caused all the regiments to be marched to the parade
ground, to shoot down the jackanapes. We heard the report of the
firelocks, saw their brains scattered on the ground, and the whole army
shouted ‘Hurrah for America!’ Then the loud drums told us it was time.
On one side shrieking orphans followed their living father; on the other
a distracted mother ran to cast her sucking child on the bayonets; here
a pair of betrothed lovers were parted by sabre blows; and there grey
beards stood struck by despair, and at last flung their crutches after
the young fellows who were off to the New World. Oh! and with all that
the deafening roll of the drum mingled, for fear the Almighty should
hear us praying!” We were told that the facts were worse even than this
picture; since when first the order was given out for the enlisting of
the soldiers, hundreds deserted their homes and betook themselves to the
neighbouring mountains of Franconia, and were hunted down like wild
animals, and starved into surrender.
History fails fearfully in its duty when it makes over to the poet the
record and memory of such an event. One, it is to be hoped, that can
never be renewed. And yet what act of cruelty and tyranny may not be
reacted on the stage of the world, which we boast of as civilised, if
one man has uncontrolled power over the lives of many, the unwritten
story of Russia may hereafter tell.
The country, as we went on, became uninteresting—a sandy soil, and few
trees. We dined at Fulda, an agreeable, quiet-looking, old German town,
once the capital of the prince-bishops of that diocese. We visited the
Cathedral, a fine old building, containing some holy relics, which are
preserved in little painted wooden boxes kept behind the altar. They had
not the air of sanctity about them, and the man who shewed the chancel
handled them with great indifference. Afterwards, we went to the Church
of St. Michael, where we were taken to some subterranean vaults, in
which Aniaschiadus, a saint and confessor, lived, I think, they said,
for seven years, hid from the persecution of the Arians. Do not wonder
that I speak in doubt, for our guide was German, and we could only guess
at his meaning. Enough to learn that one persecuted for his religious
faith did pass a number of years in this dark vault, in fear, want, and
suffering; and came out, probably, to persecute in his turn—such is the
usual result of this sort of controversy. Ministers of religion have
been in all ages too easily led to destroy the bodies of those whose
souls they believe to be lost. There is a palace here, standing on the
highest part of the town; and a show of military. The city has, indeed,
an individual appearance, that stamps it on the memory, without being
sufficiently striking for description.
This evening we slept at Buttlar, at a quiet, comfortable, country inn.
Buttlar is a small village; this the only good house; but it had all the
charm of an English way-side inn in a retired spot, where they are
accustomed to receive visitors in search of the picturesque. The charges
in this part of the journey were very moderate. We paid highest, of
course, at the bad inn, at Brukenau; and the charges at _all_ appear
quite arbitrary. Fancy prices put on by the landlord, according to the
appearance of his guests. As we pass also, without knowing it, from one
State to another, the coins vary. The money is easy enough when not
confounded: a Bavarian florin is reckoned as two francs; a thaler, as
three shillings. Sometimes we pay in one money; sometimes in another. On
the whole, the Prussian thaler, divided into three coins of ten groschen
each, equivalent to a shilling, is the most intelligible; but the
Bavarian florin denotes greater cheapness in price.
JULY 21ST.
We now entered the depths of the Thuringerwald; and, stopping at
Eisenach for dinner, hired a carriage—the distance was not much more
than a mile, but the day was wet—to take us to the Castle of Wartburg.
Luther, on his return from the Diet of Worms, was waylaid by his friend,
the Elector of Saxony, and carried thither as to a place of safety. He
remained ten months, passing for a young nobleman; and busily employed
in translating the Bible, and composing other works. The Castle of
Wartburg is situated on a steep wooded eminence, ascended by a winding
road, thickly shaded by trees. The chamber that Luther inhabited has one
large window, overlooking a wide extent of hill and dale, stretching far
away over the Thuringian Forest—a noble prospect; and the very site,
high-raised and commanding, was well suited to the lofty and unbending
soul of the recluse. This chamber is preserved in the same state as when
it harboured its illustrious guest; and, except his bed, his furniture
remains: his table, his stool, his chair, and ink-stand, are there; and
if not the stain on the wall, marking his exploit of throwing his
ink-stand at the Arch Tempter’s head, there is at least the place where
the ink _was_—some tourist has carried off the memorable plaster. We
saw, also, several suits of armour belonging to various heroes of olden
time here preserved. Hearing the names of prince, heroine, or even of
illustrious robber (names honoured in history), who once endued these
iron vestments—looking round on the armoury, or out of the window on the
Thuringerwald—I felt happy in the sense of satisfied curiosity; or
rather, of another sentiment to which I cannot give a precise name, but
which swells the heart and makes the bosom glow, as one views, and
touches, and feels surrounded by the remains of illustrious antiquity.
The honoured name of Luther had more than any other right and power to
awaken this: those of warrior or king only influence the imagination, as
associated with poetry and romance; his is rendered sacred by his
struggle, the most fearful human life presents, with antique mis-beliefs
and errors upheld by authority.
We saw nothing of Gotha, where we slept; though, for Prince Albert’s
sake, I would willingly have become better acquainted with his native
place. There is something pleasing in the mere outward aspect of these
Protestant German towns: they look clean, orderly, and well-built. Hail
to the good fight, the heart says everywhere; hail to the soil whence
intellectual liberty gained, with toil and suffering, the victory—not
complete yet—but which, thanks to the men of those time, can never
suffer entire defeat! In time, it will spread to those countries which
are still subject to Papacy.
JULY 22D.
We breakfasted this morning at Erfurt, and made duteous pilgrimage to
the Augustine convent which Luther inhabited as a monk. In the church,
he said his first mass; and it remains in the same state, with a rude
old pulpit, in which Luther preached, and carved wooden galleries. His
cell is preserved as when he lived in it. It is, like conventual cells
all over the world, a small, square, high chamber. Here is the Bible
that he first found in the library of the Convent; studying which his
powerful mind began to perceive the errors of the Church to which he
belonged. The convent is now used as an Orphan-house. There is a gallery
in it, with a strange series of pictures. Death is represented as coming
upon men and women at all moments, during every occupation—the Beauty at
her toilette—the Miser counting his money—the Hero in the hour of
victory—the King on his throne—the Mother fostering her first-born—the
Bride, proud in her husband. It is a strange idea: the pictures are
badly executed enough, yet some are striking.
The country lost, as we proceeded, all its beauty—vast uninclosed tracts
of arable land spread out round. From a height, we looked down on
Weimar. The trees of its park were the only verdure visible; for the
harvest being over, the land was all stubble: no hedge, no meadow, no
shady covert. I pitied the poets who had been destined to live there;
for however agreeable royal parks and gardens may be, they are a poor
compensation for the free and noble beauty of nature.
Dining at Weimar, we spent two or three hours in running about to visit
the lions. It is a pleasant looking town. I do not know exactly how to
present to your imagination the appearance of these German towns. The
streets are wide; and thus, though the houses are high, they look airy,
and, though badly paved, clean: the houses are white, and have not the
air of antiquity. As I have said once or twice before, an appearance of
order and tranquillity is their characteristic. We visited the abodes of
Wieland, Schiller, and Göthe, who are the great people here: that is, we
saw the outside of the houses in which they had dwelt; for, being
inhabited by a fresh generation, the insides are not show places. The
palace is a handsome building; and three apartments are being decorated
in honour of those chosen poets. The larger one for Göthe; a smaller for
Schiller; a sort of octagon closet for Wieland. The walls are adorned
with frescoes of subjects taken from their works. I am not sure that I
should give this superiority to Göthe: Schiller has always appeared to
me the greater man: he is more complete. The startling quality of Göthe
is his insight into the secret depths of the human mind; his power of
dissecting motives—of holding up the mirror to our most inmost
sensations; and also in dramatic scenes of touching pathos, and passages
of overflowing eloquence: but he wants completeness, and never achieves
a whole. “Faust” is a fragment—“Wilhelm Meister” is a fragment. It is
true, this has a closer resemblance to life which seldom affords an
artistic beginning, middle, and end to its strange enchainment of
events. Still, the conception of a perfect whole has ever held the
highest place in our standard of a poet’s power of imagination. But I
will spare you further criticism from an ignorant person.
We saw the coffins of the poets in the dark tomb, placed not side by
side, princely etiquette forbad, but in the same narrow chamber with
those of the princes who honoured them. These coffins suggest a
wonderful contempt for the material of life; Camoëns exclaimed, when
dying in an hospital, “Lo! the vast scene of my fortunes is contracted
to this narrow bed!” This tomb told us that princely protection and the
aspirations of genius were shut up in those dust-containing coffers; yet
not so, while the works of the one endure, and the memory of the acts of
the others survive in the minds of posterity. This friendship after
death, this desire to share even in the grave the poet’s renown, after
having sheltered and honoured him during life, makes one love these good
German sovereigns. Mr. Landor says the Germans possess nine-tenths of
the thought that exists in the world. There is in even larger proportion
honour for thought. The gardens of the palace are agreeably laid out;
and except that turf is wanting, resemble an English park, with fine old
trees and a river running through. This spot was a favourite resort, and
there is a pretty shady summer-house overlooking the river, where the
sovereigns held _réunions_, and entertained their poet friends; many a
June evening was there spent in refined intercourse. There is also a
pavilion in the garden which Göthe inhabited in the summer months.
The park of Weimar was an oasis in the desert. We found for many miles
after leaving it, the same dreary landscape; flat and unmarked as the
sea; not as barren, for the country is all corn-fields but as no hedge
intersects them, nor any bush shows its tufted top, nor any trees appear
except the ill-looking poplars mixed with cherry-trees that line the
road, nothing can be more unvaried or uninteresting than these vast
plains; uninteresting indeed, in outward aspect, yet claiming our
attention and exciting our curiosity as the scene of a thousand battles,
above all, of that last struggle, when yielding the ground inch by inch,
mile by mile, Napoleon was driven from Dresden to the Rhine.
