Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843, vol. 1 of 2

I have delayed writing hitherto—for this is our first stazion. I know not of what clay those persons are made who write on board steamers, or before going to bed, when they reach an inn, after a long day’s journey. I rather disbelieve in such achievements. A date or reference may be put down; but during a voyage, I am at first too interested, and then too tired; and at night, on arriving, I confess, supper and the ceremonial of retiring to rest, are exertions almost too much for me: I cannot do more. And then we have travelled amidst a hurricane of misfortunes—money and other property disappearing under the malignant influence of the Belgian railroad and some rogue at the Hotel at Liege. Our missing luggage has been restored, but we have found no remedy for the loss of our money. Sixteen pounds were seized upon at one fell swoop. Imagine such an accident happening when we were abroad, two years ago! At present, it is not pleasant; but it is not fatal, as it would then have been.

Our last week in England was most delightfully spent at the seat of a friend near Southampton, on the skirts of the New Forest. A little quiet sailing in a yacht; drives in a beautiful neighbourhood, strolling about the grounds; the rites of good old English hospitality—varied the day. Our host was all kindness, and added the crowning grace of being really sorry when we departed; his saddened countenance, as the engine whistled and we were whirled towards London, gave us the flattering assurance that we were regretted; and we sincerely returned the compliment.

We spent a day or two in London, taking leave of a few old friends; and on Sunday, 12th of June, we embarked on board the “Wilberforce,” for Antwerp. I hate and dread the sea; having suffered—oh, what suffering it is!—how absorbing!—how degrading!—how without remedy! And then to wish for terra firma—only so much as the feet will stand upon: thus no longer to be the abject victim of the antipathetic element—a speck of rock, one-foot-by-one, would not that suffice to stand upon, and be still? I speak of times past. The mighty Power had, when trusting to its awful mutability, shewn itself merciful as great, as I crossed and re-crossed from and to Dover, in 1840. But this was a longer voyage; and as we steamed down the river, the wind was directly adverse, and felt strong. The sea looked dreary; and the evening set in gray, cold, and unpleasant. I was the last passenger that kept on deck. About ten o’clock, the increasing spray drove me down. However, I escaped the doleful extremity of seasickness, and slept till morning, when the slow waters of the Scheldt received us. The sun was bright; but nothing can adorn with beauty the low, nearly invisible banks of an almost Dutch river; and there was no busy craft to enliven the scene. It is strange to think how a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonises the hues of sky and water.

Though it may be done a thousand times, still English people must always experience a strange sensation when they disembark on a foreign strand, and find every familiar object startlingly changed: but, if strange, it is very pleasing. I have a passionate love of travelling. Add to this, I suffer in my health, and can no longer apply to my ordinary employments. Travelling is occupation as well as amusement, and I firmly believe that renewed health will be the result of frequent change of place.

Besides, what can be so delightful as the perpetual novelty—the exhaustless current of new ideas suggested by travelling? We read, to gather thought and knowledge; travelling is a book of the Creator’s own writing, and imparts sublimer wisdom than the printed words of man. Were I exiled perforce, I might repine, for the heart naturally yearns for home. But to adorn that home with recollections; to fly abroad from the hive, like the bee, and return laden with the sweets of travel—scenes, which haunt the eye—wild adventures, that enliven the imagination—knowledge, to enlighten and free the mind from clinging, deadening prejudices—a wider circle of sympathy with our fellow-creatures;—these are the uses of travel, for which I am convinced every one is the better and the happier.

We landed on the quay at Antwerp, and walked to the hotel—a long walk, under a hot sun. After refreshing ourselves by a toilette, we hastened to the Cathedral—for we had no time to spare—to view the Descent from the Cross, the chef-d’œuvre of Rubens. Several people were being admitted as we arrived; but, with a rudeness of gesture and tone that far surpassed Westminster, the door was pushed to, and held jealously ajar, till we had paid a few sous, the price of entrance. The interior is spacious and lofty, and remarkable for its simplicity and its being totally unencumbered by screens of wood or stone. The Descent from the Cross is a very fine picture. You may remember that Sir Joshua Reynolds, in his Lectures, mentions the boldness of the artist in enveloping the dead body with a white cloth. A painter, less sure of his powers, would have relieved the livid hues of death by a dark background: the white sheet, under the pencil of Rubens, contrasts yet more fearfully with the livid tints of the corpse.

