PILGRIMAGES TO THE SPAS
IN PURSUIT OF
HEALTH AND RECREATION;
WITH
AN INQUIRY
INTO THE COMPARATIVE MERITS
OF
Different Mineral Waters:—
THE MALADIES TO WHICH THEY ARE APPLICABLE,
AND
THOSE IN WHICH THEY ARE INJURIOUS.

By JAMES JOHNSON, M.D.
PHYSICIAN EXTR. TO THE LATE KING.

LONDON:
S. HIGHLEY, 32, FLEET STREET.
1841.

PRINTED BY F. HAYDEN,
Little College Street, Westminster.

PREFACE.

The observations and reflections contained in the following pages, are the results of several autumnal excursions in the line of the German Spas, undertaken partly for health, partly for recreation, and partly for information on a subject that now interests a large portion of English invalids. The contents of the volume are like the objects which gave it origin. They are miscellaneous—and probably this character will be objected to, on the principle, “ne sutor ultra crepidam.” I have yet to learn, however, why a physician should be debarred from indulgence in general observations or reflections, and confined exclusively to professional topics. His education, habits of thought, and knowledge of human nature do not particularly disqualify him for a task which is daily undertaken by people of all grades of acquirement, and degrees of ability. The truth is, that being too independent to write for the mere purpose of catching the approbation of others, I have followed the bent of my own inclinations, and, if taken to task by censors, have little other reason to offer for my conduct than the old one—“stat pro ratione voluntas.”

There is one portion of the book, however, (a very small one, some twenty pages of letter-press) which may require some apology. The course of the Rhine leads to most of the German Spas, and is therefore traversed annually by multitudes of invalids as well as tourists. Every castle and promontory on its banks has its legend, and these traditions contribute to fix the picture of the locality in the mind’s eye, by association, for ever afterwards. In one of my excursions, some years ago, it struck me that these legends were designed, originally, each to convey some moral precept—at all events, I became convinced that they were capable of being moralized. Under this impression, I condensed the principal traditionary tales that have their locale in sight of the voyager, and deduced what I considered to be the moral or useful precepts which they concealed under a wild and improbable fiction. If I have failed in this attempt, the intention, at least, was good. Throughout the whole volume, my object has been to compress into small space much useful information for invalid or tourist, and, on all occasions, to start subjects for meditation or reflection, well knowing, from long experience, that such occupations of the mind on a journey, are eminently conducive both to pleasure and health.

In the principal or professional portion of the work, I have endeavoured to collect all the information in my power, and, in the exercise of my judgment, to sift the grain from the chaff, thus to steer clear of the extremes of exaggeration and scepticism. There has been too much of the former abroad, and too much of the latter at home. Holding myself perfectly free from all obligation to subserve local interests on one side of the channel, or foster national prejudices on the other, I have spoken my mind, with equal fearlessness and, I hope, impartiality.

The typography of this volume will prove that, although I must plead guilty to the charge of “making a book,” it has not been constructed on the approved principles of “book making.” By certain mechanical processes well known “in the trade,” this slender tome might have been easily expanded into two or even three goodly, or at least costly octavos, without the expenditure of a single additional line, word, or thought. But, bearing in mind the old Greek maxim that “a great book is a great evil,” I was determined that, should my lucubrations come under this head at all, the evil as well as the book should be on a small scale. Spa-going invalids have evils enough, God knows, to carry on their shoulders, without the addition, of a “Mega Biblion” in their wallets.

There is one defect in this work, however, which common honesty compels me to point out to the intending purchaser, before he parts with his money. If the travelling invalid expects to find here a catalogue of the post-houses, the signs of the inns, the prices of the wines, the fares of the table-d’hôtes, the pretensions of the cuisine, &c. &c. &c., except upon very rare occasions, he will be woefully disappointed. All this species of information, and a great deal more, will be found in that excellent emporium of peripatetic lore—“Murray’s Handbook.” But even this useful feature in the “red-book,” is not without its alloy. The character of caravanserais is perpetually changing, as well as that of their landlords; and when one of these gets a good name in a guide book, the afflux of travellers to that point too often causes the master to become proud, the servants lazy, the fare bad, and the bill exorbitant. Many a bitter anathema have I heard launched against the “Handbooks, &c.” for leading tourists and invalids to be starved and fleeced at the “Red Lion,” when they might have fared sumptuously and cheaply at the “Black Swan.”

Still, the Handbook is equally invaluable and indispensable to the continental traveller; and, as far as the Spas are concerned, Dr. Granville’s work is full of information on this subject. The profession and the public, indeed, are deeply indebted to Dr. Granville and Mr. Edwin Lee for opening out wider and clearer views of the continental mineral waters; but the subject itself, so far from being exhausted, is only in its infancy of investigation. Whether we regard the constituent elements of the waters themselves, their physiological operation, or their remedial efficacy, there is ample room for many future inquirers.

I have now only to return my sincere thanks to the various German and other physicians on the continent, from whom I received oral, written, or published information, and to say that I shall feel myself honoured by any future communications from the same sources, on the subject of the Spas.

JAMES JOHNSON.

Suffolk Place, Pall Mall,
May, 1841.

CONTENTS.

PILGRIMAGES TO THE SPAS.

(First Pilgrimage.)

Many tribes of the great John Bull family appear, of late years, to have abjured “red port” and “brown stout,” in favour of several breweries on the Continent, and especially in Germany. These breweries are deeply seated in the bowels of the Earth, and the art and mystery of their brewings are far beyond the sight and cognizance of man. Whether cocculus Indicus, logwood, sloe-juice, or opium enter into their gigantic vats and boiling cauldrons, it is hard to say; but, however manufactured, they are thrown up on the surface of our globe, pro bono publico—greatly to the detriment of doctors, druggists, and apothecaries, in this and in many other countries.

The subterranean distilleries are conducted on the homœopathic principle—viz. that of employing the minutest quantities of active materials—probably in order to do the least possible harm. They have many and great advantages over the homœopathic laboratories. They diffuse their ingredients through such immense potions of water, that, to get at a few grains of the former, we are obliged to ingurgitate some quarts of the latter. Now the mere mechanical flow of such prodigious doses of fluid through the various outlets—the bowels, kidneys, skin, &c. must sweep away morbid secretions, and contribute to the breaking down of obstructions in different organs, independently of the medicinal agents that are diffused through the mass of liquids in the greatest possible state of division and solution—circumstances which enable them to permeate and penetrate through innumerable capillary tubes and complicated glandular apparatuses, where grosser materials could never reach.

The natural fountains of Hygeia, however, have other advantages and auxiliaries, of which the laboratory of the chemist, and the pharmacy of the practitioner are deprived. Hope itself, though often resting on fallacious and exaggerated histories of cures, contributes much to the accomplishment of even marvellous recoveries. The severing, or even relaxing of that chain which binds care round the human heart, and augments the sufferings and the progress of disease, is no mean ally of the spa. It is true indeed, that the “splendid misery” of the great, and the corroding grief of the exile, cannot be thrown off by change of climate—

Scandit æratas vitiosa naves

Cura—quid terras, alio calentes

Sole, mutamus—patriæ quis exul

Se quoque fugit?[1]

But the valetudinarian in pursuit of health, is somewhat differently circumstanced. The change of scene and air—of food and drink—of rising and retiring—of exercise and conversation—in short, of the whole moral and physical conditions around him, effect, in many cases, such a mental and corporeal improvement, as makes easy work for the mineral waters—especially when the extreme dilution of their contents is taken into consideration.

Let it not be supposed, however, that this picture is without any reverse. Many diseases—especially organic ones—are aggravated by the journey to a distant spa—by the imprudent use of the water—by the warm or hot bathing—by the enthusiasm or rather hydromania, of the spa-doctor, who, having little acquaintance with the constitution of the patient, extols his favourite spring, and recommends it in almost every complaint. To separate probabilities from improbabilities, and impossibilities from both, will be attempted occasionally in the following pages, as we pass in review some of the principal resorts of invalids on both sides of the Rhine.

THE STEAMER.

The Batavier, all humps and hollows—the reverse of what one would expect in anything Batavian—and as ugly a black whale as ever floundered through an Arctic Ocean, received an ample cargo on the 3rd. of August 183—. I shall not attempt to minutely analyse such a numerous as well as motley group, on the short acquaintance of twenty-six hours. It was pretty evident, however, that we had on board representatives of various classes of society—more especially of the arts, sciences, and professions. The lawyer had left his clients to live in peace—the doctor had left his patients to die in peace:—and the pastor had committed his flock to some vicarious shepherd. The merchant had handed his ledger, and the banker his money-shovel to their clerks—and it seemed as though half the shopocracy had left their counters in care of the shopmen.

All was bustle and confusion among the steamers starting for various destinations—and I verily believe that the inhabitants of Pompeii did not rush in greater haste or in greater numbers to the sea, when chased by the ashes and lava of Vesuvius, than did the inhabitants of the metropolis to the banks of the Thames on this beautiful morning! There were to be seen senators, who had patriotically injured their own constitutions while reforming that of their country—tailors from Bond Street, going to Vienna and Athens to measure the “Corinthian pillars of the state,” on the philosophical principles of Laputa—aldermen from Bucklersbury, to exude a portion of green fat and callipash in the valleys of Switzerland—geological chemists, with hammers, bags, and blow-pipes, bound for the mountains of Taunus to ascertain the age of Mother Earth, by means of the fish-bones, oyster-shells, and pebbles, which she had swallowed at some of her grand suppers—antiquarians journeying to the Roman forum to disinter the bones of M. Curtius and his horse, which had lain so long in their marble cerements—engineers from a new joint-stock company to survey a line of rail-road over the Great St. Bernard—candidates for the Traveller’s Club, going to qualify by crossing some pons asinorum over the Danube—tourists of all calibres; some to make a tour simply; some to write a tour badly; but the greater number to talk of a tour afterwards—nabobs from the East; some with the complexion of a star pagoda; some as pallid as a sicca rupee; and others as blue as Asiatic cholera—Cantabs, with their tutors, going to study spherics among the Alps of Oberland—Oxonians, to collate Greek and gibberish among the Ionian Isles—Missionaries from Paternoster-row and Albemarle-street, to convert foolscap into food for circulating libraries, and the “bitter wassers” of Germany into Burgundy and Champaigne for themselves—Conservatives flying from the “West-end,” to preserve the remnants of a shattered constitution—landlords from Green Erin going to spend their rack-rents in the fashionable saloons of Baden Baden—roué’s from St. James’s, repairing, as a forlorn hope, to the Cur-saals (anglice, Cursed Hells) of Nassau and Bavaria—bacchanals, debauchees, and gourmands, hastening to Kissengen and Carlsbad, in hopes of restoring their jaded appetites and reducing their tumid livers—Judges from Westminster, who, in all actions of “Rus versus Urbem,” had lately determined in favour of the plaintiff, without reference to the jury—Bishops, who had left their black aprons on the Banks of the Thames, to have a peep at the lady with scarlet petticoats on the banks of the Tyber—aspiring youths of enlarged views and high pretensions, determined to see the world from the summit of Mont Blanc—pallid beauties, from Portman Square, with their anxious mammas, bound to Ems and Schwalbach, in hopes of transmuting their lillies into roses, by exchanging the midnight waltz for the “mittag” meal, and fiery port for the sparkling “wein-brunnen”—faded belles and shattered beaux, of certain and uncertain ages, repairing to Schlangenbad, for satin surfaces and renewal of youth. We had members of both houses who had inhaled sulphuretted hydrogen gas to such an extent, in St. Stephens, during the session, as to cause violent explosions of malodorous philippics, to the great annoyance of their opposite neighbours:—these were on their way to the Alps for pure air before the next eruption. Here were seen veterans from the “United Service,” whose memories had survived their hopes, bound on a pilgrimage to Waterloo and Camperdown, to heave a last sigh over the setting sun of martial glory, and the degenerate æra of insipid peace. Here were whigs, tories, radicals and revolutionists; together with men of high church, low church, and no church doctrines, but all (incredible to relate) unanimously agreed on one principle, that of the “mouvement.”[2]

These and hundreds, not to say thousands of others, whose avocations, objects, and pursuits were only known to themselves—

——an undistinguished crew

O’er whom her darkest wing Oblivion drew——

were rushing to the Thames, and deserting the Metropolis, as though it were the “City of the Plague,” or the seat of Asiatic cholera.