Some slight interruption occurs in the uniform aspect of these bare
plains, when they are intersected by the course of the Saale, a common
name for a river in Germany, which winds through a pleasing village. On
the heights that surround, stand old castles renowned in story. We soon
left this pleasant change behind, and came again on the naked country,
sweeping over miles and miles; our guide-books speak of this as the
scenes of battles and victories of Gustavus Adolphus, and Frederic the
Great. The first name claims our admiration, and we looked with respect
on the stone that marks the spot where he fell. Frederic was a very
clever man, and except for the evils which, as a conqueror, he brought
on his subjects, he did them good as far as his limited views permitted
him. But there is no sovereign whose acts fill so many pages in history,
for whom one cares so little as Frederic. Cold-hearted, if not false,
the dogged determination and invincible purpose that form his best
characteristic, yet centred so narrowly in self, that he excites no jot
of interest. It was otherwise in his own day. He was a king, a man of
talent, a warrior who encountered difficulties that had overwhelmed a
weaker mind, and surmounted them. He had the charm of manners, which,
though cruelly capricious to his dependents, were, when he chose,
irresistibly fascinating; such qualities awoke, while he lived, the
admiration of the world; but with the Prince de Ligne died the last of
his enthusiastic admirers.
Another name, greater and newer than his, has thrust him from his place,
and occupies our attention—in one respect his entire opposite; for
Napoleon was great in success, Frederic in defeat. Perhaps the absence
of heaven-born legitimacy took from the latest hero of the world who has
joined the dead, the unflinching, stubborn will of Frederic in
adversity; besides, it would seem that Napoleon disdained to fight,
except when he could gain a world by victory. Here he lost one; and a
struggle that lasted many days in the environs of Leipsig, drove him
from Germany. When reduced to what he seemed to look upon as the paltry
kingdom of France, he played double or quits with that and lost all.
We looked out for the Elster, where the bridge was blown up which cost
Poniatowski his life, and lost to Napoleon twenty-five thousand French
soldiers taken prisoners. I am told that I now look upon the very spot;
that at the end of the garden of the Hôtel de Saxe this tragic scene was
enacted: it seems as if a good hunter might leap the narrow stream which
decided the fate of an empire.
Here ends a very fatiguing journey. The carriage we hired was to
appearance roomy and comfortable; but being badly hung, it was
inconceivably uneasy; and partly, I believe, the effect of the Kissingen
waters still hanging about me, (I _ought_ to have spent a week at least
at Brukenau,) I never suffered more fatigue and even distress on a
journey. Right glad I am to be here. To-morrow we commit ourselves to a
railroad—blessings on the man who invented them. Every traveller must
especially bless him in these naked, monotonous plains.
The Hôtel de Saxe is very good, and not much dearer than any other. They
are expecting the King of Prussia to-morrow, and the staircases are
carpeted and decorated with evergreens. The Oberkellner, or upper
waiter—a very important personage in these German hotels—is an
intelligent little fellow, and speaks English perfectly.
Congratulate me that so far I am advanced in the heart of this mighty
country. Though I skim its surface without having any communication with
its inhabitants, still the eye is gratified, the imagination excited,
and curiosity satisfied.
LETTER VI.
Railroad to
Berlin.—Unter-den-Linden.—Gallery.—Palace.—Museum.—Opera.—Iron-Foundry.
BERLIN, 27TH JULY.
The distance from Leipsig to Berlin is 105 miles; the greater part an
arid sandy plain. Earlier in the season it had not been so bad, for the
land is arable; but now the stubble remaining after harvest was the only
sign left of cultivation. The sense the eye received of nakedness was in
no way relieved—no hedge, no tree, no meadow, no bush. One break there
was when we crossed the Elbe, and a line of verdure and wood follows the
course of the river. I read “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” during the
journey, which occupied six or seven hours, and the time passed rapidly.
There are three classes of carriages, and the price is not dear:—1st
class, five and a half thalers (a thaler is three shillings); 2d class,
three and a half thalers; 3d class, two and a half. A few miles beyond
Leipsig we entered the Prussian territory, and changed carriages. The
Prussian carriages are very much more roomy and comfortable. The pace we
went, when going, was very great, so that I heard passengers call out
from the windows imploring that the speed might be lessened. Much time
was lost, however, at every one of the numerous stations, where the
carriage-doors were thrown open with the announcement of stopping for
_funfzehn minuten_, or _funf minuten_, or even _drei minuten_, (fifteen,
five and three minutes,) when the passengers poured out, and comforted
themselves with all sorts of slight refreshments—light wine, light beer,
light cakes and cherries, nothing much in themselves, but a good deal of
it—offered by a whole crowd of dealers in such wares. On arriving at
Berlin we went to the hotel Stadt Rom, Unter-den-Linden, which we find
very comfortable, the host attentive, and the _table d’hôte_ good.
We are here in the best street, which has a double avenue of lime-trees
in the middle, running its whole length. One way it leads to the
Brandenburg gate, the other to a spot that forms the beauty of Berlin as
a capital—a wide open space, graced by a beautiful fountain, and an
immense basin of polished granite, made from one of those remarkable
boulders found on the sandy plain, fifty miles from Berlin; adorned also
by the colonnade of the New Museum, opposite to which stands the
Guard-house, the Italian Opera, and the University. The building of the
Arsenal is near, and the whole forms a splendid assemblage of buildings.
After dinner, we have walked under the lime-trees to the Brandenburg
gate—a most beautiful portal, built on the model of the Propylæum at
Athens, on a larger scale. Napoleon carried off the car of Victory which
decorates the top; it was brought back after the battle of Waterloo.
Before its capture it was placed as if leaving the city behind, to rush
forward on the world; on its return, it was placed returning to and
facing the city. The square before this gate is chiefly inhabited by
foreign Ministers: Lord Burghersh has his house here. Outside are
extensive public gardens, in the usual foreign style—that is, numerous
avenues of trees, in a herbless sandy soil.
28TH JULY.
Our first visit in the morning was to the Museum. It is at some little
distance from the hotel, and the walk led us through the best part of
Berlin. The building itself is beautiful; the grand circular hall by
which you reach the statue-gallery, and which again you look down upon
from the open gallery that leads to the pictures, surpasses in elegance
and space anything I have ever seen, except in the Vatican. At once we
rushed among the pictures—our only inducement, except curiosity to see a
renowned capital city, to visit Berlin. The gallery is admirably
arranged in schools, and the pictures have an excellent light on them;
and in each room is hung up a list of pictures and their painters
contained in it. First we saw the Io, of Correggio, a most lovely
picture, and near it Leda and the Swan, by the same artist; and then our
eyes were attracted to one still lovelier in its chaste and divine
beauty—a Virgin and Child by Raphael. The Mother is holding a book in
one hand, the other arm encircles her infant. It bears the impress of
the first style of the divinest of painters, when his warm heart was
animated by pious enthusiasm, and his imagination inspired by a
celestial revelation of pure beauty. It was once the gem of the Colonna
Gallery at Rome, and was sold by the Duke of Lanti to the King of
Prussia.
Next to these I was most struck by a picture by Francia, the Virgin in
glory, worshipped by six saints. There is a remarkable picture by
Rembrandt, a portrait of the Duke Adolph of Gueldres, shaking his fist
at his father. The countenance bears the liveliest impress of angry
passion: the impious madness of the parricide mantles in the face, and
gives wild energy to the furious gesture. The gallery is rich in
portraits by Van Dyck—some of his finest: but I must not send you a mere
catalogue. From room to room we wandered; sometimes desirous of seeing
all, and so penetrating into every nook—sometimes satisfied to sit for
hours before a masterpiece.
Yes, I dedicated hours this morning,—I know not how many,—to a painting
that has given me more delight than any I ever saw. I had often heard
the first style of Raphael preferred to his third, and thought it a
superstition; but I am a convert—entirely a convert. Apart, locked up in
a room with some of the gold-grounded deformed productions of the
Byzantine artists, stands, except one, the largest painting of Raphael’s
in the world; the subject is the adoration of the Magi. It is in his
first style—it is half destroyed—the outline of some of the figures only
remains; no sacrilegious hand has ever touched to restore it, and in its
ruin it is divine. The Baby Jesus is lying on the ground, and Mary, with
an angel at each hand, kneels before the lowly couch of her child; on
the other side are the kings bearing their gifts; and far in the
background are the shepherds visited by angels, announcing peace and
good-will to man. I never saw such perfect grace and ideal beauty as in
the kneeling figures of the Virgin and her attendant angels. Composed
majesty and deep humility are combined in the attitudes. The
countenances show their souls abstracted from all earthly thought, and
absorbed by pure and humble adoration. Adoration from the adorable: this
is what only an artist of the highest class can portray. You perceive
that the painter imagined perfect beings, who deserve a portion of the
worship which they pay unreservedly to the Creator, and such are saints
and angels in the mind of a Catholic. You who so much admire the
unfinished ideas of Leonardo da Vinci, would delight in this relic of a
greater man: will you receive any from this attempt to convey what I
felt? I read somewhere the other day, that speech is one mode of
communicating our thoughts—painting another—music another—neither can,
with any success, go beyond its own department to that of the
other—thus, words can never show forth the beauty of which painting
presents the living image to the eyes.
It may be a defect, that I take more pleasure in graceful lines, and
attitudes, and expression, than in colouring. Sir Thomas Lawrence told
me that it was one, and that an uncultivated eye was, therefore, often
better pleased by statuary than painting; and he said this, because I
looked with more delight on some inimitable bronze-statues standing on
his mantel-piece, preferring them to a richly-coloured painting on which
he was accustomed to rest his eye while at work; so to familiarise it to
the fullest and most glowing hues—I am not sure that he is right.
Let us take, for instance, two pictures by the prince of painters—the
Adoration of the Magi among his first;—The Transfiguration his last
work. In artistic power, this picture is said to surpass every other in
the world. The genius of its author is shown in its admirable
composition, in the spirit of the attitudes, in the life that animates
each figure, without alluding to technical merits, which, of course, are
felt even by those who cannot define, nor even point them out. Yet, this
picture does not afford me great pleasure—no face is inspired by holy
and absorbing passion; and the woman, the most prominent figure, is a
portrait of the Fornarina, whose hard countenance is peculiarly odious.
Turn from this to the half-effaced picture at Berlin—the radiant beauty
here expressed, strikes a chord in my soul—all harmony, all love. It is
not the art of the painter I admire; it is his pure, exalted soul, which
he incarnated in these lovely forms. I remember Wordsworth’s theory,
that we enter this world bringing with us “airs from heaven,” memories
of a divine abode and angelic fellowship which we have just left, that
flake by flake fall from our souls as they degenerate and are enfeebled
by earthly passions. Raphael seems to confirm this theory; for, in his
early pictures, there is a celestial something absent from his latter, a
beauty not found on earth—inspiring as we look, a deep joy, only felt in
such brief moments when some act of self-sacrifice exalts the soul, when
love softens the heart, or nature draws us out of ourselves, and our
spirits are rapt in ecstacy, and enabled to understand and mingle with
the universal love.