This is all we saw of Antwerp—this half hour spent in the lofty nave and the dim aisles of the Cathedral. Do not despise us! Some day, I mean to make a tour of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Holland. But we found it quite impossible to combine sightseeing at the commencement of our journey with our intention of proceeding as far as Italy. You know what it is that enables the tourist to loiter on his way; and you know how slenderly we are provided with the same. I have read, somewhere, the remark of a French lady, expressive of her astonishment at the English mania for travelling. She understood, she said, rich people, with comfortable carriages, amusing themselves thus; but how women, who can command the comforts of an ordinary English house, could leave the same, and by diligence and voiturier, harassed and fatigued, should find pleasure in exposing themselves to a thousand annoyances and privations, surprised her beyond measure. I have travelled in both ways. To undertake the last, requires a good deal of energy and an indefatigable love of seeing yet more and more of the surface of this fair globe, which, like all other passions or inclinations, must spring naturally from the heart, and cannot be understood except by those who share it. After having been confined many a long year in our island, I broke from my chains in 1840, and encountered very rough travelling. I did not find it more fatiguing than the more luxurious species, and enjoyed as much as I had ever done its pleasures. Now I have set out again, my choice being between staying at home and travelling as I could. I preferred, very far, the latter: I should prefer it to-morrow. Still, I do not deny that I did repine much, on various occasions, that I could not linger longer on my way, and visit a thousand places left unvisited. I hope to go to them another time. What I did see is all gain; and I ought rather to rejoice in the spirit of enterprise that enabled me to see so much, than to grumble at the smallness of the means that forced me to see so little.

We returned to dine at the table d’hôte, and were then hurried into the omnibus, waiting to take us to the railway. I have always avoided this mode of reaching the terminus in England, as too full of confusion; and I cannot tell why I changed my notion on the subject here abroad. I repented heartily afterwards, and renewed my resolve always to reach the station in a private conveyance. Just as we left the hotel, our three passports were put into our hands, one a piece: in the hurry I dropped mine—the first loss of a day, rendered memorable by many. On our arrival, everybody in the various omnibuses that arrived at the same time, at once went mad from hurry and confusion. Loss the second occurred here. M—— forgot her handbasket, containing a lady’s-maid’s treasures for a journey: many things of English birth were gone irreparably. A noisy crowd surrounded one window of the station at the terminus, eager for tickets, as if the train would set off without them. Before another door was piled all the luggage brought by all the omnibuses. It was only admitted piecemeal; and the selection of the articles belonging to each traveller was a scene of indescribable confusion. We none of us understood German—confession of shame! I had taken lessons in the winter; but my health prevented my making any progress. French was of little avail. We had divided our forces, to master the difficulties we encountered. K—— went for the tickets; P—— with the luggage, and I remained to wonder and expect. After a time, the noise ceased, the crowd disappeared, a bell rung, I had got my ticket, and, the gates being open, I walked into the yard. I found the carriages nearly full, and ready to start—it seemed very odd. My companions had left me, and had gone to look after the luggage. I saw nobody, so I took my seat in a carriage, and in a few seconds, we started.

The carriages are inconvenient, bearing no similitude, indeed, to carriages, but are small rooms or cells, boxed off into eight seats, and placed on a sort of platform. One merit they possessed—we were not locked in; there was no door, and the egress from the front was easy to the platform, and that was scarcely raised from the ground. The carriages were very full, the heat excessive; and several unruly children did not add to our comfort. At Malines (I think it was), we were to be transferred to another train: the one in which we commenced our journey going on to Brussels. Changing carriages is always a tiresome operation. I alighted in the middle of a large square, and was glad to find my companions safely assembled. Our luggage was turned out here; and, as we waited some time before we were taken up again, we amused ourselves with examining our property. With dismay, we discovered that two cloaks and a carpet-bag were missing. Certainly, for travellers somewhat experienced, our conduct appeared disgraceful. P——, who had passed the luggage, had witnessed that all was weighed; but he had not been allowed to remain in the weighing-room to see the things off, and his want of German had rendered the task difficult.