But to return to the Batavier. Honour to the man who first applied steam to locomotion. His ingenuity has enabled him to distil from water a light vapour which conquers the ocean from whence it sprang. It more than half diminishes the terror of the sea and the miseries of the voyage. It brings Lisbon and Gibraltar within the same distance of London as Edinburgh used to be. Though lighter than the air we breathe, it can resist the impetuosity of the heaviest storm, and stem the torrent of the most rapid river. It has nearly broken the trident of Neptune, and owns little allegiance to his sceptre. Steam may now say to the watery god, what the ocean monarch once said to a brother deity—

“Non tibi imperium Pelagi sævumque tridentem,

Sed mihi sorte datur.”——

Æolus may unchain the winds—Boreas may bluster, and Auster may weep; but steam heeds them not. Resistance only lends it strength, and oppression elasticity. The offspring of eternal and implacable enemies (fire and water), its birth is invariably and necessarily fatal to its parents. The new Being thus generated is as gigantic in power as it is transitory in existence. Imprisoned for a moment, it bursts its barriers—regains its liberty—and dies! But these struggles for freedom work the iron wings that impel the monster steamer through the briny waves. Deep in the womb of this moving volcano, we see the fires of Ætna glowing—cauldrons boiling—pumps playing—chains clanking—Ixion’s wheels incessantly revolving—steam roaring—and volumes of smoke belched upwards, to darken the skies with artificial clouds. Could some of our forefathers rise from their graves, and behold a steamer flying over the waves against wind and tide, and without oar or sail, they would be not a little astonished, and curious enough to know the name of the planet to which they had been wafted after leaving their native earth.

THE SEA.

Campbell, our immortal poet, has dedicated an amatory epistle to the sea, descriptive of her various charms. When in good humour, no lady has a smoother face, or a more smiling countenance, and she then well deserves the title of “mirror of the stars,” which the bard has gallantly conferred on her. But when ruffled in temper, she is one of the veriest termagants I have ever encountered. She will then fret and foam—aye, and proceed from words to blows, knocking about her friends and her foes, like stock-fish.

Many have been the philtres and objurgations proposed for securing her “crispid smiles,” and obviating her “luxurious heavings;” but few of them are of any value. I have found it best to lie down, bandage my eyes, and let the angry Goddess have her own way. In the present instance her marine majesty was in a singularly mild mood, during the passage. A nautilus might have spread his sail and gone to sleep in safety. We approached the low sand hills concealing a still lower surface of country—struck on the Brill—and after two or three rolls, the Batavier tumbled like a whale into the Maas. We were soon abreast of Schiedam, whence volumes of smoke and vapour redolent of gin were wafted over us by the northern breeze, while a hundred windmills were whirling round as far as the eye could reach. It is curious that in Holland, the most watery country in the world, grain is ground by means of wind; while in Switzerland, the most windy country in Europe, corn is ground by means of water. A moment’s reflection clears up the paradox. In Holland, water sleeps during seven days in the week, unmolested, save by the occasional crawling of the trackschuyt:—in Switzerland, every stream leaps joyously from rock to rock, grinding the corn, washing the linen, spinning the flax, turning the lathes, and performing a hundred domestic services.

ROTTERDAM.

In a few hours after passing the Brill, we arrived at the most bustling and thriving town in Holland. A protracted line of shipping, receiving and discharging their cargoes—an even jetty or quay, planted with majestic trees—and a long row of noble-looking houses facing the river, preclude all view of Rotterdam. It is impossible to get a prospect of any Dutch town except from its highest steeple. Immediately, as is my custom, I ascended the spire of St. Lawrence’s cathedral, and there enjoyed a magnificent coup-d’œil of the fine sea-port, and the adjacent country, as far as the Hague. Each street is a kind of duplicate (double portrait) of the quay: the centre of almost every one being Macadamized, not with granite or gravel, but with the masts, yards, decks, and high bugger-luggs of ships. This species of Macadamization not being the most convenient for carriages or pedestrians, the broad trottoirs on each side, roughly paved and thickly planted, serve for all kinds of viators, and must give ample encouragement to corn-cutters, blacksmiths, veterinary surgeons, and coach-builders.

Nine-tenths of the houses present their gable-ends to the street—a high flight of steps leading to the hall—and a coach door at the side, leading to the court. Each mansion (where there is not an open shop) is a merchant’s castle, flanked with warehouses filled with goods, neatly furnished, and kept remarkably clean. The inhabitants differ from those of an English town much less than the inhabitants of any other continental city. The women are far more fair and handsome than either the French, Germans, or Italians—and the word “comfort,” unintelligible in any language but our own, is practically legible in every street of Rotterdam.

I made my bow to the statue of Erasmus, though the name called up some scholastic recollections, not of the most pleasant kind, as connected with his Naufragium: after which, we perambulated this city of “ships, colonies, and commerce,” till a late hour in the evening.

From the moment that John Bull first sets foot on any part of the Continent between Scandinavia and Cape Coast Castle, he begins to pay daily the penalty of early-acquired and long-continued bad habits. But this is not all. Some of his good habits stand in the way of his comfort and health. The sooner he makes up his mind to the change, the better. And first, of sleep. If he means to enjoy the blessings of “tired Nature’s sweet restorer,” he must repair to his chamber as soon as possible after the sun has taken his evening bath in the Atlantic. And he should spring from his couch before, rather than after, Apollo pleases to—

“Rise refulgent from Tithonus’ bed.”

In most of the continental towns, the streets are as silent as those of Pompeii after ten o’clock; but the bustle begins at day-light, and he must have taken a strong dose of opium who can sleep after that hour! The cocks are crowing, the carts are clattering, the waiters are knocking up the travellers going off by diligence or steamer, the travellers themselves are bawling out for “eau chaude,” “warm wasser,” “boots,” “coffee,” or the “billet”—in short, the jargon of different languages resounding through the lobbies for an hour or two after day-light, would put Babel to shame. And last, not least, the eternal ding-dong of bells, especially in Catholic countries, from dawn of day till eight o’clock, might convince the most sceptical Protestant that purgatory is no fable, but an actual punishment inflicted by the priests on this side of the grave, as a foretaste of the future!

Still, in most of the continental towns, there is an interval of five or six hours in the night, during which the wearied limbs of the traveller may rest, and his ears may be relieved from discordant sounds. Not so at Rotterdam. The night is infinitely more noisy than the day. It is then that the real bustle begins at the Hotel des Pays Bas, and along the whole line of the quay. The absence of light appears to operate on this amphibious race in the same way as it does on frogs, bats, and owls, and various animals addicted to nocturnal depredation. By midnight the sailors of different nations begin to get sober for the second or third time since morning, and the work of loading and unloading, craning and carting, &c. begins in good earnest. The eternal chorus of “yo heave ho,” from a thousand throats, o’ertopping, but not drowning the boisterous din of unutterable discord on all sides, would rouse the god of sleep from his bed of ebony, and put his prime minister, Morpheus, to flight.

How the Rotterdamers preserve their lives in the midst of stagnant water surrounding and pervading every habitation, and ingurgitated by man, woman, and child, is only explicable on one of two principles—perhaps of both. They are accustomed to it, as the eels are to skinning:—or the neighbouring Scheidam poisons the animalculæ, and prevents their poisoning the people. There is yet one other supposition. In every habitation and chamber of Rotterdam, and indeed of Holland, there is very perceptible to the senses a malodorous effluvium, composed of three different gases, and emanating from gin, peat and tobacco. This “tertium quid”—this “tria juncta in uno”—may possibly tend to counteract, or, at all events, to cover the malarious exhalations continually rising from a quiescent pool, into which the debris of all utterable and unutterable things are daily and nightly plunged![3]

THE HAGUE.

I have long been tired of rambling through museums and picture-galleries—churches and palaces—gardens and promenades; but I am absolutely sick of the endless and reiterated descriptions of all these and a thousand other things, which every tourist delineates anew, as if he had been the first visitor that ever saw the lions!

In these catalogues there can be nothing new, even to the fire-side traveller, and I shall pass them by, with merely an occasional reflection or remark. I find but one or two notes in my diary of the Hague—one, the record of a most capital BULL—not made by an Irishman, but by a Dutchman—the “Jeune Taureau,” by Paul Potter. This sturdy, stiff-necked, sandy-haired representative of my countrymen, is no bad sample of the breed. I wish a certain animal of this species, which stands in Fleet Street, with a mouth wide open, and greedy for all kinds of provender, were to be brushed up a little, a la Paul Potter. I am sure it would increase the number of spectators, if not of subscribers, to our witty, keen, and sarcastic hebdomadal of Temple-bar.[4]

At the dull aristocratic and academic town of Leyden, we crossed a sad memorial of fallen greatness—the drivelling descendant of the majestic Rhine, reduced to the dimensions of a canal, and, like the degenerate offspring of some renowned hero, disgracing the line of his noble ancestor! Restive and perverse in its last act, it only flows when the tide ebbs, and stands motionless during the flood. Leyden being a university “open to all parties,” and influenced by merit only (with a little gold), it imposes no oath on the candidates for its degrees—whatever may be the creed of the aspirant.

HAERLEM.

This is a phrenological city, distinguished by a remarkable bump—the largest “organ of music” in the world. But there is a greater lion in Haerlem than the great organ—one whose distant roarings have struck more terror into the heart of John Bull than did ever Napoleon, with his legions at Boulogne. This monstrous birth of the French revolution—this offspring of atheism and education, in which the orthodox light is extinguished—

“Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum,”

is neither more nor less than a “normal school.” As this term is not in Johnson’s Dictionary, it is inferred by our home oracles, that it exists not in any language, ancient or modern. As I cannot give its derivation, I shall try at its definition. It is a school where “boys and girls are taught the rudiments of knowledge without wrangling about creeds.” It is alike open to the Jew and the Gentile, the Protestant and Catholic, the Baptist and Anabaptist, the Unitarian and Trinitarian. Now as each of these sects holds its own theology to be the true orthodox one, I do not see how any one form of religious instruction can be combined with elementary education. We might as well try to force the same note on all the inmates of a menagerie, as the same creed on all the elèves of a normal school. And, after all, why should theology be taken out of the hands of the pastor, to be put into those of the pedagogue? May not letters be taught without a Liturgy—and cyphering without a Catechism? We see that, in two of the most Protestant countries—Prussia and Holland—the system works well, at least peaceably. The children of various sects can learn to read without ridiculing, and to write without stigmatizing each other’s creeds. They live in peace while acquiring the rudiments of human knowledge at school—and they repair to the chapels or synagogues of their parents to hear the word of God, where it is most properly delivered. A youthful harmony or even friendship is thus generated among all persuasions, and is never afterwards entirely obliterated.

But I imagine that an unnecessary dread of this “tree of knowledge,” whose mortal fruit—

“Brought death into the world and all our woe,”

is entertained by the good people of England. Reading, writing, and arithmetic do not constitute knowledge, but merely the machinery by which it may be afterwards acquired. These rudiments are, like the types of the printer distributed in their compartments—void of learning or science in themselves, till they are worked up by the compositor—who, himself is only an instrument in the hands of a higher agent. “The instruction given in the schools (says an excellent observer, Mr. Chambers) is deficient of nearly all that bears on the cultivation of the perceptive and reflective faculties, and consequently the expansion of the intellect.” This education rarely extends beyond reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography—while the superior orders are taught the French language. At or under 14 years of age, the child leaves school and merges on the ordinary avocations of life. There is in Holland nearly a total absence of scientific instruction. Words not things are taught, and no taste is generated for literature. Yet this elementary education at school, and religious instruction at home, have rendered the people remarkable for order, piety, and morality. In no other country is there so little crime or squalid poverty.

I wish I could say as much for civil as for religious liberty in this country. The press is more completely muzzled than any cart-dog in London. The latter may open his jaws so far as to growl; but the press is hermetically sealed in this submarine territory. No book can be translated or published without the censor’s license—nay, a hand-bill, announcing the importation of Warren’s blacking or Morrison’s pills, cannot be printed or affixed to a wall, without a license and a stamp! In a conversation with an intelligent Dutchman respecting this restriction on the press, I was completely silenced by the following argument. I believe, said the gentleman, that in your profession, prevention is considered to be better than cure. I assented. Then, said he, I observe in all your newspapers that people are tried, and sometimes severely punished, for publishing libels, although the authors may not believe them to be such at the time of writing them. Now the paternal Government of Holland prevents such misfortunes and evils from happening to its subjects, by examining the document before publication, and thus taking on itself the responsibility, in case it should turn out afterwards to be libellous. There was no answering this argument. The Dutch are the most patient animals that ever lived beneath a yoke, or bowed beneath a load of taxes. Talk of John Bull’s rates and taxes! They are bagatelles compared to those in Holland! Every species of business, from the cobbler to the ship-builder, is taxed after a graduated scale, varying from a few shillings to twenty or thirty pounds annually. Every dwelling, every window, door, fireplace—even the furniture, is taxed according to its value! The taxes on houses are more than a fourth of the rent! The necessaries of life are, in fact, extremely dear, and were it not for the solace of tobacco, gin, and coffee, the poorer classes of Dutchmen would die in their dykes under the pressure of hunger and taxation, notwithstanding their loyalty to King, and love of Vaderland!

AMSTERDAM.