The gallery is open from ten till three. Unfortunately, the fatigue of
the journey made me very ill able to endure much toil; and you know,—who
knows not?—that visiting galleries produces extreme weariness. I went
back to the hotel several times to repose, and then returned to the
gallery. I desired to learn by heart—to imbibe—to make all I saw a part
of myself, so that never more I may forget it. In some sort I shall
succeed. Some of the forms of beauty on which I gazed, must last in my
memory as long as it endures; but this will be at the expense of others,
which even now are fading and about to disappear from my mind. I feel,
though usually I prefer statuary to painting, and there are some
statues—and particularly an ancient bronze of a boy praying, that I have
regarded with delight; still my mind was full before, the rest can but
overflow. The gallery of Berlin will, I fear, become a vague, though
glorious dream, for the most part, leaving distinct only a few images
that can never be effaced.
JULY 29TH.
Yesterday evening we went to the opera—the house is small, but pretty.
The piece was Massaniello, at which I grieved. I want German music in
Germany. There was no remarkable singer. There was no ballet; and all
was over, according to the good German custom, by ten o’clock.
To-day, we have been doing our duty in sightseeing; though I
grudged every minute spent away from the gallery. There are some
good pictures, however, in the palace, especially the portraits of
our Charles I. and his Queen, by Van Dyck. The apartments are very
handsome. They have an ungainly custom here, as in Holland, of
providing the visiter with list-shoes, to preserve their shining
_parquets_. I rebelled against putting on slippers other people
had worn, and forced the _Custode_, grumblingly, to acknowledge
that my shoes could not hurt the floor. The rooms of the palace
are chiefly associated with the name of Napoleon, and are
decorated by vases of Sèvre china and by portraits of himself and
Josephine, presents from the conqueror to the conquered, which
were impertinent enough at the time; but the spirit is changed
now, and they remain as trophies of Prussian victories. I looked
with great interest on the various portraits of the celebrated
Queen of Prussia. In all, she is inexpressibly beautiful. Her face
is thoroughly individual;—animation—independence—a truly feminine,
yet, (for want of a better word I must say,) a wild loveliness
gives it a peculiar charm. There is a portrait of her at twelve
years of age—dignity, true nobility, artless innocence, and
evident strength of character, adorn a countenance in the first
bloom of untainted girlhood.
We visited the Museum. I did not much care for what I saw. There are
many relics of Frederic the Great, and a wax figure, dressed up in his
old clothes, is placed on a faded throne beneath a shabby canopy—all
such as he used in life. There is nothing to excite respect in this sort
of spectacle. It is the misfortune of those who live to be old that they
are always handed down to posterity as decrepid and feeble. If I were a
queen, I would never suffer myself to be painted after thirty; or, if
well preserved, five-and-thirty at the latest. Queens and beauties—kings
and heroes—all must pay our nature’s sad tribute, and lose even
individuality and charm, as the moss of age creeps over the frame,
which, becoming weak and shattered, loses proportion and grace; but it
is foolish to leave behind these emblems of decay. Frederic the Great,
as he first met Voltaire at the castle of Meuse, near Cleves, or as he
wrote his dispatch on a drum after one of his first battles, would
indeed be the Frederic, whose deeds, if evil, at least were instinct
with power and life. This doll, dressed up to represent a decrepid,
feeble old man, is the most dreary sarcasm that can be imagined.
The prospect from the palace windows is really grand: the Platz in
front—the Museum—the Fountain—the whole range of buildings—form a
_coup-d’œil_ that transcends that of the Place de la Concorde, at Paris.
I desired to visit some of the manufactures of Berlin steel, and
expected to see beautiful specimens. It is a curious fact, how difficult
it is to find out where you ought to go, and how to see any sight,
unless it be a regular lion, or you have an exact address. We took a
drosky, and drove to a shop; it was closed: to another; there was no
such thing. We returned to our hotel, and learnt that we had been
spending many useless groschen by not taking the drosky by the hour
instead of the course. Having reformed this oversight, we set off again
in search of the manufactory. You know the history of the building of
Berlin. Frederic the Great, desirous that his capital should rival that
of other kingdoms, inclosed a large space within its walls, and ordered
the vacancy to be filled up with houses. This occasions a great
difference between Berlin and most foreign cities. In the latter, the
aim is to save land, and to encroach on heaven. Here, the builders
endeavoured to cover as much space as possible, and many of the finest
houses are only two stories high. Wide and grass-grown, the streets, all
straight and at right angles, stretch far away, with scarce a solitary
passenger or drosky here and there, making the solitude even more felt.
There is another peculiarity in this wide-spread city. It is built on
the flattest plain in the world. The Spree stagnates beneath its
bridges, and the drains, just covered by planks, stagnate in the
streets, and are by no means agreeable during the present heat and
drought.
At length, after driving about from one place to another, asking our way
as well as we could, resolved not to give in, but much puzzled, we
reached the Eisengiesserei, or iron-foundry, just outside the
Oranienburg gate. We alighted from the drosky and walked into a large
court-yard, and into the sort of immense shed in which is the foundry.
We asked every one we met where the works in steel were sold; no one
could tell us. We wandered about a long time. The men were at work
making moulds in sand. At length a vast cauldron of molten metal was
brought from the furnace, and poured into a mould. There is something
singular in boiling metal, the sight of which gives a new idea to the
mind, a new sensation to the soul. Boiling water, or other liquid,
presents only an inanimate element, changed to the touch, not to the
eye; but molten metal, red and fiery, takes a new appearance, and seems
to have life,—the heat appears to give it voluntary action, and the
sense of its power of injury adds to the emotion with which it is
regarded; as well as the fact that it takes and preserves the form into
which it flows. In this every-day world a new sensation is a new
delight. I have read somewhere of a French lady, who went to Rome to
kiss the Pope’s toe, because it made her heart beat quicker so to do.
Certainly, seeing the diminutive Cyclops pour the glowing living liquid
from their cauldron, viewing it run fiercely into the various portions
of the mould, and then grow tranquil and dark as its task was fulfilled,
imparted, I know not why or how, a thrill to the frame.
After this we were taken to an outhouse, in which there were articles
for sale—no bracelets, nor chains, nor necklaces; chiefly small
statuettes of Napoleon and Frederic the Great.
I would willingly remain here some days longer; and, above all, I should
like to visit Potzdam and the Peacock Island. It is impossible; and we
shall proceed to-morrow by railroad to Dresden.
LETTER VII.
Arrival at Dresden.—Rabenau.—Gallery of Dresden.—Madonna di San
Sisto.—Pictures of Correggio.
JULY 30TH.
A direct railroad from Berlin to Dresden is talked of: as it is, we were
obliged to go round by Leipsig. On this account those travellers who
have carriages prefer posting; the conveyance of a carriage by a
railroad being always expensive. In no part of the world, however, is
the speed of steam more acceptable; a drearier prospect of level desert
cannot be imagined. I felt this the less, for being very much fatigued,
and not well, I slept nearly all the way. We arrived at about two at
Leipsig, dined at the Hôtel de Saxe, and embarked on the Dresden
railroad. The carriages are small and uncomfortable. As we drew near
Dresden, the country assumed a different aspect; hills appeared, and we
beheld again some of the charms of earth. The station is in the New
Town, and a drosky took us to the Hôtel de Pologne, which Murray
mentions as the best; but in this he is mistaken. It is an hotel a good
deal frequented by Englishmen, travelling tutors, and their pupils; but
the hotels to which all families go are in the Neu Markt. There are
several on a scale as extensive and complete as the Hôtel de Saxe, at
Leipsig.
We expected to find a friend here conversant with the town to give us
information and advice. We learn that he, as well as everybody else, is
away; but instead of going to some fashionable baths, he is rusticating
at Rabenau, a village some seven miles off. We at once resolved to visit
him there; and hiring one of the hack carriages, we the next morning set
out on this expedition.
AUGUST 1ST.
At first we followed the course of the Elbe, beneath picturesque cliffs,
and then turning off we got among some cross-roads of the most
impracticable description, up a steep slope; when we reached the top we
found a chasm, in the depth of which the village we sought is situated.
The road was far too precipitous for the carriage to descend, so we
walked down. The country has a singular aspect. In other mountainous
lands, we live in the valleys, and look up to the hills as they lift
themselves towards the sky. Here, however, we descend from the plain
into the ravine. These words require further explanation. I have
mentioned that we ascended a hill: this was composed of arable land, the
fields, unbroken by tree or rock, spread round in smooth upland; but in
the midst we found the chasm, the fissure, the rent I mentioned, and we
descended, as it were, down into the bosom of the earth—and deeper,
deeper, till the wooded hills close round and almost shut out the sky,
and a brawling stream, which turns a mill, frets its way between rocks
clothed by trees, that nearly meet on either side. Nothing can be more
peaceful, more secluded, more shut in; and if not wildly sublime, yet
rock and wood and torrent combined to render it picturesque; a rustic
bridge crossed the stream, and there, abutting against the hill side,
stood the mill, and before the mill a large pleasant room for the
reception of guests, for many come, especially on feast days, to dine
here. Here our friend had betaken him to compose his opera. Beside the
dashing waterfalls, beneath the music-giving pines; and in grassy nooks
shaded by mossy rocks and tree-grown precipices, he found a spot whose
breath was melody, whose aspect imparted peace. Earth had opened, and
this little ravine was a very nest adorned by nature’s hand with her
choicest gifts. When we arrived he was absent; he had gone with his
note-book to study among the pines. You know and admire his
compositions. Thanks to them, Shelley’s Poems have found an echo of
sweet sounds worthy of them. The fanciful wildness, the tender
melancholy, the holy calm of the poet, have met a similar inspiration on
the part of the musician. They have as much melody as the Italian, as
much science as the German school—they appertain most, indeed, to the
last; but the airs themselves are original. The song of “Arethusa,” and
that entitled “Spirit of Night,” are perhaps the best. The one, light
and fanciful; the other, solemn and impassioned; both, beautiful. The
rest are second only to these.[9]
We wandered about rather disconsolate and hungry till our friend
appeared, who joyously welcomed us; and dinner was ordered, and ready in
a trice. The fare was not very choice, nor delicately served; but very
characteristic of what one has read of middle life in Germany. To this
secluded bower families came—or students—or a fond pair stole hither
from the crowd, to drink beer and smoke on the rustic seats beneath the
trees. It was easy, however, to escape from these groups deeper into the
ravine, or into other fissures of earth of a similar nature, which
branched off; or, clambering up the cliffs, to find freer air on the
hill-top. The daughter of the miller, not particularly pretty, but
willing and good-humoured, waited on us. Snow-white table-cloths, and
sparkling, inviting dinner apparatus, unfortunately, were not among the
comforts; but the meats were eatable—the trout more than that; the whole
not good enough to invite lingering over the meal; and again we
sauntered beside the torrent, and reposed under the trees, and talked
over our plans and a thousand other subjects, with the zest of people
who found a new and willing listener after long seclusion.