On our arrival at Liege, another scene of confusion at the unloading ensued. It must be said, however, that their method was good, and the noise arose from the numbers of travellers, and their exceeding vociferations. On weighing the luggage, they paste a piece of paper on each article, inscribed with a number—the same number for all the goods belonging to one name; and to this is added the number of articles. Thus all our things were marked “21,” and we had a paper given us that gave us a claim to nine articles marked “21.” The men, as they unload, cry out the number pasted on the articles; and the passengers, with their papers in their hands, claim their own. Seven only, however, appeared for us; the cloaks and the carpet-bag were missing. Waiting, in hopes that these might at last be forthcoming, detained us among the last. The omnibuses were nearly full; no carriages, nor post-horses for the carriages on the train, nor any other means of getting to Liege, were to be found. We got places, and we heard afterwards, that the confusion in some of the omnibuses had arisen to a scuffle. This we escaped.

Murray’s Hand-book was our guide: usually an admirable one. Among other useful information, none is more satisfactory to the traveller than to know the best hotel in a town. Murray directed us to the Aigle Noire, which we found large, clean, and pleasant.

Morning brought with it the discovery of another loss:—“Encore un objêt de perdu!”—and this objêt was more serious and irreparable than our former. We had changed what English bank notes we had at Antwerp, for German gold. My companions counted the contents of their purses—£8 in each. It so happened that they could not get lodged separately, and they occupied a double-bedded room. After counting their money, they left their purses on a large table in the middle of the room: they did not lock their door. In the morning, the door was ajar, and the purses gone. Fortunately, they had placed their watches nearer to them. Perhaps it was the boots of the hotel, who, coming in for their clothes, was tempted by the sight of their glittering purses so easily to be taken. However it may be, they were gone. The master of the hotel behaved excessively ill; talked of sending for the Maire, to constater our loss, but professed his disbelief in our story; travellers, he declared, never leave their purses on a table, and always lock their door. We did nothing. We should probably have been tempted to do something; but we had to record our missing articles, and to arrange for their being sent after us. I, too, had dropped my passport. “Mais, Madame, vous êtes vraiment en malheur,” said the daughter of the hotel-keeper, who was as civil as her father was rude. We were; so we could only say—or rather, I said—in the Greek fashion: “Welcome this evil, so that it be the only one!” I said it from my heart; for, alas! I ever live with a dark shadow hovering near me. One whose life has been stained by tragedy can never regain a healthy tone of mind—if it be healthy—that is consonant to the laws of human life, not to fear for those we love. I am haunted by terror. It stalks beside me by day, and whispers to me, in dreams, at night. But this is being very tragical, apropos of our stolen money.

We hired a carriage to take us to Aix-la-Chapelle. It was a pleasant drive: the country is varied into hill and dale, and is very pretty. About five in the evening we arrived at the railway station, without entering the town of Aix-la-Chapelle, which looked agreeably placed in a valley encircled by hills. The works for the railroad are in full progress, and the mounds are on a vast scale. They spoil rather the beauty of a landscape; yet a railroad gives such promise of change and novelty to the traveller—transporting us at once from the known to the unknown—that, in spite of all that can be said against them, I delight to see or hear of them.

Everything connected with travelling in Prussia is in the hands of Government, and admirably managed. The carriages on this railroad were of the usual construction, and very comfortable. We could not see much of the country as we were whisked through it: the little we could glance at appeared to deserve visiting at leisure. In a very short time we arrived at Cologne, and drove at once to an hotel, near the river. We arrived too late—we departed too early—to see anything of Cologne. Do not despise us: I intend to go there again.