How often does the monotonized traveller in Holland and Belgium sigh for the luxury of a zig-zag mule-track along the steep acclivity of some alpine height, as a change of scene from the eternal right-lined chaussée, terminating out of sight, beyond the verge of the horizon, or dipping apparently, like Pharaoh’s route, into a lake or the ocean! The Haerlem pavé is constantly menaced by the Zuyder-Zee on the right, and the German Ocean on the left; but it escapes a watery grave, and safely lands the weary tourist in Amsterdam. Ascending the tower of the Stadthouse, or palace, I cast my wondering eyes over the largest community of beavers that ever lived upon logs, or drove their far-fetched piles into the muddy bottom of lake or pool! Strange that the dry land of this our globe should not afford space enough for cities or towns, without invading the Adriatic and the Zuyder-Zee for the sites of Venice and Amsterdam! From this bird’s-eye view, the confusion and commixture of land and water is inextricable and incalculable. The city stands on nearly one hundred detached islets, connected by more than three times that number of drawbridges—the houses rising bolt upright out of the water—each street being a quay lined with trees—and each mansion a warehouse, as evinced by the crane and rope at the attic for hoisting in goods, furniture, fuel, and provisions. The space between the houses and the water, is much narrower than at Rotterdam, and I think the bustle and activity of commerce are far less conspicuous in the northern than in the southern entrepôt. The water, though capable of floating ships, is unfit for cooking or drinking—and, were it not for the springs of Seltzer, and the distilleries of Scheidam, I imagine that hydrophobia would universally prevail.

I suspect that the Amsterdammers were originally a colony from Palestine. Like the “chosen people,” they are much fonder of conveying merchandize from one hand to another, than of manufacturing any article of trade or commerce. The only fabrications that I could see, were those of ships to carry, and houses to contain goods. The building of houses has long been limited to the re-construction of those whose foundations had given way—and naval architecture has received many checks—the annihilation of the whale-fishery among others. But the red-herring still cheers the heart of the Hollander, and qualifies the brackish water of the Zuyder-Zee. While wandering through the streets in the evening, I found that gin-palaces were not confined to England. They are on a splendid scale here, and frequented by better classes of society than in the British metropolis. We saw burgesses—probably burgomasters—with their wives, and sometimes with their children, drinking, smoking, and listening to the dulcet sounds of Swiss or Bavarian hurdi-gurdies. This was not quite in keeping with the grave, moral, and religious character of the Dutchman.

It is not my inclination—to say the truth, it is not my forte—to describe the lions of Amsterdam—or of any of the other dams in this hybrid offspring of land and water. It was quite enough for me to see the shows—their pictorial delineation I leave to those of my tourist brethren who have studied under that inimitable painter, and hero of the hammer, Geo. Robins, Esq. They can readily transmute a varnished treckschuyt into a Cleopatra’s barge—a buggerlugg into a bust of bronze—a Flanders mare into a prancing Bucephalus—a brick trottoir into a tesselated pavement—or a Belgian flat into a garden of the Hesperides. The worst of this is, that, by the time they have ascended the Rhine, or entered Switzerland, their stock of the picturesque is expended, and they have only the sublime to draw upon for the remainder of the tour.

To see the sights of Amsterdam, the gilders and stivers must be in perpetual motion. Even at the doors of the churches, the padré’s demand your money for admittance into their cold, damp, and dreary tabernacles—a most unusual practice on the Continent.

In order to vary the journey, we returned by Utrecht to Rotterdam:—but although the route was alter, the scene was idem—and I will not detain the reader with any account of it.

BATAVIAN CHARACTERISTICS.

Of all the geological ups and downs which the surface of this globe presents, none is more remarkable, or less remarked, than that which the land of Holland has undergone. Every particle of its soil must once have occupied some higher land or even mountain of the Continent, before it travelled down to take its bath in the ocean—ultimately to rise to nearly the level of the sea—then to be rescued from the waters, partly by the operations of Nature, and partly by the industry of man. Even now the mighty Alps are daily crumbling down, and every shower of rain, and mountain torrent washes down its quota of soil to the Mediterranean or the German Ocean.[5] Should no volcanic revolution interrupt these watery changes, a period must come—ten thousand years are but a dot in the stream of time—when the high lands will be worn down into alluvial deposits which, rising from their oceanic beds, will become annexations to the existing plains. The lower heights will of course shew the effects of this “wear and tear” sooner than the snow-clad Alps; but even these last must one day undergo that transmutation and transplantation to which all sublunary things are destined. This is no imaginary speculation. It is not in Holland alone that we see vast tracts of land carried down from the hills—buried in the deep, for a time—and afterwards rescued from their watery beds. The Delta of the Nile was once among the mountains of Abyssinia—the Sunderbunds have spread far and wide to the south of Calcutta, dividing the Ganges into a hundred mouths—extending the land into the bay of Bengal, and sustaining myriads of animals, and even man himself—the Mississippi and the St. Lawrence are digging the grave of the Alligagny mountains—the mighty Andes—“Giant of the Western Star,” who now

“Looks from his throne of clouds o’er half the world”—

is silently and slowly suffering disintegration by the Plata and Amazon, committing its atoms to the depths of the Atlantic, thence to emerge, at some remote epoch, the habitation of races of animated beings that have no types, perhaps, in the present or past creations. Even the cloud-capt Himalaya, whose base extends over thousands of miles, feeds with its substance the insatiate mouths of the Indus, the Ganges, the Burrhampooter, and the Yrawaddy, whose turbid waves roll down to distant seas the alluvial tribute; themselves the unconscious ministers of an Almighty will!

Thus it would appear that the levelling principle is as operative in the physical as in the moral world—among mountains as well as among men. But there is one great and essential difference between the two. The Himalaya may require thousands of years longer to wear down than the Cordillera. This is merely a difference in time. But no time, or space, or circumstance can effect an equilibrium in the moral or intellectual world. If such a level could be obtained, it would instantly perish, or recede to a greater distance than ever. Equality of this kind, like Heaven’s bright bow—

“Allures from far yet as we follow flies.”

Equal right can never lead to equal might.

But to return from this digression. How is it that the Helvetian and the Hollander, whose countries are the very antipodes of each other—whose manners, customs, and pursuits are as different as Alps are from sand-hills, should yet present a more striking similarity in one moral feature, than the inhabitants of any other two countries? Of all the nations of Europe, the Helvetians and Hollanders, inhabiting the highest and the lowest grounds in the world, are most enthusiastically attached to their native soils, and experience the greatest degree of nostalgic yearning when separated from home. The amor patriæ of the Swiss is proverbial—that of the Dutchman is quite as strong, though not so well known.

“The Hollander (says Mr. Chambers,) is bred up from his infancy to have the highest ideas of his “Vaderland”—of her people—her warriors—her wealth—her power. He is taught to consider this Vaderland as standing highest in the rank of nations—that every thing belonging to her is best. He is an admirer, without being a benefactor of his country—a patriot without public spirit—contented and self-satisfied with his country and every thing belonging thereto.”

The Helvetian can hardly be more enamoured of his mountains than is the Hollander of his alluvial plains! But whence this coincidence? Is it that the Dutchman remembers the high descent of his native soil—that it floated down from the Alps and other highlands—that it was redeemed from the ocean by his labour and skill—enriched, fertilized, and adorned by the industry of his forefathers—and, finally, that it had become, under his fostering care, a second “Garden of Eden,” the pride of Batavians, and the envy of the world?

Or is it that extremes approximate?—That the hardy Helvetian, raised above the storm’s career, but whose—

“Rocks by custom turn to beds of down,”

can look, with feelings of pride and independence, from his airy citadel of health and activity, down on surrounding nations—whilst the phlegmatic Hollander, secure from winds and waves, under the shelter of his break-water ramparts, surveys with kindred feelings and self-gratulations his fertile flats, his irrigated fields, and commerce-bearing canals—his senses steeped in that musing mood, that “fool’s paradise” suspended midway between the excitement of gin, and the tranquillity of tobacco?

Be this as it may, there can be little doubt that the moral and physical character—the inward temperament and outward man—are all very much modified by the climate, the soil, and the circumstances around us. It might not be difficult to shew that the prominent characteristics of the people in question are modified by these external agencies. The Hollander is accustomed to watch, with the patience of a cat, for that precise period when the alluvial deposits on his shores have attained that level which permits him to stretch out his mounds of earth, and grasp the piece of newly-emerged ground for future culture:—hence his patience and vigilance through life, while watching the opportunity of benefiting himself. He observes, from infancy, the labour and expense of realizing this property in the soil:—hence his economy, even to parsimony. His climate is damp and cold: his temperament is therefore phlegmatic. The surface of his country is flat and monotonous; without monuments of antiquity, historical renown, or classical recollections:—there is, consequently, no more poetry in his composition than in a Dutch cheese, or a stagnant canal. Living beneath the level of the ocean, he is liable to inundations from the watery element:—he is therefore habitually cautious of all contingencies. The equinoxes, the vernal and autumnal floods, the changes of the moon, are all important epochs and events in a submarine territory;—he is, therefore, a calculating animal, from his cradle to his grave. At war with the elements, he is naturally brave even to obstinacy, whether the cause be right or wrong; and will fight to the knees in blood, rather than either advance or retreat. Monotony being almost universal, ideality is nearly null:—the Dutchman, therefore, smokes during the greater part of his time, in default of conversation—tobacco being, at once, the cause and the excuse for taciturnity. In Holland there are nearly as many canals for communication, as there are dykes for defence:—the Batavian is, therefore, eminently commercial:—but the limits of the soil being narrow, and the population dense, colonization became necessary, despite of the “Vaderlandsleifde,” and emigration continues though the colonies have dwindled away. The intellectual views of the Hollander are nearly as limited as his geographical. There are no mountains, whence a wide and varied prospect can be taken in by the eye—neither are there academic eminences, from which the mind can soar into the regions of literature, science, art, or philosophy. As it is infinitely more difficult to raise dykes than children—to extend the soil, than to swell the census—so the Batavian has been a political economist long before the science was taught by Malthus, or practised by Martineau, in this country. As a merchant, he is honest and honourable in his negociations abroad—punctual as his pipe in receipts and disbursements at home. Exclusively occupied with the concerns of self—whether ruminating, fumigating, or calculating—he has little time, and less inclination, to meddle with affairs of state. The measure of his patriotism is amply sufficient for an abundance of loyalty—and if “passive obedience and non-resistance” be cardinal virtues in subjects, then the Dutch ought to be dear to the heart of their sovereign. I have no doubt that they are so. It is only a matter of reciprocal feeling—for assuredly the sovereign is dear to the Dutch.

Embarking at Rotterdam, the steamer ploughs its weary way through the muddy Maas for three long days, before it reaches Cologne. One night is spent in the malodorous town of Nymeguen—and the other on board—so that, altogether, this is one of the most monotonous voyages that could well be projected. There is not even the satisfaction of finding one bank or place more ugly, or more uninteresting than another—which would be some little variety, and afford some subject for remark. All is puddle-dock in the near, and sand-bank in the distance. Here and there the spire of a church, the roof of a house, or the mast of a schuyt appears on the horizon, for a time, and vanishes again in the blank.

COLOGNE.

If the narrow streets of Cologne be famous, or rather infamous, for bad smells, it is to be recollected that the waters of that ancient city are more valuable than the wines of the neighbouring Rhine:—that they are carried to every corner of the earth—and prized for their delicious flavour, beyond the richest productions of Rudesheim or Johannisberg. Thus good cometh out of evil—and the most grateful perfume is exhaled from the most malodorous city of Europe. “Give a dog a bad name,” and the sooner you shoot him the better. Yet if a stranger arrived at Cologne, by day or by night, not knowing the name of the place, he might traverse its numberless and crooked streets, without remarking more disagreeable scents than his nose would encounter on the banks of the Tiber, the Arno, or the Seine—in the wynds of Auld Reekie, the Gorbals of Glasgow, the purlieus of the Liffey—or even of father Thames, between Puddle-dock and Deptford. I will not maintain that all the little rivulets which meander the streets of this town, after a shower of rain, are the veritable “Eau de Cologne” of Messieurs Farina; but I must say that the olfactories of my fair countrywoman of the “Souvenirs,” were more delicate than impartial, when she penned the following sentence. “But the dreadful effluvia of the black, filthy streams that defile every street, penetrated even through the folds of pocket-handkerchiefs soaked in perfume.”—Souvenir, p. 93.

Fiction being the “soul of poetry,” we need not wonder that the Bard should seize the opportunity of having his fling at poor Cologne. Accordingly Coleridge exercised his wit and his acrimony in the following lines, in which he apostrophises Cloacina, and the nymphs, “who reign o’er sewers and sinks.”

“The river Rhine, it is well known,

Doth wash the city of Cologne,

But tell me nymphs, what power divine

Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?”

Probably it was this real or supposed pollution which caused the noble river to dive into the sands, soon after passing Cologne, and hide its head for ever. It cannot be denied that Cologne is a city of the dirty and malodorous order—and we cannot much wonder at the fact, seeing that it was Roman in the beginning, and has never changed its nature or name from the days of Germanicus to the present moment. After passing from the Romans to the Franks, and from the Franks to the Germans, it became a “Holy City”—and that was enough to ruin Rome itself. It became, of course, the rendezvous of priests, monks, and nuns, and the seat of abbeys, monasteries, nunneries, and churches. Notwithstanding these misfortunes, it rose into a rich and flourishing entrepôt of commerce, when its bigotted ecclesiastical government took the wise resolution of banishing the merchants, because most of them were Jews and Protestants. The exiles settled in other cities on the Rhine, and left the swarms of monks and priests among their rotten relics, to starve and “stink in state.” Here we have a key to the malodorous effluvia that penetrated the perfumed handkerchief of the lady of the “Souvenirs”—for I will be bold enough to aver that she did not leave a nook or corner unexplored in Cologne, where anything curious was to be seen. It is a great pity that Napoleon, when he suppressed the convents and monasteries, did not order the scavengers and police to sweep out all the mouldering bones, putrefying flesh, and decomposing integuments of saints and martyrs that have been congregated in churches, chapels, and other monastic institutions for two thousand years. If this had been done at Cologne, there would have been no occasion for perfumed handkerchiefs to the noses of travellers.