Our eager love of Italy has struck a spark and lighted a similar flame
in the breast of our friend. He intended repairing to Vienna in the
winter. He now proposes taking Venice in his way; so that, if we will
remain a month at Dresden, he will accompany us at least so far on our
southern journey. It is thus arranged; not, perhaps, for the best—for,
if the heats continue, any town must be disagreeable—still we have come
so far into the heart of Germany, that there can be no harm, though it
be not the town season, in lingering a few weeks in one of its most
celebrated cities. We have accordingly taken convenient lodgings in the
Alt Markt; and here we are.
Already, you may be sure, we have visited the Gallery—a labyrinth of
lofty halls, adorned by a very mine of painted canvas, which thoroughly
to explore would indeed be difficult. Some of its chief gems are in one
room. Entering this, we are at once commanded and awed by the “Madonna
di San Sisto,” the Virgin bearing the Infant God in her arms, by
Raphael. As a painting, technically speaking, I believe there are faults
found with it: worst of all, it has been retouched and restored; but no
criticism can check the solemn impression it inspires. The Madonna is
not the lowly wife of Joseph the carpenter: she is the Queen of Heaven;
she advances surrounded by celestial rays, all formed of innumerable
cherubim, from whose countenances beam the glory that surrounds her. The
majesty of her countenance, “severe in youthful beauty,” demands worship
for her as the mother of the Infant Saviour, whom she holds in her arms.
And he, the Godhead (as well as feeble mortals can conceive the
inconceivable, and yet which once it is believed was visible) sits
enthroned on his brow, and looks out from eyes full of lofty command and
conscious power. With one hand, he makes the sign of blessing, as in
Catholic countries this is bestowed. Below are two angels—both lovely;
one inexpressibly so—who are looking up. I have seen copies and
engravings from this picture; I have seen these angels well imitated,
but never the mother and child. In some, the angelic beauty is
sacrificed in the endeavour to portray the majestic glance, which thus
becomes stern; or the dignity fades, that the beauty, which thus becomes
inexpressive, may be preserved. In truth, copies are very inefficient
things; prints are often better; but if you look at the originals, such
weak types fade into insignificance.
There are four large Correggios in this room; all among his earlier
pictures. As paintings, I am told that they rank higher than the
Raphael. They gain by being looked at and studied; the art of painting
has never, nor can ever be carried further than the Chiaro Oscuro of
this admirable artist; and the attitudes of the figures—the expression
of some of the faces—especially of St. Sebastian, in one of them,
thrills the frame. Now, the sense of adoration is cold in men’s breasts,
and painters can neither see in others, nor conceive within their own
breasts, a passion as absorbing as love, while it elevates and purifies
those who feel it till their features shadow forth an angelic nature. A
fifth Correggio is also here—the Magdalen, a small cabinet picture. It
is well known. I am told that Correggio only painted it once; but
Allori, a good painter, but whose conceptions, whose types (to use the
word of the author of “La Poésie Chrétienne”) are not noble, has made
many most admirable copies; it has thus been multiplied; some of the
copies are generally said to be by the hand of Correggio himself; yet,
in the most celebrated of them, I have not seen the mixed expression
which is so wonderful in the face of the original. She is lying on the
earth, in a cavern, supporting her head with her hand, reading the
blessed promises of the Gospel. Her eyes are red with recent and much
weeping; her face expresses earnest hope—or rather scarcely hope yet,
but a yearning which will soon warm into satisfied faith; and she is
eagerly drinking in the sublime consolations that speak peace to her
heart. Her face is not clouded by grief, though you see that she has
grieved with bitterness; nor does it express joy, though you see that
she anticipates happiness. Is not this the triumph of art? You must add
to this inimitable delicacy in shadowing forth expression, an execution
quite unrivalled. The word Chiaro Oscuro, as applied to Correggio’s
paintings, is familiar to every one. This picture teaches more than any
other what it means. With other artists, the flesh in shade, is the
flesh darkened—blackened: here—look at the arms, the throat of the
Magdalen; they are fair as alabaster—or rather, as the fair skin of
woman, and the shadow that obscures them, conceals it in the painting
not more than it would do in reality.
The heat is very great; the hours of the gallery excessively
inconvenient—from nine to one, when it is inexorably closed, that the
attendants may dine at the universal German hour; and they do not open
again. I am convinced that one of the reasons that there is heaviness in
the Germans, is this early hour for their principal, their interminable
meal. Who can be fit for anything, after sitting for two or three hours
at mid-day to a plentiful dinner? After such an act, life must be
extinct in all the nobler functions for some hours; but, as they go to
bed at ten, they do not give scope for the mind to recover itself. To be
sure, they rise at five, and therefore their great men have been able to
achieve so much.
With regard to the gallery, special permission may be obtained, if
sought and paid for, to visit it at other hours. If we were only here
for a day or two, it would be worth while to obtain this; but then an
attendant would accompany us all the time; now we are free to roam at
will. So we shall content ourselves with the public hours.
We are to remain the whole of this month at Dresden; before the end of
it, I hope the heat will diminish. It is so excessive that I mean to
escape for a few days to Rabenau.
LETTER VIII.
Rabenau.—The Gallery.—The Terrace of Brühl.—The Grosse Garten.—The great
Heat.
DRESDEN, AUGUST 12.
Thy mountain torrent and thy narrow vale,
With every pine and fir that grow thereby;
The air that passes thee with gentle wail,
That it may not amidst thy thickets die;
Thine evening’s quiet, and thy morning’s gale,
And thy hot noon-day’s mossy luxury;
Thy crags, whose legend says, “Each rugged rock
An altar is to Him who framed the block.”[10]
In such and other verse has the “valley of beauty, sunny Rabenau,” been
celebrated by one of my friends, who visited it with us, and whose
ardent and poetic imagination was warmed by inspiration in this lonely
spot. I am sorry to say, that, secluded and beautiful as is the narrow
dell, I did not quite share his transports; I obtained no refuge from
the heat, from which I had endeavoured to escape. Truly we enjoyed the
shade of woods and cliffs, and the refreshing murmur of the stream; but
deep down and shut in as is the ravine, we found it close and
breezeless. Besides, to my misfortune, I am more fastidious than a
traveller ought to be. During the day I sought for a cool spot, and even
though I found it not, yet as I loitered among the woods, every object
charmed the eye; and evening came at last, bringing relief and
enjoyment. But at night it was otherwise. The mill is a very rustic cot;
and the Germans are not, as far as I can judge, a cleanly people. At
Kissingen we were obliged to exert ourselves vehemently to get the
floors (which, being of white smooth deal, to use a servant’s phrase,
_show dirt_) washed. Water had never touched the boards of my room at
Rabenau, and in vain I pleaded for a little scouring. Then German beds,
especially in the north of Germany, are uncomfortable. Feather-beds
everywhere are disagreeable; but here they are constructed on the most
odious principle. They are a quarter filled with feathers: so when you
lie down, they inclose you on all sides, as a half-empty bladder does
your finger if you press it. Usually there are mattresses besides, and
one can discard the annoying softness; but at Rabenau there was only a
loose straw palliasse, and one of these disastrous beds, which threw me
into a state of nervous agitation, that turned the night into a period
of pain.
In short, after enduring the annoyance for three nights, P—— and I
quitted it, leaving our poet and musician behind, to indulge, for a few
more days, in the inspirations of the rocky dell. An old woman stowed
carpet-bag, cloaks, and books, into a basket, and putting a weight I
could scarcely lift on her back, walked briskly on before. Like gnomes,
we emerged from the inner recesses of the earth, and ascended to its
outer edge; and again descending the hill side, we reached the high
road, where we hoped to find a carriage sent to meet us. We were
disappointed; but after a perplexing half hour, during which we expected
to have to walk to Dresden, we secured a return britska, and gladly took
our way to our temporary home. Could I have foreseen the heat, I had not
fixed to remain at Dresden so long, but have gone on to wait for our
friend at Töplitz. There is no help now, and I console myself by
recollecting that I am in a city I have long desired to see, and can
store my mind with the memory of a thousand objects, which hereafter I
shall look back on as my choicest treasures.
I ramble in the morning in the Gallery: the heat, indeed, is almost
insupportable; but still I cannot tear myself away. There is a lovely
picture of Rebecca at the well, by Giorgione. There is a fine one, by
Annibal Caracci, of the Angel of Fame. He is springing upwards; wreaths
of laurel hang from his arm; one hand bears a crown, the other holds a
trumpet, and a halo of flame plays round his head. There is something
living and spirit-stirring in this picture, though its colouring is not
pleasing. There are the portraits of his three daughters by Palma
Vecchio: one of them in particular is very beautiful. The women of this
painter resemble those of Titian—the same full feminine form, the same
voluptuous repose, joined to queen-like dignity.
One of the gems of the gallery is the Cristo della Moneta, of Titian,
which Mrs. Jamieson eulogizes with much taste and judgment. It is among
the earliest, and is one of the best of the works of this artist. It is
but a small half-length, containing two figures. The Jew shows a coin to
our Saviour, and asks to whom tribute should be paid. The questioner
looks full of cunning—Jesus, suffering, patient, dignified. As with all
these great painters, the countenance expresses many mingled feelings,
and you read the thoughts of the martyr, revealed by his searching eye
and the sad composure of his mien. “This is a snare. You think to entrap
me. You will not succeed. With a word, I brush away the flimsy web of
evil. But it will not always be thus; the time will come when I shall be
your victim; yet I bear the present insult and future death with
resignation for your sake—for the sake of all mankind. My path is before
me; I tread it patiently and resolutely, though you strew it with
thorns.” All this you read in that face; all gentleness, resignation,
love, and suffering. A connoisseur here objects, that the countenance of
Christ wants dignity; perhaps it does; yet, methinks, it has as much as
the human face, in sorrow, can express. I told you that the gallery
shuts at one. I linger to the last. At a quarter before this hour, the
men come round, and draw down the blinds, leaving the gallery nearly in
darkness. I was in the room containing the Correggios when they did
this. The Notte of that painter is among them: The Shepherds visiting
Jesus in the manger by night, and the only light emanates from the
cradle of the divine child, spreading its halo over the Virgin’s face,
which is bent over the babe, while the shepherds veil their eyes with
their hands from the dazzling effulgence. When, by the drawing down of
the blinds, we were left nearly in darkness, the effect on this picture
was miraculous. The child lay in living beams, which seemed to emanate
from a focus, and spread rays of light around. I could not have believed
that any coloured canvas could have shown such glowing radiance. The
intention of the master becomes more clear, and his wonderful art more
admirable. No doubt the picture was painted for some niche that favoured
the peculiar distribution of light and shadow.