During my last journey, I had not seen the portion of the Rhine between Cologne and Coblentz, and one of my companions had never visited these scenes. We gazed, therefore, with eager curiosity, as at each succeeding mile the river became more majestic, its shores more picturesque; and every hour of the day brought its store of delight to the eye. One or two chance acquaintance on board the steamer were agreeable; and a few incidents of travel, such as are familiar to wanderers, and form the history of their days, amused us. The man who acted as steward on the steamer, a thin, pale, short, insignificant-looking fellow, had taken his bill to him of our party whom, I suppose, long experience in such matters had led him to divine was the most insouciant. The bill was paid without a remark, and then brought to me. I was startled at its amount, and examined it. First I cast it up, and found an overcharge in the addition. This was pointed out to the man. He acknowledged it very debonairely. “Ah, oui, je le vois, c’est juste;” and he refunded. Still the bill was large; and I showed it to a lady on board, who had paid hers, and had mentioned the moderation of the charges. I found that the man had charged us each half a florin too much for dinner. Again the bill was taken to him. This time he was longer in being convinced; but when our authority was mentioned, with a look of sudden enlightenment, he exclaimed:—“Madame, vous avez parfaitement raison,” and refunded. But this was not all: my maid came to me, to say she hoped I had not paid for her, as she had paid for herself. True enough, she was charged for in our bill. We were almost ashamed to apply again; but a sense of public justice prevailed, and again we asked for our money back. In this instance, the man yielded at once. Clasping his forehead, he exclaimed:—“Mon Dieu! que je suis bête!” and repaid us. In the evening of this day, as K—— was gazing on the splendour of the setting sun, the false steward stood beside him, sharing the rapture, and exclaimed:—“N’est ce pas, Monsieur, que c’est magnifique!”

We passed the junction of the Moselle with the Rhine, and under the rock of Ehrenbreitstein; and, landing, proceeded to the Hotel of Bellevue, where we had lodged for a night, very comfortably, two years before.

You know the fair town of Coblentz—its wide, white, clean, rather dull-looking streets: you know the monument erected by French vanity at the time of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, to commemorate with pompous vauntings an expedition that caused his downfall. Even before the carving of the empty boast had been overspread by a little dust, the Commandant of the Russian army, pursuing the flying invader, had the power, but disdained to erase it; adding only in the style of the Emperor’s passports—“Vu et approuvé par nous, Commandant Russe, de la ville de Coblence, Janvier 1^er, 1814.” You know the lofty rock and impregnable fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, which rises majestically on the opposite bank of the river, and looks proudly down on old Father Rhine and its picturesque assemblage of guardian hills.

We left Coblentz at eight in the morning, and embarked in a larger and more convenient boat. We left here our accidental acquaintance who had made the voyage in the “Wilberforce” with us, and kept on the same way ever since—they were bound for Wiesbaden, and meant to linger awhile on the banks of the Rhine. By some chance few travellers seemed to be making the voyage just now. The only English were a family, who had frequently been this route, and so despised it that the lady remained in a close carriage on deck, with the blinds drawn down, all day.

I believe I am nearly the first English person, who many years ago made a wild, venturous voyage, since called hacknied;—when in an open flat-bottomed sort of barge we were borne down the rapid stream, sleeping at night under the starry canopy, the boat tethered to a willow on the banks; and when we changed for a more commodious bark, how rude it was, and how ill-conducted, as it drifted, frequently turning round and round, and was carried down by the sheer force of the stream; and what uncouth animals were with us, forming a fearful contrast between their drunken brutalities and the scene of enchantment around. Two years ago I renewed my acquaintance with the Rhine, and emerging on it from the Moselle, it gained in dignity by contrast with the banks of a river only less beautiful. Then the diorama, as it were, of tower-crowned crag and vine-clad hills—of ruined castle, fallen abbey, and time-honoured battlements, sufficed to enchain the attention and satisfy the imagination; and now—was I really blasée, and did my fancy no longer warm as I looked around? No; but I wanted more: I had seen enough of the Rhine, as a picture, all that the steam-voyager sees;—I desired to penetrate the ravines, to scale the heights, to linger among the ruins, to hear still more of its legends, and visit every romantic spot. I shall be very glad some summer of my future life to familiarise myself with the treasure of delight easily gathered by a wanderer on these banks; but as it is—on, on, the Castle of Stolzenfels, restored by the present King of Prussia when Crown Prince, is passed,—but I will not make a list of names, to be found in a guide-book: on we went rapidly, now catching sight of, passing, and losing in distance the “castled crags,”—the romantic hills of the glorious Rhine.