By the way, where were the brains of the three magi, or wise men of the east, (whose skulls are crowned and impearled here,) when they allowed the suicidal decree to go forth against the merchants of Cologne? These relics of the church perform miraculous cures of physical ills; but they never, by any accident, prevent, much less punish, the perpetration of moral mischief. The schoolmaster is much more wanted than the scavenger in Cologne!

—— “Alchymists may doubt

The shining gold their crucibles give out;

But faith—fanatic faith—once wedded fast

To some dear falsehood—hugs it to the last.”

The first rush is made to the hotel—and the next to the Dom Kirche—an unfinished cathedral, of course—like all great abbeys—for, if finished, no more contributions could be levied. A tower of the cathedral, intended—abbeys, like some other places, are “paved with good intentions”—to be 500 feet high, but which only attained the altitude of 20 feet, throws all sentimental tourists into ecstasies. From its brother, which grew up much taller, a good panoramic view of Cologne and vicinity is obtained. Then comes the tomb of skulls—the crania of the three magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar—stolen by the mother of Constantine from the Holy Land—conveyed by some mysterious agency from Constantinople to Milan—and thence pillaged by Barbarossa, and presented to the Bishop of Cologne! For 700 years these empty skulls have been gazed at by the millions of numbskulls still emptier, that have come to visit them! They are decorated with gilt crowns, set with pearls—and their names are written in ruby characters!

Near these holy, but harmless relics, are deposited, among many masses of bones and filth—“les entrailles” of Queen Marie de Medicis, together with the head of St. Peter, &c. &c. &c. But in the church of St. Ursula, things are done on a grander scale. The bones of 11,000 English ladies, who were wrecked in the Rhine, on their voyage to Rouen!! are here deposited—the owners having taken the veil rather than join in wedlock with the Huns, who then possessed the Holy City. Other records say that, in imitation of Lucretia, they sacrificed their lives to preserve their honour—and their bones were carefully preserved from that time to this! Did the fair lady of the “Souvenirs” hold her “perfumed handkerchief” to her nose, while contemplating these blanched remains of her heroic sisterhood?

The city of Cologne measures seven miles in circumference—her streets are narrow—and her houses are high. Yet the population scarcely exceeds 50,000 souls—with bodies attached to them!! Thus then, it is evident that this Holy City is one vast cemetery, partly above, and partly under ground—a huge museum of mouldering anatomy, useless alike to the living and the dead, and only commemorative of the weakness, darkness, ignorance, and superstition of the human mind!

I confess that I was silly enough, nearly twenty years ago, to spend some days and dollars in exploring these mummeries at Cologne; and those who prefer such pursuits to the pure air of the mountains, and the smiling landscapes of Nature on the banks of the Rhine, may follow the example.

At nine o’clock in the morning, we left the Hotel du Rhin, and repaired to the busy banks of the river, where steam was hissing, and tourists were bustling into the vessels. Five or six arches of the bridge suddenly slipped their cables, and swinging round by the impulse of the stream, opened a free passage for the ascending and descending boats. Away they went upwards and downwards, full of passengers—some on the tiptoe of expectation to see the wonders of the Rhine—others, having satisfied their curiosity, were winging their way home, to the chalky cliffs of Old England.

THE RHINE.

And here we change the land of facts for the land of fictions. We now enter the regions of romance and robbery—of love and murder—of tilts and tournaments—of dungeons deep and turrets lofty—of crusades against the creed of the Ottoman abroad, and of forays against the property or life of the neighbour at home—of riot and revelry in the castle, and of penury and superstition in the cottage—of beetling precipice and winding river—of basaltic rock and clustering vine—of wassail war and vintage carol. It is probable that few ascend this famous river without experiencing some feelings of disappointment, although none will acknowledge it, lest their taste should be condemned, and themselves voted to be barbarians, insensible alike to the beauties of nature and the wonders of art. But the Rhine, like many a fine child, has been spoiled—especially by poets and painters. The tourists and romance-writers, too, have combined to spoil the Rhine-child—for although all romance-writers are not tourists, yet all tourists are, ex officio, romance-writers.

Thus the mountains of the Rhine, though none of them are much higher than the rock of Gibraltar—are represented as “stupendous”—every dingle and dell that opens between the hills, is painted as more beautiful than the valley of Rasselas, Chamounix, or Grindenwalde—the river itself is made to flow like liquid emeralds or sapphires, though it receives so many muddy streams, after its partial filter in Constance, that it is nearly as yellow as the Tiber, and as turbid as the Thames, before it gets half-way between Schaffhausen and Dusseldorf.[6] The vines too, which are strung on stunted sticks, like onions,—enclosed between rude stone terraces—and which more frequently disfigure than embellish the banks of the Rhine, are extolled beyond those of Italy, which are gracefully festooned from tree to tree, bending down the branches with the weight of delicious grapes. Notwithstanding these and many other deficiencies on the one hand, and exaggerations on the other (which all will acknowledge in their hearts, though none will declare by their tongues), the Rhine is the most picturesque, beautiful, romantic, and interesting river on the face of our globe. I have twice ascended, and thrice descended the stream, from its source in the Alps to its sepulture in the ocean—with various lateral excursions—and still with undiminished pleasure. But then I came to the survey with a conviction that, like all other places of the kind, it was flattered by the painter, falsified by the poet, and dressed in meretricious ornaments by the tourist and novellist. I was therefore not disappointed, but highly gratified.

DRACHENFELS.

Knowing, from experience, that the first twenty miles of the Rhine from Cologne, are totally devoid of interest, I left my companions at their wine in the Rhenischer, and started in the diligence for Bonn—and thence to Godesberg, where I slept. Long before sunrise I had crossed the Rhine, and threaded my way up the steeps of the Drachenfels. This is probably the finest view on the Rhine—far superior to that which Sir F. Head has described as taken from the top of a tree on the hill behind the Bad-haus at Schlangenbad.

“The Drachenfels, which is the steepest of the Seven Mountains, has infinitely the advantage of situation, rising abruptly from the river to a stupendous height, clothed midway with rich vines and foliage, and terminating in red and grey rock. On its brow are the ruins of an ancient castle, standing on their colossal and perpendicular base—a type of man’s perseverance and power. The magnificent and picturesque prospects which encompass on all sides this enchanting spot, as if Nature, with a profuse and lavish hand, had diffused around so many and varied beauties, that having exhausted her wonted combination of mountain, hill, and dale, with water, flowery mead, cultivated field, mantling forests, and luxuriant vineyards, she had by this profusion of witching scenery peculiarly marked it for her own.” This description is not exaggerated—which is saying a great deal for it. The Drachenfels, indeed, has been immortalized by legendary tale, poetic lore, and pictorial delineation. An ingenious artist of the present day, (Mr. Leigh,) has recently given a panoramic view from the summit of this rock, with all the fidelity and minuteness of the painter. I can corroborate the description, though I could not imitate the picture. A short extract or two will serve as specimens.

“The whole of this delicious panorama was bathed in a flood of subdued golden light, which intermingled its luscious hues with the cooler tones of twilight. As if preparing to receive the setting sun with glory, the horizon emitted a deep yet brilliant crimson lustre, spangled with flakes of gold, while richer and more fantastic streaks of purple appeared ready to envelop its glowing form as it slowly and majestically sailed behind the darkened curtain of the distant hills. The nearer features of this lovely scene, illumined by the silvery aspect of lingering day, were invested with a tranquil dignity and beauty which soothed the vision as it embraced their harmonious contours, softened by the genial light. The more distant objects partook of the hue of the glowing west, and, by their deep tone, enhanced the paler radiance of the more immediate prospect.

“The character of the entire scene is extremely imposing: the site whence it is beheld is sufficiently lofty to command an immense extent, yet not so elevated as to make all around dwindle into collections of spots. Its beauty is not of that uniform description which presents an endless succession of cultivated points, without offering any features of striking interest; for, while on the one side, the eye glides along vast and varied plains, on the other, it ranges over all the diversities of a mountainous country, from the bare and rugged castled crags to the green uplands shelving down to picturesque valleys and streams.

“To the north the series of gentle eminences and valleys lose their individual distinctions, and blend into one extensive plain, patched with the varied colours of their produce, and dotted with the divisions of trees and hedges which unite by their graceful lines the numerous villages that intersect it. On this variegated expanse the serpentine course of the unruffled Rhine may be traced like a stream of molten silver, flowing onwards towards Cologne, its bright bosom continuously seen, occasionally bearing specks of vessels gently descending with the current. Innumerable towers and spires gleam amidst the verdant glades, or peer from the deepening woods; and as the eventide breeze flows through the gentle air, the pleasing and varied harmonies of chiming bells, afar and near, break upon the ear.”

“On the same side, a series of gradual elevations, shelving down to the Rhine, forms the commencement of the cluster of the Drachenfels, whose bold forms sweep majestically around the towering rock of the Dragon, like the turbulent waves of the ocean against the soaring lighthouse. Turning to the west, the conical form of the Godesberg, surmounted by its picturesque towers, and relieved by the sparkling habitations at its base, stands out conspicuously from the deeper toned ridge of hills, by which it appears shut in between Bonn and Rolandseck. Behind this wooded screen are the diversified forms of the Eifel chain, extending in various ramifications towards Spa, Treves, and Luxembourg, occupying the territory between the Mosel and the Maas.”

“On the shore beyond, embowered amidst the surrounding uplands, is the partially concealed town of Oberwinter; beyond which, a sharp point of land juts into the Rhine, nearly opposite the village of Unkel. From this point commences the interminable series of mountain summits, which stretch along the horizon in all the grandeur of form, harmony of composition, and fascination of colour. The eye rises from the placid bosom of the Rhine, in which the pure sky is serenely mirrored, and, after dwelling with rapture on the gorgeous hues of the nearer landscape, it glides with increasing fervour over the air-drawn bulwarks which tower around this lovely scene. These choice materials of redundant Nature, tipped with the magical hues of a gorgeous sunset, and a translucent twilight, and invested with the majesty of sweeping yet mellow shadows, sufficiently account to my own mind for the lengthened description in which I have with all humility indulged.

‘——Expression cannot paint

The breadth of Nature and her endless bloom.’”[7]

While viewing this magnificent scene from the little Caffé, perched as close to the edge of a precipice as the ruined castle itself, it was impossible not to recall the words of our immortal bard and country’s boast—Byron.

The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine,

Whose breast of waters broadly swells

Between the banks which bear the vine,

And hills all rich with blossom’d trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine:—

And scatter’d cities crowning these

Whose far white walls along them shine.

The river nobly foams and flows,

The charm of this enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresher beauty varying round!

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound,

Through life to dwell delighted here

Nor could on earth a spot be found

To Nature and to me more dear.

From this spot the ruined tower of Godesberg, all lonely on a conical mount, looks like a solitary vidette on his out-post, while the seven mountains around us—

——like giants stand

To sentinel enchanted land.

It is here that the poetry of the Rhine commences, together with its legendary lore, and romantic scenery. After a comfortable breakfast at the Eagle’s Nest Inn, and a slight survey of the topography of the rock’s narrow crown, I climbed to the highest practicable part of the ruin, and seating myself securely, had several hours of leisure to contemplate the scene, and indulge in meditation. On former occasions, I had read the legends of the Rhine, while wandering on its banks, more for amusement than instruction, yet it never till now crossed my mind that, in the comparatively rude ages when they were written, they might have been intended, each to convey some moral lesson. The more I reflected on this subject, the more I was impressed with the idea, and, at all events, I determined to try my hand at the extraction of a moral from each tale, whether such moral were originally intended or not. I could not do better than begin with the—

LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.
(No. 1.)

Every visitor to this place is shewn the cavern, once occupied by a huge dragon, to whom the neighbouring inhabitants paid divine honours, and even offered human sacrifices. The prisoners of war were considered to be the most agreeable victims to this Pagan monster. Among a number of recent captives was one day found a beautiful young lady, educated in the Christian religion. Her beauty was raising a quarrel among the conquering chiefs, when the Elders advised that the cause of the contention should be consigned to the dragon. She was accordingly led to the summit of the rock, and chained to a tree. Multitudes were assembled to view the sacrifice. The first rays of the sun that darted into the cavern, roused the voracious reptile, who issued from his den, and directed his tortuous course to the usual place of his bloody feast. As soon as he came in sight, the destined victim drew from her bosom the crucifix and image of her Saviour—fixed her eyes on the emblem of redemption—and calmly awaited her fate. The monster gazed on his lovely and helpless prey, already within his grasp—slackened his pace—stopped—appeared petrified, with his basilisk eyes rivetted on the virgin. She stood as firm as the rock beneath her or the faith within her! A thrill of horror ran through the assembled crowd, and the silence that prevailed was still as the grave. The moment of suspense was agonizing to the spectators; but continued only a few seconds, when the dragon sent forth a horrible and unearthly yell—darted over the precipice—and disappeared for ever! The multitude flew to the lady, unbound her chains, and fell at her feet, as if she were an angel from Heaven. Conversion to the true faith among the neighbouring people followed—a chapel was erected on the spot where the miraculous interposition took place—and it was thenceforth considered the cradle of Christianity in that part of the country.