There are some very beautiful specimens of the Dutch school in the
gallery; but I do not, of course, send you a mere catalogue; and in
mentioning those that gave me most pleasure, you know my preference for
Italian pictures.
One day, while wandering about the gallery, I saw a well known face. It
was more than a pleasure; it was indeed a gain to meet the accomplished
Author of “La Poésie Chrétienne” in the very spot where his knowledge
and taste would inform my ignorance and correct my judgment; still more
agreeable it is to learn that he is also bound for Italy. His animated
conversation and refined society will add more than I can express of
interest and pleasure to our rambles.
I drag myself painfully home from the gallery, but find no shade, and
short repose.
We have here only a woman who “does for us,” preparing our breakfast and
attending to our rooms. Our dinner is another affair. Not far from us
there is a Tratoria, kept by a Milanese, well known in Dresden as a good
cook, and where we can obtain food not germanized in its preparation. We
either go and dine there, or have our dinner sent to us; his prices are
exceedingly reasonable. The ceremony of our dinner over, I repose as
well as the sun will let me, which has by this time left one part of our
house and invaded another, making every portion, beyond conception,
sultry. I never found any heat so oppressive. This arises from Dresden
being so inland; and no rain having fallen for six months, the dryness
of the atmosphere renders its high temperature penetrating, subtle,
burning, intolerable.
Evening comes, and though it does not bring with it sufficient coolness
to banish lassitude and even pain, still the heat is diminished, and I
go out to walk or drive. If on foot, we go usually to the Terrace of
Brühl, to which you ascend by a wide flight of steps from the foot of
the bridge. The view here is beautiful. I can imagine circumstances
which would render it sublime. It overlooks the Elbe; and were that
river in “its pride of place”—full—rushing—stormy—it would add movement
and grandeur to the scene. But the waters have ebbed even as the Arno
does, till the bathers almost walk across without any chance of getting
out of their depth; the bed, as a river’s bed always does when the
shrunken stream leaves it exposed, is a deformity to the landscape; and
the extreme dryness of the season has caused the fields on the other
side to resemble those seen by Charles Lamb from his retreat at Dalston.
“Talk of green fields,” he said, “every one has green fields; I have
drab-coloured fields.” I look over the parapet and try to imagine the
river full to the brim; the lower piles of the beautiful bridge bathed
and hidden by tumultuous waves; the domes and spires of the city rising
silent above a turbid, tempestuous, sea-like river: that would be the
scene which is the glory and boast of Dresden; now all is slothful and
stagnant. The same is to be predicated of the company assembled; all the
_beau monde_ of all the towns of Germany is assembled at various baths,
and so I must not wonder that I not only saw no beauty, but nothing
either well-dressed or elegant in the promenades. We have driven to the
Grosse Garten, a large park, filled with fine trees, and were the lawns
laid out in verdant sward, instead of being an incult growth of the
coarsest grass, very uninviting, especially in its present arid state,
the shady walks and glades would be pleasant. I may say the same of all
the other gardens of which this capital boasts. They would be very
delightful, only just now they are deficient in freshness and verdure.
Do not think I say this as a fault-finder, except that they ought to
learn from us what grass when cultivated for ornamental uses ought to
be. I consider the gardens and terraces and pleasure-grounds that adorn
Dresden more beautiful than those of almost any other capital. The fault
is ours, not theirs. The pleasure-grounds of a city ought to be, and in
this case are, adapted to the seasons during which the inhabitants make
use of them. But in the height of summer, Nature only in her free fresh
beauty can afford enjoyment. We have no business to come here now in
search of wood and stream and field, which alone can content our souls,
athirst and wearied by the heat. The fault, as I have said, is ours; not
that of Dresden, which really may be said in some degree to rival
Florence in its pretensions to beauty, and which has of course an
individual character of its own.
P—— goes almost every night to the Opera. The heat is so very great,
that I have only seldom ventured. The house is very pretty; and I had
hoped, as there are some good singers, to hear some of the
_chef-d’œuvres_ of German composers. I am disappointed. At Berlin, we
had _Masaniello_: here we have _La Dame Blanche_—_Die weisse
Frau_—instead of the _Huguenots_, which our musical friend considers the
finest composition of modern times—inferior only to Mozart; superior to
him, inasmuch as orchestral accompaniment is so wonderfully improved and
extended since the day when _Figaro_ and the _Zauberflöte_ were brought
out. I am much disappointed in not hearing this opera. The tenor is a
young, good-looking man, with a very pleasing voice and good style. It
is strange, indeed, how well German _sings_. Look at the language, with
its accumulation of consonants, and it appears worse even than our own
for singing; but in reality it is far better; ours being, from its
peculiar accent, the worst, I believe, in the world; while the German is
smoothed and vocalised and flowing in a manner which, till I heard it
sung by natives, I could not have imagined. This same _sdruccioli_
enunciation does not, however, make it pleasing to the ear when spoken.
Night comes at last. At ten o’clock, all Dresden goes to bed. If you
stay out after, you must pay your porter four groschen. Night comes, but
no cool breeze to calm and refresh. We live in a _troisième_, in the Alt
Markt, and look upon its large square, our windows being turned to the
east. Till a late hour, the people are employed removing the booths in
which they expose their wares during the day, and the clatter they make
prevents repose. Near us is a church tower, with a loud clock; and as I
lie, courting sleep, with my windows of necessity wide open, the sound
of the clock seems to enter my room. We are told, sounds are produced by
vibrations of air, which beginning where the sound is born, spread
themselves further and further; and thus I hear—I feel it. I believe
that I am aware of the moment when the clock strikes; on comes the
sound, louder and louder, till my room is filled as with thunder—and the
wounded sense of hearing would fain fly and escape—but cannot. You can
form no idea what it is to have twelve o’clock thus walk up bodily to
your pillow, in the otherwise deep silence of night.
We have, as yet, seen few of the Hons. I am trying to summon courage and
strength for sightseeing; which will indeed be a task of labour, with
the thermometer above ninety in the shade—in the shade of night,
remember, as well as in that of day.
Adieu.
LETTER IX.
The Green Vaults.—Collection of Porcelain.—Der Freischütz.—The great
Drought.—Preparations for Departure.
DRESDEN, 18TH JULY.
We spent this morning in the Grüne Gewolbe, or Green Vaults, a suite of
apartments containing the treasures of the Kings of Saxony. These
sovereigns were much richer once than they are now; and we are told,
that, in addition to the dazzling piles of jewels and other valuables
here collected, they had amassed large sums of money—all deposited in a
secret strong room under their palace. The money is gone, but treasure
to the amount of several millions remains, and is spread out for view in
eight apartments on the ground floor of the palace, called the Green
Vaults—it is said from the hangings with which these rooms were once
hung. But why vaults? I cannot help thinking the name comes from some
peculiarity appertaining to the former resting-place of the
treasures—underground. These rooms display, indeed, incalculable riches.
The diamonds alone are worth a kingdom. Their immense size and
surpassing lustre must dazzle the eyes when worn. Placed on shelves
behind glass frames, of course their exceeding beauty is not enhanced by
the movement and sparkle which causes diamonds to transcend all other
precious stones. In addition to this almost magical wealth in gems, are
a quantity of beautiful works of art, various and magnificent; they are
some of exquisite carving, some elegant, some strange and fantastic. We
wandered from room to room, wondering at the wealth, amazed by the
profusion of treasure; but you must not expect enthusiasm from me on
these points. There is something in this sort of treasure, when arranged
for show, which takes from their beauty. Pictures are made to be looked
at for themselves. The view of them excites the passions or calms the
heart; or if even only gratifying to the taste, yet they please for
themselves, and require no extraneous interest. It is a bathos indeed to
turn from them to stones from the mine; but diamonds and jewellery, and
even delicately-carved cups, elegant statuettes and fantastic toys, are
agreeable to look at only as objects of personal ornament or use. Show
me a beautiful woman, or an illustrious sovereign, adorned in
jewels—served in cups that cost a province—and the imagination fills up
a picture pleasing to itself—exalting a human being above his
fellows—and glorifying weak humanity in his image. Show me a room in
which a fellow-creature is accustomed to live, where all he or she
touches might ransom a king, and a thousand feelings and sympathies are
awakened. Thus if we read in the “Arabian Nights,” of apartments
supported by columns encrusted in jewels; then also we find some
enchanted prince, who inhabits the wondrous chamber; or if we read of
basins of diamonds and cups of a single pearl, they are tributes to
beauty from love. With regard to these gems, indeed, we need not go so
far afield as the “Arabian Nights” to imagine regal splendour. When
Napoleon held his court in the North, to which “thrones, dominations,
princedoms” thronged—proud hearts swelled beneath these stones, lifted
up with a sense of greatness, and the lovely adorned by them were made
glad by the consciousness of admiration.
I am afraid my lion-hunting at Dresden is over. After the Grüne Gewolbe
I went to see the collection of porcelain, in an underground suite of
rooms at the Japanese palace. I own I was disappointed. I expected to
find a quantity of curious and exquisite Dresden china. The collection
consists in specimens of porcelain, fabricated from the earliest times
in all parts of the world. I confess a very slight inspection would have
satisfied my curiosity. But I was with a party, and I dare say we spent
two hours in these rooms, which were really vaults. At first their cool
atmosphere, after the excessive heats from which we are suffering, was
agreeable; but I got chilled, and caught a cold. I have been confined to
the house for some days, and feel myself quite incapacitated from
undergoing the fatigue of further sightseeing.
JULY 20TH.