I looked with pleasure also on the lower uplands, with their vineyards. Surely, the inhabitants of this region worship the sun. On one side, that of shadow, forest-trees clothe the ravines, and pine woods crown the mountains—a beautiful but poor growth. On the other, the open, sun-visited banks are rich in vines, whose vintage is almost the best in the world. What a store of merry hours clusters together with the grapes on those old snake-like roots; and how much glittering coin is pressed out from those clusters of fruit into the pockets of their owners. We had a specimen of the first part of its power; some young Germans on board got gloriously tipsy, and called for another, and yet another bottle—becoming with every glass more affectionate and happy.

On this occasion we arrived at Mayence in time to proceed to Francfort the same evening; more than in time; when we reached the station we found the train would not start for three hours. My companions passed the interval in viewing the Cathedral and other sights at Mayence. Most unfortunately, I was so indisposed as to be obliged to remain at the waiting-room of the station. O Life! O Time!—how dear and valuable are ye in the aggregate; how still more dear and valuable are certain gem-like portions that at intervals fall to our lot—treasures in themselves, dearly prized and hoarded; but how contemptible seems a shred torn off and unusable; such as these three hours spent on a horse-hair incommodious chair, in the bare dull waiting-room, incapable from illness of putting to use the avenues to perception; and uneasy and wearied, in no humour to exercise the jaded powers of the soul. Such three hours slowly dragged themselves along; at last we took our places, and were whirled to Francfort.

We have betaken ourselves as before to the Hôtel de Russie. We have better rooms, for then the hotel was full, and now it is empty; it was about the same season of the year; but there appears a capricious reflux in the tide of travellers, and we have encountered few. You know the peculiar physiognomy of these German hotels; more comfortable than perhaps any others in the world; characterised by order, comfort, and civility; also at this one in particular, by an excellent table; the cook is renowned; people come to the table d’hôte, for the sake of the dinner; the price whereof is a thaler, or three shillings.

Good-night. I will tell you more to-morrow of our plans and future proceedings. I cannot now, for I have not the slightest idea at present what they will be.

Madame de Sevigné sagely remarks, that “nothing seems to impede the exercise of our free will so much as not having a paramount motive to urge us one way or the other.” Here lies, in a great measure, our difficulty: we intend spending this next winter at Florence, but we have no fixed idea as to how to pass the summer. I incline to some German Bath, as I think it would benefit my health. I should like the Tyrol—any part of the world where the scenery is beautiful; but then I want a few months of peace, and not to be near a lake, so to live in one ecstasy of fear. We find it very difficult to decide, and have determined meanwhile to visit Kissingen. I have heard that it is a pleasant place, very prettily situated. I have an idea that the waters will benefit me; at least it is something new: we penetrate at once into Germany. It is true, we do not understand German; but where better learn a language than in its native country?