MORAL.

The moral of this legend is sufficiently obvious. But it goes far beyond the miraculous interposition of Providence, too commonly and too impiously proclaimed in Protestant as well as in Catholic states. The legend illustrates a great principle of human nature—the power of religion over the fear of death—even when that death is aggravated by the horrors of merciless cruelty and ignominious torture! Nor is it any drawback on true religion that a false faith will sometimes exert a similar influence in the hour of trial. The Hindoo widow mounts the funeral pyre of her husband, under the influence of a religious persuasion that she is performing a sacred duty to the dead—and braves the devouring element in the hope of joyful immortality. It is also true that a few minds of a certain mould will spurn the fear of death, under the influence of a greater fear—that of dishonour. The Roman stoics, without the aid of religious faith, might prefer falling on their own swords, to the disgrace of dragging the captive’s chains behind the triumphal chariot of the conqueror:—but neither Cato nor Cassius would have stood unmoved before the dragon of Drachenfels.

The serenity of the Christian in the hour of peril, the agony of sickness, and the approach of death, contrasts greatly with the sullen abandonment of the stoic, and the reckless desperation of the infidel.

Here my meditations were broken by seeing the long black banner of the steamer wreathing over the placid river, and impinging against the sides of the hills. Descending from my airy seat, I soon joined my companions on the crowded deck, and proceeded on our voyage. It is fashionable for modern tourists to draw characteristic sketches of the passengers in steam-boats on the Rhine. I think it is one of the worst theatres that could be selected for that purpose. The scenery itself, and the legendary tales which fix the localities in the memory, are quite sufficient for ordinary attention, without attempting to dive into the peculiarities of individual character, which are not so easily fathomed as the sentimental tourist would have us to suppose.

We have scarcely got disentangled of the Drachenfels, when we find ourselves between a ruined tower on the summit of a volcanic peak on the right, and a spruce hotel in the midst of the Rhine, on a little island to our left. The former is the far-famed Rolandseck, and the latter is the ancient convent of Nonnenwerth converted into a modern caravansera.

ROLAND AND HILDEGUND, OR THE FATAL AFFIANCE.
(Legend the Second.)

The beautiful Hildegund and the valiant Roland (nephew of Charlemagne) were ardently beloved by, and betrothed to each other. Roland, however, postponed his marriage, till he had, once more, unsheathed his sword against the infidels in Palestine. Every day of his absence seemed a year to his Hildegund, who often listened in her bower to the praises of her lover carolled by the boatmen of the Rhine. News arrived that the Holy City was rescued from the Saracens, and that peace was signed:—But Roland returned not. One evening a military knight craved hospitality at her father’s castle. He had just returned from the seat of war, and, to eager enquiries respecting Roland, related the manner of his death on the field of battle, covered with honourable wounds! The effect on the amiable Hildegund may be easily conceived. After a short noviciate in the convent of Nonnenwerth, she took the veil, and next morning her lover arrived at her father’s castle, expecting to fly into her arms! Petrified by the astounding intelligence that Hildegund was wedded to Heaven, Roland abjured all society—built himself a hermitage on the hill overlooking the convent, and sat at its door from morning till night, listening to the matins and vespers that ascended from the living sepulchre of his betrothed. One day he saw a funeral on the island, and soon learnt that it was that of his Hildegund! The next day he was found dead, sitting at the door of his hermitage, his face turned to the convent!

MORAL.

The moral of this tale is homely, but not the less important on that account. The misery resulting from long-existing affiances, where time, or space, or adverse circumstances separate the betrothed, is of daily occurrence, and comes within the observation of every one. How often do we see females kept in this state of uncertainty till every prospect of other settlement in the world has vanished—and, after all, where the happiness of one party is blasted for ever by the death or inconstancy of the other! Protracted courtships are bad enough; but prospective marriages are far worse! Sat verbum sapientibus—or rather amantibus.

A certain personage in the drama of the above legend, is deserving of a passing word—viz. the eaves-dropper—one of those unlucky tale-bearers, whose officious tongues too often destroy the peace of whole families, and that without malice prepense on the part of the babbler!

THE LAST NUNS OF NONNENWERTH.
(Legend the Third.)

The history of Nonnenwerth discloses a curious trait of human nature, which has seldom been noticed. In the first moral storms of the French revolution, a number of nuns and novices of noble families, took refuge in the Sestertian convent of Nonnenwerth. They remained tranquil till Napoleon came to the throne, when a great disaster threatened to overwhelm their peaceful asylum. The emperor was a calculating philosopher, as well as an able general. He foresaw that monasteries and convents—especially the latter—were bad nurseries for conscripts; and therefore, in imitation of our Eighth Henry, of blessed and pious memory, he suppressed them all, with one stroke of his pen! The nuns of Nonnenwerth petitioned for an exemption from the proscription, but petitioned in vain. Josephine, like Juno, interceded with the sceptre-bearer, and begged that the convent on the Rhine might be made an exception to the general rule—that the nuns might be suffered to remain, and add to their number as death thinned their ranks. Napoleon, like Jove—

“——Accorded half the prayer—

The rest, the god dispersed in empty air.”

They were permitted to retain possession of the convent during their natural lives—after which, Nonnenwerth was to revert to the state. This was a great concession, and the nuns were satisfied, as they themselves were provided for—and some favourable revolution might occur when they were gone.

Time rolled on smoothly,—and, although a sister occasionally paid the debt of nature, the event did not make a very serious impression, but only afforded topics of reflection on the uncertainty of human life, or perhaps recalled to the memory of the living some traits of goodness and amiability in the dead, that had, somehow or other, escaped their notice while their sainted sister resided amongst them. But every year diminished the number of the survivors, till, at length, the vacant chambers and the contracted circle at prayers and refection, forced themselves on the notice of even the most inobservant of the sisterhood. And now it was that the unwelcome question began to obtrude itself on the thoughts of the nuns:—“Who shall go next to her long abode?” It required no great extent of arithmetic to shew the strength of the establishment at present, as compared with ten or twelve years before—and each sister began to assume the office of actuary, and calculate the probable duration of life within the walls of the convent! From this time, the serenity of their minds was somewhat disturbed. The question would obtrude itself on their thoughts, even in their devotions, and rise occasionally in the troubled dream.

Meanwhile the inexorable tyrant did not fail to knock as regularly at the gate of the convent as at the door of the peasant’s hut on the neighbouring mountain.

“Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede pauperum tabernas

Regumque turres!”—[8]

The social circle was narrowed every year—the number of nuns fell to 20—15—12! About this time a new question, still more appalling than the other, flashed across the mind of every inmate of Nonnenwerth. It was not as to who should be the first to—

“Leave the warm precincts of the cheerful day,”

but who was likely to be the last to wander in solitude round the deserted chambers, recalling the well-known features of each departed tenant,—or, who was to be the last on the bed of sickness or death, without a sister’s smile to soothe her sufferings—or a sister’s tear to mark the spirit’s flight? This new subject of reflection absorbed all others. Even religion failed to calm the troubled imagination of frail mortals placed in such singular and unnatural circumstances! Any one of them could reconcile herself to the idea, however triste, of dying in society—but none of them to the horrible thought of living in solitude, and departing unwept!

“On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the dying eye requires.”

This little community resembled a Tontine, but with all the advantages of such an institution completely reversed and turned into calamities. In the civil Tontine, every lapse of life renders the remaining lives more valuable—in the Tontine of the convent on the Rhine, it rendered them more miserable—the consummation, the ultimatum of human misfortunes, being still reserved for—the last Nun of Nonnenwerth!

In one short year of epidemic influence and moral depression, the solemn requiem was six times heard in the convent chapel, for the repose of souls no longer to be troubled by mundane cares or fears. This reduced the sisterhood to six.

There are physical pains which the body cannot long sustain—and so are there moral prospects on which the eye of reason is unable to dwell. This was one of them. The remaining nuns took immediate steps to secure other asylums—and soon afterwards separated from each other, and from Nonnenwerth—for ever! The island reverted to the state, and the convent was converted into a caravansera, whose doors are ever open to the travelling novice, without reference to age, sex, creed, or country.

This short history will suggest various reflections to the mind. The legislator will see that solitude is more formidable to many minds than death itself—while the philanthropist will be convinced that monastic institutions are contrary to nature, and, as such, can never exist, without constant supplies from society at large. The vanity of human wishes is well illustrated by the history of Nonnenwerth. The nuns thought themselves fortunate in securing a beautiful, healthy, and tranquil asylum for life—little knowing how soon the convent would appear to them more horrible than the dungeon of a prison!

Reverting from history to romance, we cannot leave the Seven Mountains without noticing the—

TREUENFELS; OR, THE ROCK OF FIDELITY.
(Legend the Fourth.)

In a lonely and desolate valley near the Rhine, some remains of a tomb are seen, with an inscription, of which the word “Liba” only is legible. Liba was the beautiful daughter of the Chevalier Balther, and betrothed to the brave and amiable Count de Grunstein, whom she loved. But, the “days of true love seldom do run smooth.” Balther owed a grudge to the pious but severe Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne, and instigated some of the prelate’s vassals, who were also indisposed to the Archbishop, to take away his life. Several of the malefactors were seized and executed; all confessing at the scaffold that Balther was the person who prompted them to the murder. These confessions induced the Emperor to order a troop of soldiers to burn the original conspirator’s castle and all within its walls. The order was duly executed, and, in the middle of a stormy night, the flames ascended to the apartments of Balther and Liba. The affectionate daughter, with the greatest difficulty, and with wonderful presence of mind, conducted her aged father through a subterranean passage, to the neighbourhood of the chateau; but not before the old man was dreadfully scorched by the fire. A cavern in the mountain’s side afforded them shelter from the vengeance of the Emperor, and the affectionate daughter sustained her parent by fruits and roots collected every night in the vicinity of their retreat. Meantime Balther’s eyes were entirely destroyed by the inflammation resulting from the flames of the castle; but he became reconciled, or at least resigned, to his afflictions and fate. One day, he begged to be conducted to the mouth of the cavern, where he might inhale the pure air, though he could no longer enjoy the cheerful light of Heaven. The dutiful Liba indulged the wish of her afflicted father, and, while they were sitting there, she espied, at no great distance, her faithful lover, Grunstein, leaning in melancholy mood against a tree, his javelin and dogs at his side. The first impulse of nature was to rush into his arms, and implore his assistance; but love and reason instantly checked her. She reflected that the asylum in Grunstein’s castle would only expose her betrothed lover to the persecution of the Emperor. At this moment, her father cried out that he saw the sun and the blue sky, though his eyes were entirely destroyed. The maiden looked around, and beheld a black speck in the heavens. She fell on her knees, and implored the mercy and forgiveness of the Almighty towards her parent. Balther joined in the prayer, and, at that instant, the thunder roared, and a flash of lightning reduced the father to a cinder, and the pious daughter to a corpse! Grunstein roused from his reverie, commenced his descent, and, in his way down into the valley, beheld the fair form of his betrothed Liba, apparently asleep—but totally lifeless! He erected a chapel on the spot, dedicated to “Notre Dame des Douleurs,” and a tomb in the rock for his Liba, where the name still remains legible.

MORAL.

The moral of this tale is two-fold. It illustrates the force of filial affection, and the certainty of retributive justice.

The artful instigations of Balther, which induced others to commit murder, evaded the law of the land, but did not escape the Eye of Heaven. The cruel and illegal steps of the Emperor, in burning the castle, thus involving the innocent with the guilty, cannot be too severely reprobated, though it was consonant with the tyranny of those dark ages. It may seem inconsistent with divine justice, that the innocent and affectionate daughter should have been struck down by the same thunderbolt that hurled vengeance on her father’s guilty head. But although “the ways of Providence are dark and intricate” in appearance, they are not, as the Roman philosopher asserts, “puzzled in mazes and perplexed with errors.” The amiable Liba may have escaped a life that might have been embittered by the memory of her father’s fate, and tainted, in the eyes of the world, by a father’s crime. She might have involved her faithful lover in ruin—and thus have made a bad exchange of easy death and eternal happiness, for a lingering existence of misery and degradation!

The fidelity of Liba, in this legend, is only a fair sample of that moral heroism and natural affection, that pervade the breasts of the daughter, the mother, and the wife, as compared with those of the son, the father, and the husband. The comparison is by no means flattering to the “stronger sex.”

At a very short distance from Nonnenwerth, we pass the town of Unkel on our left hand; and here the stream of the Rhine is narrowed by some remarkable basaltic rocks on the opposite side of the river. These ought to be observed by those who have not seen specimens of this production of volcanic fire. It is the same kind of rock as that which is seen at the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland, and at Staffa in the Hebrides. These basaltic columns had so much obstructed the navigation of the river at this place, that some of them were obliged to be blown up, about forty or fifty years ago.