In spite of indisposition, I have contrived to go to the theatre, to
hear _Der Freischütz_ in its native country. Shroeder Devrient is the
_prima donna_; and a pretty young _débutante_, a great favourite here,
was the Bridesmaid. The orchestra and singing were, of course, perfect;
and the music of this opera is indeed enchanting. It is much to be
regretted that the talking part is not arranged for recitative: we are
no longer accustomed to the mixture of singing and speaking, and it
grates on the ear. The imagination easily lends itself at first, and is
soon carried away by the music to admit as natural and proper discourses
in melody and singing; but the change from one to the other jars the
ear, and unhinges the fancy. We had been told that nearly a year had
been devoted to the getting up of the scenery and _diablerie_. They were
very shabby and meagre. When Linda throws open her window in her first
exquisite _scena_, some unlucky urchin had drawn an actual face on the
very oily-looking moon—a laugh through the house was inevitable.
There is an Italian company here, with a handsome _prima donna_. There
is something very antagonistic in the German and Italian operatic
schools. They despise each other mutually. Professors mostly side with
the Germans, but I am not sure that they are right.
The Opera begins at six; it is over by nine; and everybody is in bed by
ten. If you come home after that hour, the porter has a right to a fee
for being disturbed from his bed at untimely hours: as in Paris, you pay
him if you come home after twelve. If early rising conduces to health,
how very healthy the Germans ought to be! But they have other habits by
no means so consonant to our notions of what is good for the
preservation of life. Their dislike of fresh air amounts almost to
frenzy; this, joined to their smoking, and, in winter, to the close
stoves, must make their domestic hearth (only they have no hearth) very
incompatible with our tastes.
JULY 25TH.
The heat continues. Most of the wells and springs of the town are dried
up: that in our house yet affords a small supply. It is said that
Government is about to issue an order that no water, except that of the
Elbe, is to be used, except for culinary purposes. People must send to
the river (and that runs shallow) for supplies to wash their clothes and
keep their rooms clean. I do not think they use much water at any time
for the latter purpose.
The drought indeed becomes alarming. News came, the other day, that a
village was burnt to the ground, and the calamity was attributed to some
trees taking fire from the extreme dryness of the atmosphere.
Our month is at an end. We are about to undertake a long, long journey
to Venice. The dry season has defeated our hopes of ascending the Elbe
in a steamer as far as Prague. Professor Hughes, an Englishman long
established at Dresden, who receives gentlemen in his house for the
purposes of education, and whose kindness has been of the greatest use
to us, has bargained with a _Lohnkutscher_, or _voiturier_, to take us
to Prague, by way of the Saxon Switzerland; as we intend to make the
tour of that singular district. From Prague we shall make a fresh start,
and be guided by circumstances as to the manner. We hope to find some
sort of railroad after Budweis, which will abbreviate a part of our
journey.
I leave several sights unseen. I fear that sightseeing will renew my
attack of illness, and delay our leaving Dresden, and our journey
towards mountain, forest, and stream, for which this heat and drought
inspire an ardent longing. My imagination takes refuge at times in shady
spots beside murmuring rills, and I look out on the dusty Alt Markt in
despair.
When I returned from Rabenau a week or two ago, I found a grasshopper
nestled in my muslin dress, and thoughtlessly I shook it off, out of
window. That night the act weighed on my conscience. It was a stroke of
adversity for the insect, to be transported from the fresh grass and
cool streamlets of wooded Rabenau, and cast out to die in the arid,
herbless market-place of a big town. In the morning, when I opened my
eyes, to my great satisfaction, I found that my grasshopper had rebelled
against my cruelty, and had leapt back into the room; it lay evidently
in great distress on the floor. I gave it water, which it drank
greedily, and put it in a _cornet_ of paper;—that evening, M——, in her
walk, on the other side of the Elbe, took it with her, and set it free
on the grassy banks of the river. It was not its native glen of
Rabenau—but it was all I could do.
In olden times, this insect might have returned to thank me in the form
of a fairy, but the days of wonders are passed. However, pining as I am,
to repose “in close covert, by some brook,” thirsting to betake myself
to “some wide-watered shore,” I hope to be even kinder to myself than to
my victim, and in a few more days to be far, far from the dusty Alt
Markt, amid more congenial scenes.
LETTER X.
The Saxon Switzerland.
DRESDEN, 26TH AUGUST.
Adieu to Dresden—I shall probably never see it more. I cannot say that I
visited it (as far as regards the outside, for I saw no more,) under
unfavourable circumstances—for the great cold that often prevails, were
worse than the heat. Still, every act, every step is a painful exertion.
Besides, I dislike all towns; I would never willingly live in one,
summer or winter. To be near a metropolis usually—within a drive, and
visit it, is pleasant—but I never feel happy except when I live in the
palaces or secret coverts of Nature—mountain—forest—stream—or the shores
of ocean: these are my true home.
Adieu to Dresden. A long, long journey is before us. We are in a
charming ignorance of how we shall proceed, and of how much time the way
will occupy: all we know is, that we must make our way as economically
as we can to Venice, whither we are bound.
Our first destination is, as I told you, the Saxon Switzerland. We have
only time to make a limited tour in this singular region. Professor
Hughes, who has been settled for many years in Dresden, has given us
instructions how to guide our steps, so that we may see some of the most
striking points. I transcribe them, as it may be useful to you if ever
you visit these parts. I must premise that we have bargained with a
_Lohnkutscher_ to take us to Prague. We sent him and his carriage on
with my maid and our luggage, and we are to rejoin them at Arbesau, he
having provided us with another vehicle and driver for our excursion:—
“Start at five o’clock.
“Pilnitz.
“Lohmen.
“Uttervalde—walk through the valley to the Bastei, where the carriage
must again meet you.
“Leave the Bastei at latest at 3 o’clock; drive to Hochstein and
Schandau.
“Leave Schandau the same evening, at latest at 5 o’clock, for the
Wasserfall. Order a mule to meet you at the foot of the Kuhstall; walk
to the Kuhstall; descend; take the mule to the Kleine and Grosse
Winterberg.
“Leave the next morning at nine o’clock for the Prebischthor and
Hernitskretschen on a mule; take a boat for Tätchen; stop at the Bad;
order a carriage for Arbesau.”
AUGUST 27TH.
We left Dresden more than an hour later than the time appointed—a
disaster, as we were to crowd so much into one day. We took the road on
the left of the Elbe, to Pilnitz and Lohmen. The road grew more varied
as we advanced, but I looked out in vain for traces of the mountainous
region which we were to visit. The landscape was pretty, but tame, and
when we reached the little village of Uttervalde, I wondered why it was
necessary to leave the carriage; what road could be here that would not
admit a dozen waggons abreast if need were? However, in obedience to our
instructions, we did alight, and ordering the carriage to meet us at the
Bastei, we hired a sort of open sedan, a comfortable arm-chair placed on
poles carried by two men, for me; my companions were to walk, and we set
out, as it seemed, to look for wonders where none could be.
But immediately on quitting the village the portals of the mountains
opened before us, and we plunged into their recesses. It is difficult to
describe the peculiarity of this region; it differs so much from every
other. Rabenau shared in some degree in its characteristics. Generally,
when you see mountains, they seem (as they are) upraised above the
plains which are the abodes of men; lifting their mighty heads towards
heaven. In Saxony, the impression is as if the tops of the hills were
the outer circumference of the globe, strangely fissured and worn away
by the action of water. We plunge into depths of the earth; we might
fancy some sprite of upper air had forced a passage so to reach the
abode of subterranean spirits. The mystic imagination of the Germans has
indeed peopled this region with gnome and kobold, who watch over hidden
treasure. A thousand romantic legends are associated with scenes whose
aspect awakens the fancy. In uncivilized and disturbed times the
persecuted and houseless found refuge in these secret recesses from
lawless freebooters or religious bigots.
As we proceeded through the narrow ravine, the rocks rose
perpendicularly on each hand, and shut us in as with walls, but not
walls as at Via Mala, abrupt and bare. The precipices are broken into a
thousand fantastic shapes, and formed into rough columns, pillars, and
peaks numberless; with huge caverns, mighty portals, and towering
archways; the whole clothed with pines, verdant with a luxuriant growth
of various shrubs; and, but that for the most part the long drought has
silenced them, resonant with waterfalls. The stream that makes its way
in the depth has thus lost all energy and variety—it ripples murmuring
in its rocky channel. The path, ascending and descending over the rocks,
winds at its side. Sometimes the fissure nearly meets overhead, and the
sun can never shine on the stream below. There is a charm of novelty in
the scene quite inexpressible. We penetrate Nature’s secret chambers,
which she has adorned with the wildest caprice. Various ravines branch
off from the main one, and become numerous and intricate, varied by huge
caverns of strange shapes; some open to the sky, some dark and deep;
there are little verdant spots in the midst, too, where the turf was
green and velvetty, and invited us to rest. We were taken to the
particular spots selected as most remarkable for the formation or
grandeur of the rocks, or where cascades, reduced unhappily to a thread
of water, were accustomed to scatter their spray abroad. The whole way,
I must tell you, was one continued ascent, and this explains the
wondrous view we gain when we emerge again into outer air.
At length we left the ravine, and entered a forest of firs. After
traversing this we found ourselves, as if by magic, at a high elevation,
and stood upon the Bastei or Bastion. This is a vast mass of rock, that
rises 800 feet above the Elbe, in the depths and centre of which the
rent was made which we had thridded. The uttermost edge projects far
beyond the face of the precipice, and here we stood looking on a scene
so utterly different from every other, that it is difficult to describe
it. A caprice of nature is the name usually bestowed on this district;
while geologists explain how the action of water on a peculiar species
of rock has caused the appearance before us. It is still the same,
though on a gigantic and sublime scale. The earth has been broken, and
fissured, and worn away. The Elbe sweeps majestically at the foot of the
Bastei; a plain is spread beneath, closed in by an amphitheatre of huge
columnar hills, which do not, as is usually the case, begin with gradual
upland, but rise at once in shape fantastic,—isolated one from the
other. Some of the highest and most abrupt have been used as fortresses.
The sides of the precipices of the Bastei are clothed in a forest of
firs and other wood.[11] The whole scene was bathed in dazzling
sunshine. The heat was so great, that it was painful to stand on the
giddy verge, which is protected by wooden rails (for the whole district
is prepared for show); yet it was almost impossible to tear oneself
away.