“What’s in a name!”—You know the quotation: it applies to things known; to things unknown, a name is often everything: on me it has a powerful effect; and many hours of extreme pleasure have derived their zest simply from a name; and now a name is drawing me on—Germany—vast, unseen Germany! whence has poured forth nearly the whole population of the present civilised world,—a world not gifted, like the ancient, with a subtle organisation which enabled them to create the beauty, which we do little more than admire—nor endowed with that instinctive grace that moulded even every stone which the Greeks touched into imperishable types of loveliness—nor with that vivacious imagination that peopled the unseen universe with an endless variety of beautiful creations,—but the parent of a race in which women are respected—a race that loves justice and truth—whose powers of thought are, if slow, yet profound, and, in their way, creative. Tacitus’s Germany—a land of forests and heroes. Luther’s Germany, in which sprung up the Reformation, giving freedom to the souls of men. The land of Schiller and Goëthe. Do you remember La Motte Fouqué’s Magic Ring—and the old Baron, sitting in his ancestral hall, where banners waved and armour clashed, and the wild winds whispered prophecies, and Power brooded ready to fly abroad and possess the world? Such a mysterious shape is Germany to me. And this, too, is the stage on which Napoleon’s imperial drama drew to a close. What oceans of human blood have drenched the soil of Germany even since my birth. Since I love the mysterious, the unknown, the wild, the renowned, you will not wonder that I feel drawn on step by step into the heart of Germany. It will doubtless continue a mysterious and unknown region, since we cannot speak its language; but its cities and its villages will no longer be dim shadows merely; substance and reality will replace misty imaginings; my rambles will be something novel; of the people whom I cannot understand, I shall have so little to say. A mighty outline is all I can present, if, indeed, I do penetrate at all into its recesses. But our plans are so vague, that really, till something is done, I scarcely can conjecture what we may do.

There is nothing very amusing at Francfort for a passing visitor. This time, however, we did see Dannecker’s Ariadne. It is among the best modern statues representing a woman. She is sitting on, and being carried along by, a panther. Her attitude is of repose, of enjoyment: there is something harsh in the face, which I do not like; but there is softness and roundness in the limbs; nothing angular; nor anything narrow or pared away like Canova’s female figures. This statue is one in the collection of Mr. Bethman; being the gem of his Gallery, it has a room to itself, and by shutting shutters and drawing down a crimson blind, the statue is seen clad in roseate light, beaming amidst darkness. Such arts for showing off marbles have been termed meretricious; but the finest statues of the Romans were found in chambers where the light of day never entered, and were therefore illuminated artificially.

Goëthe was born at Francfort, and we saw the outside of the house with the three prophetic lyres over the door.

My companions have just returned from the opera; they say that “they found a good orchestra, and singers with very tolerable voices, but mortally ugly, and their action totally devoid of grace; so that it would be much better if they did not ape it, as their abortive attempts make the deficiency more glaring.” So it was, you may remember, with the company we had in London, with the exception of Staudigl, whose voice and style is full of elegance as well as power. In spite of the enchantment of the Zauberflaüte, how happy and at home I felt at the Italian Opera, after several visits to that of their rivals in the art.

We have engaged a voiturier to take us to Kissingen in two days, a distance of about eighty miles. With a thrill of pleasure I feel I am going to scenes entirely new. I am not sure that I am rich enough for such an enterprise: yet I suspect much of the half eager, half timid feeling that urges me on, arises from our being comparatively poor,—all is so easy and same to the wealthy. As it is, there is the dangerous attraction of forbidden fruit in our wanderings.—Adieu.

The country immediately round Francfort is flat and uninteresting; but as soon as we entered Bavaria, we came upon very agreeable scenery. The valley of the Main, which we thridded during our first day’s journey, is quite beautiful. Magnificent forests of oak and beech cover the hills; and the little rural plain at their foot, bordering the river, is rich in pasture and ripe grain. There is a steamboat from Francfort to Wurzburg, of which I am half sorry we did not avail ourselves; for I like following the course of a river as it meanders through a country. But Wurzburg is at some distance from Kissingen, and the intervening country by no means so pretty as that we have just traversed. For several miles our route ran close to the river; then, quitting the low valley, we wound along the ridges of the hills, entering the forests, which gathered round us with their pleasant shade. We slept at Lohr. This town is delightfully situated on the Main; the inn, good; the only drawback was, that they had no bread—an extraordinary circumstance, it appeared to me, in Germany, as I have always enjoyed and vaunted its peculiar blessing of excellent bread, even when all else was repulsive. There was some very black bread I could not touch, and some sort of cakes, stale, and even mouldy. We showed them complainingly to our dirty-handed waiter, who caught them up. “These not good,” he cried, turning them about and tossing them from one hand to the other—from bad to worse—“they were new yesterday—they are excellent.” This manipulation succeeded in rendering them absolutely uneatable. We did not like even to look at them.