Passing by Remagen on the right hand, and Linz on the left, we soon come to the ruins of Argenfels, close to the banks of the river, with its legendary tale, which need not be noticed. Near this we have a specimen of the Flying-bridge, so common on this and other continental rivers. A mooring is fixed in the middle of the stream, from which a long chain or rope, suspended by small boats at convenient distances, extends to the passage-boat, which swings from bank to bank, at the end of this long rope, exactly like the pendulum of a clock, only it is horizontal, not perpendicular. There is no occasion for oar or sail. The helm of the passage-boat being turned to port or starboard, the stream of the river acting on it, swings the tail of the pendulum, with its load of passengers, from one bank to the other in a few minutes. Nothing can be more simple or philosophical—but not one in one thousand of the passengers, up and down the Rhine, comprehend the principle.

We soon get so accustomed to “castled crags” and mouldering castles, that we are rather surprised, on turning our eyes from the ruins of Argenfels on our left, to see an ancient chateau (Rheineck) on our right, resuscitated from the sepulchre of its forefathers, and perched in new life on an airy cliff. An old tower stands at one end, like the head-stone of a grave, reminding the modern mansion that it too will be a ruin in its turn!

Rheineck has undergone some of the transmigrations of Vishnou. It was a Roman fort, and bore the imperial eagle on its banner. Then it became a robber’s castle, and received the spoils of its master, torn from their rightful owners. And now it is the residence of a philosopher (Professor Holweg)—the seat of science, letters, and humanity. It is said to be constructed in strict imitation of the castles of feudalism on the Rhine. But although Rheineck has changed masters, it is still under the protection of the same tutelar divinity—Mercury, among his other numerous avocations, having been the god of letters as well as of robbers.

Qui feros cultus hominum recentum,

Voce formasti, catus et decoræ

more Palestræ.

Passing by Brohl on the right, we come to one of the most imposing and extensive ruins on the left—the shattered and scattered fragments of Hammerstein Castle, crowning the mount and craggy rocks of the same name. The precipices descend in rugged and jutting promontories to the shores of the Rhine, each crowned with some remains of the ancient royal and magnificent chateau, and presenting scanty terraces of the vine, creeping up the crevices.

We soon afterwards range along the ancient town of Andernach, the ruins of which, with modern towers and spires, are backed and flanked by a vast screen of basaltic mountains of sombre hue and antique grandeur. Here Drusus Germanicus erected one of his fifty towers, in his Rheinish campaigns, and in the time of Julius Cæsar.

The banks of the river now become more approximated, and the stream more rapid. Steam, however, bids defiance to stream, and the vessel ploughs its way, though with greatly retarded velocity. There is but little remarkable between this and Coblentz, except the beautiful little town of Neiwied, with its flying-bridge, near which Julius Cæsar crossed the Rhine—and, eighteen centuries afterwards, General Hoche, with the victorious French army, performed the same feat, but with far more difficulty. Here the Jew and the Gentile—the Protestant and the Catholic—the Quaker and the Sceptic—all live upon equal terms, and with equal rights, unmolested in the free enjoyment of their various beliefs or disbeliefs—and travelling quietly towards the grave, or whatever “undiscovered country” may lie beyond that bourne, without jostling each other on the road, or forcing their creeds down the throats of their reluctant neighbours!

When will the “liberty of conscience,” in our own proud country, be uncoupled with inequality of political rights, or unattended by the rancour of the odium theologicum!

COBLENTZ.

The cities, towns, villages, hamlets, and even the houses along the Rhine, bear a closer resemblance to one another (each in its class) than in any part of the world through which I have wandered. Even the old castles, and the rocks on which they are built, are often such fac-similes of each other—that it is next to impossible for the acutest perception, joined with the most retentive memory, to retain distinct ideas of these objects, passing in rapid succession before the eye of the tourist!—

Coblentz, like Macedon, has a river—nay, a brace of them—one brown, the other blue.[9] As necessary consequences, there are two bridges, as unlike one another, as any two things of the same kind can well be. One rests its foundations on the rocky bed of the Moselle—the other on the turbid surface of the Rhine. There is a number of streets—a great number of houses—and a still greater number of people, amounting to some 12,000. Then there are churches enough, considering the number of church-goers—and in some of them, there are more dead bodies present at divine service, than living souls. There is a palace—not that of a prince, but of justice. There is good water and good wine; but both of them are brought over the Moselle bridge. Of hotels, there is no lack; the masters and “kellners” of which can tell a “hawk from a handsaw”—and more than that, they can distinguish an Englishman from a native, as readily as they can a Thaler from a Kreutzer. Coblentz has evidently more strength than wealth—more soldiers than merchants—more shells than yolks—more articles of war than of commerce. Her high loop-holed walls along the banks of the river, with one or two wharves, shew that she is compressed into a military fortress, rather than expanded into a fine mart of commerce!

EHRENBREITSTEIN.

The following are the sentiments of two pictorial artists. “The whole surface of the rock, glowed with the richest hues of sunset—its naturally deep-toned and richly coloured form assuming an endless diversity of tints combined with a focus of harmonious light, and relieved by the broad shadows of the surrounding objects.”—Leigh.

“We behold the mighty and stupendous rock of Ehrenbreitstein, crowned with fortifications—the Gibraltar of the Rhine—rising in towering majesty, and frowning in sullen grandeur on the beautiful and picturesque city of Coblentz, casting its deep and darkened shadow over the calm and glassy surface of the Rhine beneath.”—Tomlinson.

I have been often past, and sometimes over this “broad stone of honour,” and, I confess that, to my eye, it is about as shapeless and unpicturesque a mass of mountain as I ever beheld. It is a huge truncated cone—the lower-fourth of an enormous sugar-loaf—an Egyptian pyramid, cut down to the first floor—or rather it is a gigantic butcher’s block, on which a good bit of mangling has been done in its time. There is really but little that excites interest about the fortress, except its massive and passive strength—its vis inertiæ—its impenetrability by shot or shells. You might as well batter Ben Nevis as Ehrenbreitstein! You might sweep its rugged brow of every man, mortar, parapet, and bastion, but the rugged, dogged rock would stand in all its “brute force,” unmoved by the iron showers that fell on its head!

“The Gibraltar of the Rhine!” No man who ever viewed that renowned fortress, would have made the comparison. I resided on the rock several months, and every feature of it is as fresh in my mind’s eye, as it was 40 years ago, when I last left it. Imagine a gigantic rock rising out of the ocean to a height of fifteen hundred feet, connected with the main land only by a narrow, low isthmus of sand—with three sides perpendicular (North, East, and South), and one sloping at an angle of 45 degrees from the summit of the mountain to the water’s edge, sprinkled with little gardens and lodges—while the sea-line is bristled with batteries and flanked by spit-fire tongues, bearing the heaviest artillery, behind which lies a town, containing specimens of every nation between the Ganges and the Atlantic. Through the perpendicular cliffs that overhang the neutral ground, vast galleries for cannon, and profound excavations for ammunition, are cut, tier over tier, pointing destruction upon every foot of the isthmus below. Then the ruins of the old Moorish castle, perched on the crags at one extremity of the rock, while Europa Point, a high table-land a hundred feet above the level of the sea, stretches out to the South, like a splendid parade, with barracks, hospitals, &c. But oh! from O’Hara’s tower on the summit, what a glorious prospect! The boundless and tideless Mediterranean to the East—the vast and heaving Atlantic to the West—the fantastic mountains of Grenada to the North—and Africa fading away towards Carthage and Algiers to the South.

There is not, there cannot be a spot on this earth where such an extensive, magnificent, varied, and beautiful view (one hundred miles in radius) can be obtained, as from the summit of Gibraltar—a spot unique, between two mighty oceans, and two great continents—having Africa and Europe, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, as it were, at your feet!

Is it nothing to stand on one of the “Pillars of Hercules” and contemplate the other within a few miles of you? Descending into St. Michael’s cave, near the apex of the rock, we find ourselves surrounded by thousands and tens of thousands of stalactitic figures, assuming the grotesque forms of everything which the most fertile imagination could conceive—dispersed through caverns where human step has never been able to trace the depth or extent—and supposed to form subterranean, or rather submarine, communications with the opposite fortress of Ceuta in Africa! Wander through the town, and you will observe the costume, the language, the manners, the habits, the productions, the features—almost the passions and thoughts of every people on earth—from the Calmuc Tartar of the East, to the Red Indian of the West—from the Laplander of the North, to the Hottentot of the South. To compare Gibraltar with Ehrenbreitstein, then, is to compare “Hyperion with a Satyr”—or Vesuvius with the funnel of a steam-boat. I leave the prodigies of valour performed by Englishmen, in taking and retaining the key of the Mediterranean, out of the question, believing that Prussian arms would, under similar circumstances, have achieved equal exploits. Of all nations, we have the least reason to doubt the prowess of Prussia. She fought at our side, when the destinies of Europe vibrated in the balance!

COBLENTZ TO MAYENCE.

Between Cologne and Coblentz it is mere child’s play for the tourist. The stream is wide, and the attractive objects are so reasonably distant from one another, that the traveller has time to consult his map, peruse Schreiber, and even con over some of the shorter legends, between castle and castle. But it is another affair above Coblentz. The stream becomes more confined and tortuous—the banks more abrupt and contiguous—the ruins, towns, and villages more numerous—the embarkations and debarkations more frequent, with all their consequences of hurly-burly among the passengers, topsyturvy of luggage, scrambling after books, charts, and sacs-de-nuits, bowings, kissings, and embracings, or, as Hood would say, “omni-bussings,” among goers and comers, together with the clattering of plates and dishes, and the chattering of all known and unknown tongues—these, and many other interruptions, sadly discompose the contemplations of the philosopher, and the musing meditations of the tourists in pursuit of the picturesque, or the Syntaxes in search of the sublime.

The “Rhenish Confederacy” must have had a most salutary influence in fraternising the people of these provinces. Not only does every German in the steamer salute his “cousin Germans” on both cheeks; but, if his neck were long enough, he would kiss every man, woman, and child, on both banks of the river, from Cologne to Constance! These palpable inosculations, however, being impracticable, the caps and hats are converted into social telegraphs, which

“Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul,”

and establish a chain of sympathies and reciprocities between land and water along the whole course of the Rhine.

STOLZENFELS.

We have proceeded but a little way above Coblentz, when we find ourselves between two remarkable ruins—one on the banks of the Lahn, (Lahenec), and one on our right—Stolzenfels. This last has a short legend attached to it, which may be glanced at, en passant.

The robber chief of this strong-hold was remarkable, even among the Rhine-robbers, for cruelty and ferocity. This was not all. He contemned the gods, and laughed at religion as the superstition of the ignorant. In the intervals of robbery and murder, he amused himself with tormenting his vassals, whose lives hung upon the mere caprice of their tyrant lord. One evening, while carousing and scoffing, the light of the moon was suddenly obscured—flocks of ravens flew screaming through the air—darkness overspread the Rhine—and distant thunder was heard growling among the mountains. The Stolzenburger turned pale, and, for the first time in his life, fell on his knees to pray. Before he could utter a word, a dreadful crash was heard—a thunderbolt had struck the castle—and the tyrant was buried in the ruins!

MORAL.

A death-bed repentance may be better than none; but that piety which is extorted by terror, hardly deserves the name.

The long and straight reach of the river, from the entrance of the Lahn to the chateau of Liebneck, presents no striking feature, except the frowning castle (now an hospital) of Marksburg, crowning an apparently inaccessible mountain, which modern art might render impregnable. In another reach or two, we pass Boppart, and come to the scene of a legendary tale.

THE BROTHERS; OR, LIEBENSTEIN AND STERNFELS.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
(Legend the Fifth.)

A little above Boppart, but on the opposite side of the river, two mouldering ruins, on two craggy rocks, close to each other, arrest the attention of even the most indifferent passenger. The legend attached to them is of a very melancholy character. A nobleman had two sons and an amiable ward, of whom both of the brothers were enamoured. The elder resigned his pretensions, and retired to Rheuse, a part of the family estate. The younger was affianced to, and beloved by, the beautiful ward, Eloise, whose name deserves to be transmitted to posterity. The Holy, but insane Crusades, however, induced the intended bridegroom to join the military bigots of that day, in a war of extermination against the Musselmen. The result of his religious zeal was the conquest—not of the Holy City, but of a Grecian mistress, with whom he returned to his castle on the Rhine. The elder brother (Liebenstein), incensed at this double crime (profanation of the crusade and breach of his vows to the lady), challenged him to mortal conflict. The amiable ward (Louisa) rushed between the combatants—prevented fratricide—and immediately took the veil. The guilty pair led, at first, a riotous, but soon a wretched life. The Grecian lady proved faithless, and eloped! The brothers became reconciled—lived in the contiguous castles, whose ruins are still seen—and died without issue!—The property of the ward was dedicated to the purpose of founding a convent (Bornhoffen) at the foot of the mountain on which the castles were built. As to the brothers—

They never enter’d court or town,

Nor looked on woman’s face,

But childless to the grave went down,

The last of all their race.