There is an inn at the Bastei, where we dined. German cooking is very
bad, and we had to wait long, and were served slowly. A young Englishman
dined at the same table. In a classification of travellers, what name is
to be given to those who travel only for the sake of saying that they
have travelled? He was _doing_ his Saxon Switzerland; he had _done_ his
Italy, his Sicily; he had _done_ his sunrise on Mount Etna; and when he
should have _done_ his Germany, he would return to England to show how
destitute a traveller may be of all impression and knowledge, when they
are unable to knit themselves in soul to nature, nor are capacitated by
talents or acquirements to gain knowledge from what they see. We must
become a part of the scenes around us, and they must mingle and become a
portion of us, or we see without seeing and study without learning.
There is no good, no knowledge, unless we can go out from, and take some
of the external into, ourselves: this is the secret of mathematics as
well as of poetry.
We indulged, as well we might, in gazing delightedly from this
battlement of nature on the magnificent scene around; and then we turned
to the prosaic part of travelling, the necessity of getting on. Our
driver (provided by the master _voiturier_ who was to take us to Prague)
had been told to meet us at the Bastei; he pretended that this was
impossible; that no carriage ever came up, and we must walk some three
or four miles to join him. We found all this to be utterly false, and
that the usual custom was for the carriages to come up to the Bastei.
With a burning sun above, and a good deal of labour before us, we were
not willing to encounter any unnecessary fatigue: so we sent a man to
order the carriage to come to us. It came; but the _kutscher_ refused to
take us unless we paid him something extra. This was an obvious piece of
rascality, and we begged our friend, who was absolute master of German,
to remonstrate with him. But he had, during his long stay in this
country, acquired too much _laisser-aller_ for our impatient English
natures. Nothing can equal the slow style in which a German makes a
bargain, or discusses a disputed point. He never thinks that he can
argue with any success, unless he puts one hand on the other’s shoulder,
and brings his face close to him. Indeed, this habit of coming so very
near in conversation is, as far as I remarked, usual in Germany. I have
often edged off till I got into a corner, and then there was no help
but, if possible, to run away. To return to our kutscher. With ignorant
and deaf ears we saw him and our friend argue and re-argue the point
while time flew. Our instructions were, to leave the Bastei at three at
latest; it was now long past four. Why not yield to the demand? I
believe travellers alone know the swelling indignation and obstinate
resistance with which, at the worst of times, they meet extortion. We
_would_ not yield; and finding our friend still vainly discussing,
another among us took our books and cloaks from the carriage, and,
pumping up the only German words he could command, said to the
fellow:—“_Kannen sie nach Dresden gehen._” If he had been master, he
might have taken us at our word; but he knew we should meet his master
at Arbesau, so he took fright and consented, without extra pay, to take
us to Schandau. He had been engaged to take us some four miles beyond;
but we (foolishly enough) consented to be satisfied with being driven so
far.
Descending from the Bastei, the road wound round hills, with a stream on
the other hand. Schandau is thus placed, and it is a very pretty country
inn; the stream in front, with a bridge, and before a garden, secluded
and peaceful, reminded one of the inn at Burford Bridge, near Boxhill.
It would have been as well to remain here could we have given three
instead of two days to our excursion. But this was impossible; and we
were anxious, as evening was advancing, to get on. We asked if we could
have a _calèche_ to take us to the foot of the Kuhstall, which is the
last point where a carriage is serviceable; the rest of the excursion
must be performed on foot, in chairs, or on mules.
Our instructions bid us leave Schandau by five at latest; it was now
nearly six: so we begged them to hasten with the carriage. Fair promises
were given, and we loitered away half an hour in the garden of the inn,
and then we grew impatient. After a time it became apparent that the
people were playing the very usual trick of delaying bringing a
carriage, till too late, so to force us to sleep at their inn. We were
rather slow at arriving at this conviction, and not the less resolute to
resist the imposition; indeed, yielding would put us to great
inconvenience. After answering our expostulations for some time with
false promises, they at last impudently declared that we could not have
a carriage. Our only resource was the fellow who brought us from
Dresden, and who by compact ought at once to have taken us to the place
whither we wished to go. Two thalers bribed him, and he agreed to
proceed. We asked for a guide, and engaged him; but, at setting off from
Schandau, he said it was impossible for a lady to reach the Grosse
Winterberg that night, and he refused to go.
On the whole, with evening closing in, the guide deserting, and several
miles before us, to sleep at Schandau seemed our best resource; but we
would not; the cool evening air was pleasant. I did not object to a
little adventure. We should, it is true, miss some points usually
visited, but we should gain a great object with the tourist—that of
viewing the Grosse Winterberg by moonlight and at sunrise;—we went on,
therefore, the road winding at the base of wooded hills, till we reached
the foot of the Kuhstall. The mules were all gone, and so were the
guides. A countryman who was doing work at the inn of the Grosse
Winterberg, offered to show us the way thither, and leaving the
carriage, and loading the man with books and carpet-bag, we set out.
We had been obliged to give up the idea of viewing Kuhstall and the
Kleine Winterberg, and aimed only at reaching the Grosse, which is
situated at the top of a very high hill. It was now past eight o’clock,
and evening had closed in. The hill we climbed was clothed with pines,
and it was impossible to conceive a more fatiguing ascent. The soil was
sand, into which we sank to our ankles, as we toiled up. No breath of
air stirred the trees. After the first chill which followed sunset, the
night became excessively warm; shut in as we were by trees, we were
oppressed by heat and toil. To add to our troubles, it soon grew
pitch-dark—not a star-beam penetrated the trees—our guide went on
before, and we provided him with a cigar, the light of which alone
showed us where he was; and now and then my companions struck sparks
from a flint to throw transient radiance on the path, which bordered (I
believe, but we could see nothing) a steep precipice on one hand; on the
other, we had the broken surface of the mountain, and the boughs of the
pines overhead. The way seemed endless—but as we had conquered the
people at Schandau, and got our own way, we would not be dispirited—and
laughed at our difficulties—and toiled up the steep, plunging as we went
deep into the sand. At last we reached the top of the hill, and another
half hour brought us to the inn. It was eleven o’clock—so you may
imagine that the way had been long, and that we were not a little
fatigued.
Late as it was, we determined to reward ourselves with a little
amusement. Supper was ordered—and we ordered also three Bohemian girls
with their harps. Here, as in Wales, harps form a part of the
entertainment given to travellers at the inns; but in Bohemia, they are
played by girls instead of men. The harpists were gone, it was so late;
but at our call they came, and played and sang several wild national
airs. We were now on the frontiers of Bohemia, whence the race of
Gipsies was said in old times to have emigrated. I do not know whether
there was any Gipsy blood in these girls—their eyes had not the peculiar
cast of the race. One of the three was very handsome, and looked
proud—as indeed she was—and listened with an air of haughty disdain to
every compliment. They had on their faces, that which too often rests on
the countenances of the lower order of Germans—an expression of
sullenness. I soon grew too tired to listen, and left them playing. The
waning moon rose over the sea of hills on which I looked from my window;
I was almost too fatigued to see. At sunrise I started up to gaze;—the
glory of awakening day was on the mountain tops, which looked more like
a stormy ocean than a scene of earth. I scarcely know what I saw; my
eyes were drooping with sleep; I knew my companions would not rise, so I
went again to bed, and when I awoke, it seemed as if I had dreamed of a
glorious sunrise in fairy-land. I looked from the tiny casement of my
room—we were on the highest of many hundred hills, nearly two thousand
feet above the level of the sea, and commanded a wide horizon, inclosing
a district strangely convulsed, wildly heaped up with mountains and
rocks of various and fantastic shapes, clothed with wood.
Murray speaks of the inn at the Grosse Winterberg as two or three
separate huts, where sorry accommodation may be obtained. This state of
things is reformed. On the highest pinnacle of the mountain is a very
good country inn, such as may remind the traveller of those found in
North Wales. The host was very civil, and we had to put his civility to
the test. I had put a quantity of thaler notes in my writing-desk, and
this had gone with our luggage; by a miscalculation, I had not brought
enough of the dirty paper for our exclusion, and the less that I had
expected to pay for our carriage at Prague. But the fellow who drove us
insisted on the money, twelve thalers, before he left us at Schandau;
two more we had to give him to take us to the foot of the hill of the
Grosse Winterberg; and this had entirely drained us. The master of the
inn readily agreed to pass us on to the host at Tätchen, who again would
trust us till we reached Arbesau, and were possessed of our dear
thalers. It is impossible to express the sense of littleness that comes
over one when, in travelling, one has no money at all. Gulliver, in the
palm of the hand of the Brobdignagian reaper, could not have felt
smaller, till we received our host’s ready consent to trust us.
We ought to have left this eagle’s nest on a rock at seven, or, at
latest, at nine o’clock. But loitering was the order of the day; and I
resolved to give way—to make no remonstrance—and see how long we should
linger. We went up to a terrace on the roof of the house, to see a yet
wider prospect; we looked at the different specimens of Bohemian glass;
we listened to the harpists. My mule was brought; but when three of the
party were assembled, a fourth was missing; and when he came, another
had gone. We got away, at last, at one o’clock.
Immediately on leaving this elevated spot, we plunged down a ravine
clothed with firs, just such a one, I suppose, as we had climbed, only
it led in an opposite direction. We were soon told that we had crossed
the frontier line, and were in Bohemia. The toil was considerable; the
descent so steep, that to walk had been less fatiguing; but, as I was
about to get off my mule, another ascent began; and very high and steep
it proved till we reached a pinnacle abutting over the side of the
mountain, which might almost rival the Bastei. The view was different:
the absence of the river rendered it less beautiful. From the side of
this rock springs the Presbichthor—a natural arch of vast size, that
spans a ravine. The face of the rock from which it springs is cut into
terraces; and you climb higher and higher, from one to the other, and
reach the summit of the arch. The scene is inconceivably wild. Earth
looks rent, convulsed, shattered—isolated, disjointed mountains, rising
abruptly from the plain, their sides clothed by firs, are spread around.
The majestic arch forms an object of great beauty in the midst. There is
an inn here for the refreshment of travellers. We only obtained,
however, some bad bread and cheese.
The descent was very abrupt and fatiguing. I walked most part of the way
till we reached the Kamnitz, a large stream, or rather river. This added
softness, yet movement, to the scene, but took from its singularity. The
way was long, but we reached at last Hirniskretschen, where there is a
very dirty inn, crowded by travellers—traders, they seemed to be. No
rustic holiday inn was this; nor one kept for the accommodation of
tourists, but one for the use of the lower order of country people.