And still upon the mountain fair,

Are seen two castles gray,

That, like their lords, together there

Sink slowly to decay.[10]

MORAL.

The darker features of this drama are every day seen on the stage of life. Lovers’ vows plighted, soon to be broken—man’s promises of eternal love cancelled—women’s hopes and happiness blighted—but perfidy sooner or later punished.

It was enough for Sternfels to bring home a mistress from Palestine, without parading his guilty partner before the eyes of his betrothed and insulted Louisa. Yet this, and worse, we every day witness! Sternfels’ punishment was not light. The ingratitude of his mistress, and a life of solitude and remorse, were severe chastisements!

Winding along from the ruins last-mentioned, we come to a very striking object, a little short of St. Goar, which attracts the attention of all passengers. It is a dismantled fortification, still black with the powder by which it was blown up in the French revolution. The Rheinfels was long a robber-fortress of the first water, and its tyrant chiefs carried their depredations and extortions to such a height as to league all the adjacent provinces against them. The chiefs held out and defied the country; but at length the strong-hold fell—and, with it, the whole of the brigand castles on both sides of the Rhine.

LURLEY, OR THE ECHO.
(Legend the Sixth.)

Almost immediately after passing the ruins of the Rheinfels, we enter a narrow and sombre river gorge, where the stream is impetuous, turbulent, and tortuous; the cliffs of dark basalt rising almost perpendicular, but in rugged strata or layers, inclining in all directions from the horizontal to nearly the vertical. Here the Rhine like its sister the Rhone—

——“Cleaves its way between

Rocks that appear like lovers who have parted

In haste; whose mining depths so intervene,

That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted.”

And here is still heard that prattling nymph, Miss Echo, who, like many a descriptive tourist, repeats her parrot-note for the tenth time—with no other variation than that of diminished force and distinctness. This lady, who, when young, was dismissed from the skies for allowing her tongue to wag too freely, has since endured the severe punishment of keeping silent, except when spoken to! She is not permitted to ask, but only to iterate questions—having the privilege, on some rare occasions, and in some peculiar places, of repeating the said question, or rather the last word or syllable of it twice or even many times. The present spot is one of these favourite localities—and the voices which she loves to hear and to imitate are those of the cannon, the bugle, and the horn. The clanking and plashing of the steamers are unfavourable to the delicate iterations of Echo, and often drown her voice entirely. Though not so witty as her sister of Killarney, who answers, instead of repeating the questions put to her, yet she occasionally cracks a joke on the mayor of the neighbouring town, when some stentorian German bawls out from the opposite rock, “Who is the mayor of Oberwesel?” The damsel, with a faint but clear titter, replies, “esel”—or ass! so that lord mayors on the banks of the Rhine, as well as of the Thames, are sometimes treated with ridicule.

There can be little doubt that boat-wrecks, raft-wrecks, and loss of life were of frequent occurrence in a locality like this, where the rapid stream is twisted into whirlpools, between rugged banks, the very proximity of which increases the difficulty of the passage, and the danger of drowning, where the vessel or flotilla is stranded. The eddying surge, the sunken rock, and the serrated perpendicular shore, in a dark and tempestuous night, must render the navigation of this dreary ravine most hazardous—and escape, in case of an overturn, all but hopeless.

That a place so singular and so perilous, coupled with a remarkable and musical echo, should become the scene of some popular or superstitious legend, is not at all wonderful. Accordingly a fourth Siren was added to the classical list, and located on the banks of the Rhine, instead of the coast of Sicily, to lure (lurlei) the enchanted mariner from his helm or oar, by her melodious song, and wreck himself and bark on the treacherous rocks. Lurley carried on the trade of her elder sisters for some time, with considerable success, but not without some redeeming qualities; for she often pointed out the best places for the poor fishermen to cast their nets. At length a young Palatine Count determined to emulate the hero of Ithaca, and break the spell of the enchantress. For that purpose he embarked on the Rhine, and steered towards the dangerous pass, but without taking the precaution of the wily Greek, to stop the ears of the crew with wax, and cause himself to be bound to the mast. As the count’s barge approached the rocks, Lurley poured forth one of her most melodious lays over the face of the river. The men dropped their oars, and the count’s senses were all absorbed in listening to the divine strains. A sudden eddy of the stream whirled the boat’s head towards the shore—another dashed her against the rocks—and, in another instant, all were engulphed in the boiling whirlpool!

This catastrophe caused a great sensation, and the count’s father sent a veteran warrior, with a select party of soldiers, to surround the rock, and seize the sorceress. On approaching the summit, Lurley was seen for the first time by human eyes, with arms, ankles, and neck encircled with corals, and even her flowing tresses braided with the same emblems of the deep. She demanded their purpose. The veteran announced his determination to force her into the Rhine, there to expiate the death of the young count. Lurley replied, by throwing her corals into the river, singing at the same time—

Entends ma voix, puissant Pere des eaux,

Fais parter, sans delai, tes rapides chevaux.

Instantly a great storm arose—the river boiled with foam—and two towering waves, bearing some resemblance to milk-white steeds, surged along the rock, and bore Undine (for such was the nymph) to her paternal grottoes under the waters. From that time the song of Lurley was never heard; but her spirit still hovers about her favourite rocks, and mimicks the voices of the boatmen as they pass the place.

The veteran warrior returned to the count’s father, and was agreeably surprised to find the son safely returned to his paternal mansion by the kind Undine.

A contemplation of this locality irresistibly leads me to the conclusion that, here existed in some remote period, a cataract, similar to that now existing, but rapidly crumbling down, as at Schaffhausen. The alluvial plains between Heidelberg and the present bed of the Rhine, were unquestionably a large lake, which would be drained by the wearing down of a cataract at some lower part of the river. When the falls of the Rhine at Schaffhouse are reduced to mere rapids, it is probable that the lake of Constance will become an alluvial valley. The valley of the Rhone was once a lake, till the flood-gate at St. Maurice gave way, and converted the lake into a plain. The huge walls of basaltic rock piled up in strata on each side of the Rhine at Lurley, torn by fire and worn by water, draw the mind to contemplate the myriads of years which must have rolled along, since first they upsprung from the bowels of the earth in liquid lava—and the countless ages required to form this sombre gorge by the mere attrition of the unceasing current!

SCHOMBERG.

While passing the picturesque little town of Oberwesel, and just beyond the Lurley-rocks, we raise the eye to the ruins of Schomberg, possessing some interest to the British traveller, as the patrimonial castle of Duke Schomberg, who lost his life in the battle of the Boyne. Alas! that the very name of a mouldering ruin should, after the lapse of a century and a half, engender in the breasts of the same people, living under the same government, professing the same religion, speaking the same language, and having the same interests, such deadly sentiments of hatred and animosity! No two feudal robbers and enemies on the banks of the Rhine, ever viewed each other with such cut-throat propensities, as do the Orange-man and White-boy on the banks of the Boyne! A century and a half hence, when the fiery passions of the present day shall have long been quenched in the grave, and the immortal spirits shall be awaiting the verdict of a final tribunal, posterity will scarcely believe that, amongst their ancestors, Christian charity meant murderous extermination—and that the surest road to Heaven was that which was tracked with the blood of our neighbours! The glorious orb of day shines as joyously over those mouldering ruins, as when the proud castle first rose in majesty over the frowning precipices—nay, as when the Rhine itself first began to trickle from the virgin snows of the Alps:—and why should not the heavenly light of Christianity shed its benign influence over the professors of that faith, as well now, as when the Redeemer inculcated charity and forbearance during his mission on earth? No! It is much easier to preach than to practise the Christian virtues—and the former is considered the more efficacious of the two, by the disciples of Faith.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE FATE OF COQUETTES.
(Legend the Seventh.)

Cupid is not a god that may be safely tampered with. His arrows are sharp, his feelings are keen, and his resentments are sometimes implacable. Seven beautiful sisters resided in the castle of Schomberg, overhanging the Rhine; and their hearts were as insensible to love as are the seven rocks in that river near Oberwesel, which now bear their names. Their charms and their wealth attracted crowds of suitors from various quarters. The sisters, however, gave smiles to all, yet favours to none of their admirers. Proffers of marriage were always declined, and sometimes treated with levity. Vanity was their ruling, almost their only passion, and adulation was its food. Their public suitors were the subjects of their private merriment. But mischief sometimes mingled with their mirth. By words, looks, or demeanour, they occasionally seemed to shew a preference to certain of their admirers. This led to jealousies, quarrels, bloodshed, and even death. The ranks, however, were constantly filled up by adventurous and ardent lovers, as the Byzantine throne (according to Gibbon) was never without a tenant, though the grave was always ready dug at its foot! But beauty, which is the gift of Nature and Chance, is the first charm which falls before the hand of Time. The sisters had only this one personal attraction, and it began to fade. The suitors diminished in number, and at length totally disappeared! It was then too late to remedy the evil of their own vanity and cruelty. The scene of their former flattery had now become insupportable, and they prepared to remove across the Rhine to a sequestered retreat, where their wounded pride and present humiliation might alike be buried in obscurity. They selected a dark night for leaving their castle and passing the river. When near the Lurley Rocks, the gnome of that place, who had often witnessed the imprudent and unfeeling conduct of her neighbouring sisters, lured the boatmen towards a treacherous sunken shoal, when the vessel was overturned, and all were buried in a watery grave! The Seven Sisters are still seen occasionally, in very low states of the river, raising their heads out of the water, in the form of rocks, and struggling with the foaming and impetuous current!

MORAL.

The moral of this short legend is transparent. The coquette, the flirt, the jilt, is a kind of moral swindler who, having no feelings or affections herself, trifles with those of others. It must be confessed that there are similar characters among the other sex, who are, if possible, still more reprehensible. But the female who plays this disreputable game, runs a greater risk, for obvious reasons, than the male deceiver. The foregoing legend illustrates the danger of relying on mere personal charms, as the great magnet of attraction. Qualities and accomplishments of mind are more durable, and more to be depended on, than beauty of form or feature!

PFALZ.

The robbers of the Rhine were not content with building depôts for stolen, or rather plundered goods, on every eminence, and levying “black mail” on every kind of land carriage; but they invaded “the free navigation of the Rhine,” as some of their descendants now do. A rock on the river whereon to erect a toll-bar was a great treasure in days of yore. The quadrupeds of the mouse-tower were much less voracious and graminivorous, than the bipeds of the same. The latter might not perhaps have nibbled at the body of a bishop, but they took good care to shear his flocks, in their transit up and down the Rhine. Nearly opposite Caub we pass close to an object which looks like a dwarf castle, sailing up the stream on the back of a whale. This was a very convenient edifice for the Rhenish palatines of the adjacent castle of Stahlee. It served the purpose of a custom-house, to collect the “rint,” and a prison to secure the refractory:—in other words, it performed the double function of dungeon and douane. One of the involuntary tenants of this narrow crib, was the own and the only daughter of Conrad, the palatine himself, whose name was Agnes. The lady had been betrothed, with her parents’ and her own consent, to Henry Duke of Brunswick; but a king having offered his hand, Conrad commanded her to change her affections, and set them on a higher rank than that of a duke. Agnes demurred in her own breast, though not openly; for affection, like faith or belief, will not come or go at our own bidding—much less at that of another. In the temporary absence of the father, Agnes, with the consent and privity of her mother, was privately married to the duke. When Conrad learnt this, he ordered his daughter to the Pfalz, till the marriage could be dissolved. Meantime it soon became evident that certain proofs of prior attachment on the part of Agnes, would be too unequivocal to escape the notice of the regal suitor, if the marriage were annulled; and Conrad, after a double confinement of Agnes in the Rhine prison, became reconciled to the duke—and all ended happily.

Passing Bacharach and the “Ara Bacchi,” which shews its propitious face in fertile vintages, we soon come to Lorch, where we have a legend that must not be passed unnoticed.

TEMPTATION, OR THE HALL OF A HUNDRED MIRRORS.
(Legend the Eighth.)