Where extortion is not manifest, we ought not to quarrel with the higher
prices of hotels in show places, since they are there—oases of
civilisation amidst the desert of native dirt and discomfort—for our
sole use; and they must be maintained by what they gain during seasons
of tours. The singular filth and squalid appearance of this wretched
place made us regard even the misdeeds of Schandau leniently.
This village is on the Elbe; and gladly we hired a boat, and exchanged
the fatiguing descent of mountain paths for the repose of being carried
swiftly and smoothly down the river. In truth, we did not see the Elbe
to advantage. On account of the long drought, it had shrunk in its bed:
but still a majestic river, sweeping between mountainous banks, always
presents varied and agreeable prospects, which seem all peace and
enjoyment; and, after our two days of toil, we were right glad of the
repose.
Midway on our voyage, we came to the Austrian frontier. The Austrian
Government has not joined the league which unites the rest of Germany,
and has put an end to the annoyance a traveller suffered, passing in one
day the frontiers of several States, and stopped, and his luggage
examined at each. However, though the Austrian preserves his right to
annoy, he amiably abstained. I had given my passport to my maid, but was
not even obliged to get out of the boat to shew myself, the explanation
given by my companions being received even with deference. A
custom-house officer stepped into the boat: eight gute-groschen (a piece
of money similar in value to a shilling) caused him at once to exchange
an appearance of extreme official severity to the excess of considerate
courtesy. We were detained but a few minutes, and found ourselves
admitted in the much-feared Austria with less trouble than we ever
before passed a frontier.
Towards sunset we arrived at Tätchen; our boatmen and the bill at the
Grosse Winterberg were defrayed by the master of the hotel here. We
ordered dinner, and my friends went to bathe in the Elbe. We passed an
hour or two pleasantly, but after this, grew uneasy. It was our wish to
get on beyond Arbesau that same night, that we might reach Prague on the
following day. But the Germans never hurry. It was past six before we
got a very bad dinner, with black bread, which nothing but long habit
would render edible; and then we had to wait for the carriage, or rather
cart, which was to take us on. The first hour or two after sunset was
very chilly: that passed, the usual heat returned. I was excessively
fatigued, and the jolting of our vehicle was distressing. It seemed as
if we should never arrive; and it was past midnight before we entered
the open court-yard of the inn, where all slept silently beneath the
moon except the dog left by our _voiturier_ to guard the carriage. In
our earnestness to get on we were unreasonable enough to call our
coachman up and beg him to set off. He was very angry at being disturbed
by our outrageous design; and returned grumbling to his straw: for these
people never undress, but turn in among straw in the stables, close to
their horses. I confess I was not sorry for the ill success of our
magnanimous design. We got some tea and some tubs of water, and these
were much more suited to us.
LETTER XI.
Baths of Töplitz.—Lobositz.—Arrival at Prague.
AUGUST 30TH.
If we annoyed our kutscher by rousing him and desiring to set out at
twelve at night, he was much more annoyed at our dilatoriness in the
morning. We paid our accumulated account here, and became again
independent of the world.
The country round Arbesau is the scene of one of the most fatal of the
battles, the defeat of Vandamme, which caused the overthrow of Napoleon.
The landscape is otherwise devoid of interest. Bare, sandy uplands are
spread around without tree or inclosure. I dare say if we looked about,
we should discover some rift in the earth, as at Rabenau, and descend
amidst shady woods, and murmuring streams, and strange romantic rocks. A
subterranean habitation, a gnome may be supposed to have formed, to lure
a sylphid to his deep abode, which is all but incommunicable with upper
air.
And this idea was almost realised, as descending the steep from Arbesau
we reached Töplitz, which is situated in a valley on the banks of the
Saubach. I hear that the country around is beautiful: of this we could
see little. Our first achievement, after ordering dinner, was to visit
the Baths. Anything more delicious you cannot imagine. Instead of
entering a dirty coffin, as at Kissingen, or the sort of sarcophagus
usually used for such purpose, one corner of the lofty and comparatively
spacious room in which you bathe is lowered, and you go down a few
marble steps into a basin of the same material, filled with water of
delightful temperature and pellucid clearness. I never experienced a
more agreeable bath. After dinner we wandered about the public gardens,
which are very pretty, and diversified with sheets of water, and ate
ices. Here we had the first specimen of a currency which is very odd,
and puts strangers off their guard. We had left thalers, which are three
shillings, and Bavarian florins, which are two francs, for Austrian
florins, which value two shillings. We were surprised to receive our
bill for our dinner, at Töplitz, nearly thirteen florins. We
expostulated, and it was explained: Murray also gave us the key to this
mystery—all pecuniary transactions are carried on in a nominal currency,
called _schein_, two and a half in name larger than the _müntz_, which
is the real currency. After a complicated sum in arithmetic—multiplying
our bill by two, and then dividing it by five—we found our dinner (for
four) cost us five florins twelve kreutzers. The annoyance of receiving
a bill double what it ought to be, thus agreeably relieved by finding it
reduced to less than half, pacifies the traveller, and takes away his
power of discovering whether it is much or little in its mitigated
state. We slept this night at a dirty inn at Lobositz.
31ST AUGUST.
We reached Prague this evening, stopping on our way at Doxan. The
country is fertile and pleasant, but not striking. In the afternoon we
saw Prague as we thought close, and expected to reach it in five
minutes:—I think we were about two hours. Prague lies on the banks of
the Moldau, and a part of the city climbs the height by which we
descended; but the entrance is on the other side of the river, at the
other extremity of the town; and the road makes a long circuit, sweeping
round the hill and crossing the river at some distance from the gate.
Looking down on Prague from the height, and with it thus in view so
long, as we descended, it wore a most picturesque and almost eastern
aspect, crowned as it is with minarets, domes, and spires.
The portion of Prague that lies on the banks of the river, is divided
into an old and new town. The Neustadt, built by the Emperor Charles IV.
in 1348 (the date of this novelty gives a delightful air of
venerableness to the older portions of the city), was at first separated
from the rest of the city by a ditch. This is now filled up, and gives
the name to the handsomest street of the new town—the Graben—in which
the best hotels are situated. There was no room at the Schwarzes Ross,
which is considered the best; so we went to the Drei Linden, which we
find comfortable.
We had intended proceeding immediately; but one of my companions is
indisposed, and accordingly we remain a day at Prague. I write this
letter, and now I am told the carriage is ready, and I am going out to
see some of the lions. I shall have time for few, for many hours have
been wasted this morning, and but short space of daylight
remains.—Adieu.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
-----
Footnote 1:
Assassination is of frequent occurrence in Italy: these are
perpetrated chiefly from jealousy. There are crimes frequent with us
and the French of which they are never guilty. Brutal murders
committed for “filthy lucre” do not occur among them. We never hear of
hospitality violated, or love used as a cloak that the murderers may
possess themselves of some trifle more or less of property. Their acts
of violence are, indeed, assassinations, committed in the heat of the
moment—never cold-blooded. Even the history of their banditti was full
of redeeming traits, as long as they only acted for themselves and
were not employed by government. There is plenty of cheating in
Italy—not more, perhaps, than elsewhere, only the system is more
artfully arranged; but there is no domestic robbery. I lived four
years in Tuscany. I was told that the servant who managed my
expenditure cheated me dreadfully, and had reason to know that during
that time she saved nearly a hundred crowns: but I never at any time,
when stationary or travelling, was robbed of the smallest coin or the
most trifling article of property. On the contrary, instances of
scrupulous honesty are familiar to all travellers in Italy, as
practised among the poorest peasantry.
Footnote 2:
We have since imported wine from him, and the transaction has turned
out quite successful.
Footnote 3:
Crossing lately from Boulogne to Folkestone, I find, that in the new
hotel still in progress, but partly opened, at the latter place, they
are following this plan; and a printed tariff is hung up in each room.
All is clean and comfortable, and the attendants civil and willing. If
it keeps its promise, it will do well; and strangers especially will
be glad to avoid the pretending exorbitancy of Dover.—(_Note 1844._)
Footnote 4:
Mr. Hayward, in the interesting account with which he has favoured his
friends of his perilous journey over the Splugen in 1834. Mr. Hayward
says, that the storm in question was what is called there Wolkenbruch,
(cloud-break or water-spout). A mass of clouds, surcharged with
electric matter and rain, which had been collecting for weeks along
the whole range of the Alps, came down at last like an avalanche from
the sky. I once witnessed a phenomenon of this sort at Genoa. The
Italians called it a Meteora. A cloud, surcharged with electricity and
water, burst above our heads in one torrent of what was rather a
cataract than rain. It lasted about twenty minutes, and sufficed to
carry away all the bridges over the Bisanzio, flowing between Genoa
and Albaro, and to lay flat all the walls which in that hilly country
support the soil—so that the landscape was opened and greatly
improved. Cottages, cattle, and even persons were carried away. In the
Alps, such a rush of water from the heavens was aided by the torrents
that rushed from the mountain tops, and a sudden melting of snows.
Footnote 5:
“______________________retired leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.”
MILTON’S “PENSEROSO.”
Footnote 6:
Dante. Paradiso; Canto 33.
Footnote 7:
Wordsworth.
Footnote 8:
It is enough to refer to M. Andryane’s account of his imprisonment in
the fortress of Spielburg to justify these words. The barbarities of
fabled tyrants fall far short of the cold-blooded tortures imagined
and inflicted by this despot.
Footnote 9:
Characteristic songs of Shelley, by Henry Hugh Pearson, Esq. Published
by Alfred Novello.
Footnote 10:
Giotto and Francesca and other Poems, by A. A. Knox, Esq.
Footnote 11:
A week or two after our visit this wood caught fire, from the effects,
it is said, of the drought, and was entirely consumed. We heard that
the scene, instead of being injured, was improved, as thus laid bare,
the strange characteristics of the region became more distinct.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Page Changed from Changed to
46 Treisam, which now steals Dreisam, which now steals
murmuring between its murmuring between its
144 Paris; and proceeded by the Paris; and proceeded by the
steamer, up the Some steamer, up the Saône
228 Eisengieserei, or iron-foundry, Eisengiesserei, or iron-foundry,
just outside the just outside the
248 we have La Dame Blanche—Die we have La Dame Blanche—Die
weise Frau—instead weisse Frau—instead
248 extended since the day when extended since the day when
Figaro and the Zauberflaüte Figaro and the Zauberflöte
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Used numbers for footnotes, placing them all at the end of the last
chapter.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to
individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like
1^{st}).
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