Three students from Nuremburg, determined, during one of their vacations, to make the tour of the Rhine. Arrived at Lorch, they learnt that the sombre and triste valley of Wesperthal, behind Mount Kedrick, was the habitation of hobgoblins, who failed not to harass and frighten every one who penetrated into its dreary recesses. This account only stimulated their curiosity, and tempted their courage. They therefore repaired to the valley, and were soon treading on fairy ground. While wandering about, they came to an enormous mass of rock, bearing some rude resemblance to an old castle. In its sides were several apertures, like gothic windows, and its summit was something in the shape of a dome. Presently at one of these apertures there appeared three young ladies of surpassing beauty, who, instead of frowning on the young cavaliers, invited them, by their smiles and signals, to approach the castle. They soon found a narrow door, through which they entered, and passing along a kind of avenue, they came to a stair-case, which they mounted, and entered a vast and magnificent vestibule. They had scarcely time to cast a glance around them, when they were involved in the most Cimmerian darkness. After groping about, for some time, they discovered a door, which they managed to force open, when they found themselves in a splendid hall, illumined by hundreds of chandeliers, and covered from the dome to the floor with brilliant mirrors. But instead of finding the three nymphs, who had beckoned them from the windows, they were astounded by the sight of at least three hundred, who all stretched out their hands, at once, while welcoming the three youths to their father’s mansion! The students were stupified, not knowing which to address, or whom to salute, so bewildered were they by the reflection of three hundred beauties, and double that number of hands, from the surrounding mirrors! Their embarrassment was not lessened by the peals of laughter set up by the mischievous nymphs. In the midst of this scene, a door opened, and a venerable old man, with locks like snow, but clothed in jet black vestments, entered. “Welcome, my children,” said he; “you are come, no doubt, to demand my daughters in marriage. You shall have them, and with each a hundred weight of solid gold. But there is one condition. My daughters have lost their pet birds, and you must search for them, and bring them back from yonder wood.” “Take each your partner,” then said the old man, in a voice of thunder. The youths stepped forward, each to seize the hand of his mistress—but grasped only empty air. At this, the father joined his daughters in a peal of laughter. When the merriment had subsided, the old man led the young suitors to the real nymphs, whose salutes assured the students that they were real flesh and blood, and whose beauty soon captivated their whole souls. They were now eager to fulfil the condition imposed upon them. “You will recognize the Starling,” says the old man, “by the riddles which it has got by rote and is always propounding—the Rook by its hoarse croak—and the Magpie, by the burthen of its chatter, being the birth, parentage, and education of its grandmother.” They set out for the forest, and soon found the three birds, perched on the branch of an oak, chattering and chanting the ditties which they had been taught in the chateau. I have only room for the magpie’s theme—

“Ma grand-mêre etait une pie,

Qui pondait des œufs d’ou sortaient des pies.

Et si elle n’etait pas morte,

Elle serait encore en vie.”[11]

The young gentlemen soon secured the pet birds, and returned with them to the castle. But what a change presented itself to their horrified senses! The chateau was gray with moss—the hall deprived of its mirrors and lustres, and only exhibiting naked walls! In three niches, sate three withered, tawny, toothless hags, with wine and fruit before them, on three small tables! They instantly rose, and stretched out their wrinkled, yellow, and skinny arms to embrace their lovers, while they mumbled and snivelled, from mouths and noses, their nauseous welcomes, and most loving assurances of eternal attachment and fidelity! To add to the mortification of the bridegrooms, the three pet birds joined their mistresses in such a chorus of squallings, croakings, and catterwaullings, that the young men were obliged to stop their ears to keep out the infernal din! Meanwhile the withered witches led their paramours to the tables, and presented them refreshments, for which they had little stomach. Each, however, took a glass of exquisite wine, which they had scarcely swallowed, when they fell into a state of complete insensibility! When they awoke, which was not till mid-day, they found themselves lying among prickly bushes at the foot of a tall rock, worn into furrows by the storms and rains, their limbs so cold and stiff that they had the greatest difficulty in retracing their steps! While dragging their weary limbs along, they were saluted from every projecting rock by the old hags—and from every branch of tree by the chatterings and croakings of the cursed pet birds! On clearing the valley, the young gentlemen made a vow never again to pay attention to the allurements of female beauty, when proffered on the “voluntary system” of the nymphs of Wesperthal.

MORAL.

I think the allegory of Wesperthal is little inferior to that of Circe, or even of the Syrens. It combines, indeed, the morals of both. Under the head of curiosity and thirst of rash adventure, are shadowed forth the headstrong passions of youth. Then the allurements and temptations by which they are so easily led from the paths of virtue—the Cimmerian darkness in which they are plunged—the blaze of false light, glittering tinsel, and meretricious splendour that attracts them on to their ruin—the penalties which are soon exacted from this short-lived felicity—the stupor in which their senses are drowned—and the remorse and horror in which they finally wake from the delirium of “passion’s wild career.”

Among some sly strokes of irony conveyed in this allegory, the accomplishments of the “pet birds” are biting satires on the education and mental habits of their mistresses in the chateaus of that time. Happily for us, there are now no charades of the starling, croakings of the rook, or magpie chatterings about ancestral honours, among the wives and daughters of the nineteenth century.

THE DEVIL’S LADDER.
RUTHELM AND GARLINDA, OR LOVE REWARDED AND INHOSPITALITY PUNISHED.
“Omnia vincit amor.”
(Legend the Ninth.)

There cannot be a doubt that the legend of the “Devil’s Ladder,” was clearly intended to convey a double moral, as will presently be seen.

Over the little town of Lorch, rises abruptly the craggy, and apparently inaccessible mountain of Kedrick, on which is a solitary tower. Sibo, the Chief of Lorch, was a gloomy, eccentric, and rather misanthropic character. One stormy night, a decrepid old creature, of extremely dwarfish stature, rapped at his door, and demanded the usual rights of hospitality, commonly accorded in that age of chivalry. Sibo drove him from his gate with rudeness, and even brutality. Next day, when the dinner-bell rang, Garlinda, the only child of Sibo, a beautiful girl, twelve years of age, was nowhere to be found! Search was made in all directions, but in vain. A shepherd, however, reported that, early in the morning, he saw a young girl, who was culling flowers at the foot of the Kedrick, surrounded and seized by a number of little old men, who climbed with her up the mountain. The chevalier cast his eyes towards the summit of the steep, and clearly discerned his daughter there, who appeared to be stretching her arms towards her parent’s habitation! The vassals were summoned, and numerous efforts were made to scale the rock; but every attempt was frustrated by fragments of stone coming down the precipices with such fury, that the men were forced to fly for their lives. The wretched Sibo now endeavoured by penances, prayers, donations to the churches, monasteries, and convents, as well as distributions among the poor, to propitiate the powers above, and regain his only child. Heaven seemed hardened against him, and the gnomes of Kedrick retained their captive. The only consolation of the father was, that Garlinda was seen at sunrise and sunset, looking from her airy prison down to the valley of Lorch. Days, months, and years rolled on, without any prospect of regaining his lost treasure. Meantime, every care was taken of Garlinda’s health and comfort by the fairies of the rock—and especially by an aged female gnome, who watched her assiduously, and occasionally gave her hopes of deliverance from captivity.

Four years had now elapsed, and Sibo gave up all expectation of recovering his daughter; when Ruthelm, a brave young knight, who had distinguished himself in the wars against the Infidels, returned to the place of his nativity, near Lorch. On learning the fate of Garlinda, he determined to effect her rescue, or sacrifice his life. Her father promised the hand of the lady to her deliverer. Ruthelm reconnoitred, with anxious eye, every side of the rocky mountain; but no part offered the least prospect of escalade. It rose like a rugged wall in every direction! Returning to his chateau in pensive meditation, he met a diminutive dwarf on the road, who accosted him, and asked him if he had heard the story of Garlinda’s captivity on the summit of Kedrick? On replying in the affirmative, the dwarf hinted that he could effect her freedom if Ruthelm promised to marry her. The lover eagerly closed with the proposal, and the dwarf vanished from his sight.

The youthful knight began to fear that the promise of the dwarf was a deception, when an aged female gnome stood before him, and presenting him with a small bell, desired him to repair to the valley of Wesperthal, a gloomy and haunted ravine behind the Kedrick, and there seek the entrance of a deserted mine, which he would recognize by two old pine trees that grew at its mouth. When he had descended a few steps into the mine, he was to ring the bell thrice, and abide the result. Ruthelm was punctual to the directions, and found the place. As soon as the bell was rung, a light was seen rising from the bottom of the mine, and presently a dwarf appeared, and demanded what Ruthelm wanted. He related the promise of the female dwarf, and her injunction to ring the bell which she had given him. The dwarf examined the bell. The inhabitant of the mine commanded Ruthelm to be at the foot of the mountain before the dawn of next morning. Then drawing a small trumpet from his girdle, he sounded it thrice, when instantly the ravine and the whole valley swarmed with gnomes carrying ropes, hatchets, saws, and hammers. In a few minutes trees were heard falling down the sides of the ravine, felled by the axes of the gnomes, while hundreds of these nimble gentry were busily employed in forming the wood into the different parts of the ladder.

Ruthelm slept little that night, and was at his post before the dawn of morn. He found the ladder placed against the perpendicular precipice, and reaching to its highest pinnacle. He began to mount the ladder; but the terrific vibrations and oscillations of the slender machine, required all the courage of a hero, and all the devotion of a lover—

——lest the deficient sight

Topple down headlong.——

At length he reached the summit of the rock, and was rewarded for his hazard, by the sight of Garlinda reclining asleep in a bower of roses and eglantine. Her beauty surpassed all that had been reported, even by her own friends. While gazing on the sleeping nymph, she awoke, and Ruthelm dropped on his knee. At that instant the little old man, who had carried off Garlinda, stood before them, and, with frowning looks, demanded the name of the intruder, the cause of his visit, and the means by which he had ascended the mountain? Ruthelm firmly replied, that he came to deliver Garlinda from her prison, and restore her to an affectionate, but broken-hearted parent—that the means of his access would be explained by the bell, which he held in his hand. Garlinda, at these words, burst into a flood of tears, and entreated the dwarf to allow her to visit her father. The dwarf paused for a moment, and then replied:—“Your father, Garlinda, has been amply punished for his inhospitality, and you deserve reward for your patience and resignation. For you, Sir Knight, (addressing Ruthelm,) the jewel you seek is not yet purchased, even by the perils you have encountered. A more dangerous task remains—the descent from this mountain. You must return by the ladder; I will conduct Garlinda by a secret path to her father’s mansion.”

Ruthelm, in descending the ladder, found infinitely more difficulty than in his ascent: and several times his head turned giddy, and he was nearly precipitated to the bottom of the ravine. When he reached Sibo’s castle, he found the daughter in the arms of her father, who was weeping for joy. Sibo, from that moment, kept his gate open to every object of distress—a practice which was continued by Ruthelm and Garlinda, during a long series of years.

MORAL.

To counterpoise the baser passions and propensities of our nature, the Omniscient Creator has implanted others in the human breast of an ennobling kind. Thus charity and benevolence antagonise selfishness and avarice. But these passions and propensities, good and bad, are not left to contend with each other in anarchy, like jarring elements. Over them is placed a power without passion, an emanation from the Deity, designed to control the vicious and foster the virtuous workings of the spirit, either by direct influence, or, which is more common, by nullifying the bad by the good propensities.

It is this God-like Reason, which distinguishes Man from the Brute creation. The latter have but one governing passion or instinct, each, from which they cannot deviate, and which never fails to lead them to their proper objects. But even in Man, and especially in uncultivated states of mind, Reason is too often unequal to the governance of the unruly passions, and requires the aid of another and higher power—Religion.

Reason may, and too often does, err; but instinct is as undeviating in its course as the earth in its revolutions round the sun. Whenever the voice of Reason and the dictates of Religion are resisted, and ultimately disregarded, some prominent passion from the vicious side of human nature is sure to gain and to retain the mastery. The consequences need not be told! Every day that vice retains possession of the soul, diminishes the chance of virtue regaining the ascendancy:—Hence the evil of procrastination in the work of reformation!

But to return. Hospitality to the stranger, and charity to the indigent are virtues so universally acknowledged, that few are bold enough to deny them in theory, though there are many Sibos who are chary of the practice. The sums which were lavished on monasteries and convents, in useless remorse, would have saved the Chieftain of Lorch many a bitter hour of reflection, had they been judiciously applied to the relief of penury and misfortune, before he was made to taste the bitter cup of anguish himself!

The other part of the legend illustrates the well-known fact that—

“Love will hope where Reason would despair.”

And not only hope, but accomplish things apparently impossible of achievement. Ruthelm was not the only one who has fallen in love of unseen objects, and only known through pictorial or descriptive representations. Few have passed the juvenile period of life without having some imaginary goddess or hero in their thoughts, endowed with all the virtues and charms which—

“Youthful poets fancy when they love.”

Whether time and experience have always realized (as Jonathan would say) these golden dreams, can only be determined by the knowledge of each individual.

Leaving Lorch, then, on our left, (in ascending the river) our attention is strongly attracted to a renovated chateau on our right—Rheinstein. Here we must halt for a few minutes.

THE BRIDAL OF RHEINSTEIN; OR, THE RUNAWAY MARRIAGE.
(Legend the Tenth.)

About midway between Lorch and Bingen, on our right hand, stands the renovated castle of Rheinstein, on a romantic eminence, and very near the Rhine. It is no longer a desolate pile of ruins, but the habitation of a royal prince of Prussia, whose proud banner floats on its lofty turret. No destructive missile or drawn sword now repels the inquisitive stranger. The draw-bridge falls at the approach of Jew or Gentile, rich or poor—and the renovated halls are thrown open to the inspection of all visitors.

Tradition informs us that the original castle was inhabited by a Baron Sifred, a dissolute young robber, who carried off from France, a beautiful maiden, and detained her in durance vile within his impregnable fortress. The captivity of the lady, however, made a wonderful revolution in the baron’s life. The noise of revelry and arms was superseded by the sounds of the lute—and Yutta became the bride of Sifred. Twelve months of love and happiness flew rapidly round, and Yutta presented her husband with a pledge of their affection—a female child. The mother survived the birth only a few hours. The baron shut himself up in his castle, and dedicated his time to the education of his daughter.