Our next day’s journey was hilly, as we crossed a height and passed from the valley of the Main to the valley of the Saale. The hills are lower, but the country bears the same characteristics—a clear stream, bordered by a grassy plain—wooded hills, forming amphitheatres, closing around. The villages are miserable enough.

With eager eyes we caught a view of Kissingen, as we descended the hill from Hammelburg. It looked a small village interspersed with a few large houses on the banks of the Saale. The river meanders through green meadows from east to west, and wooded hills close in the vale. It was a scene of great tranquillity, without any striking beauties; verdant, peaceful, and secluded.

We alighted at the hotel of the Kurhaus, a spacious and good inn. They were expecting the Queen of Wurtemburg and her suite in a few days, but were tolerably empty; and we easily procured rooms. Our next care was to look for a lodging. My companions went on this task, I was so very tired. There is a Commissaire des Voyageurs appointed by Government, to whom strangers can apply, who keeps lists of lodgings and mediates with regard to the price. He pretended to speak French and English; but, as Dangle says in “The Critic,” “Egad, I think the interpreter is the hardest to be understood of the two!” He said he should spend the winter in England, and really learn English for the next season. He seemed straight-forward in his dealings, and went with my friends to various houses. They selected one across the bridge, out of the town. I went to look at it. The terms were tolerably moderate. The rooms had a southern aspect; they were large; and the floors, of white new deal, only wanted a little scouring: in short, though of course somewhat bare of furniture, the lodging, in this summer season, looked cheerful, and even pleasant. We agreed for it and instantly took possession.

I despair of describing the scene of our entrance. Madame Fries, the landlady, was an invalid, and did not appear. Herr Fries, a tall, fair German, is an employé in the police, and was absent. No one spoke a word of anything but German in the house. We were at our wits’ end. Dictionary in hand, we tried to impart our wants; there was an ugly good-humoured looking maid, and a rather pretty girl to wait on us, in addition to an uncouth sort of lad. These people gathered round us very earnest to please; but how were we to be pleased? We wanted the floors washed, for they looked unhealthy. We wanted our beds arranged in our own way (German beds are so strangely uncomfortable from the queer odds and ends of mattresses with which they are garnished); and above all, we wanted something besides a pie-dish and water-bottle for our washing apparatus. The way to secure this was to insist on a fuss-bad in each room; so small tubs were at last provided. Then we wished for tea: by dint of gesture and dictionary we tried to make ourselves understood. The women stood by laughing; the lad looked all eagerness to catch our meaning. At length he gave an exulting hop, snapt his fingers and rushed out, and brought back a tea-pot. Happy apparition! but it was more difficult to procure boiling water.

After about two hours order was established, and hopes of cleanliness for the morrow brightened round us. We sat down to tea, when lo! Herr Fries entered with another German, whom he introduced as a German Master. We did not like his appearance, and his attempts at English less, so we declined engaging him. This, however, was not the real object of Herr Fries’s visit. It was to inform us, by means of his interpreter, for he himself spoke German only, that we had taken his rooms for four months. This startled us; as our bargain was really for four weeks. Our compact, however, had been made by the Commissaire, and we referred to him. Reluctantly, and still arguing the point, Herr Fries at last withdrew.

I shall see a physician to-morrow and begin the waters; the place is rather empty as yet. We walked in the public gardens, in which the medicinal springs flow. Crossing the bridge we entered the gardens at one extremity; they are oblong, occupying about a couple of acres, of course gravelled, or rather shingled, and planted with avenues of trees. To the left they are bordered by the high-road, on the other side of which are all the large hotels. On the right is the Conversation Haus, consisting of a very large and well-built assembly-room with various appendages. At the other end are the springs; they are in a sort of paved court, about twenty feet below the soil; a low iron railing runs round the court; and they are covered with a light open-worked wire canopy. Two springs are here—the Pandur and Ragozzi: there is another, the Max Brunnen, resembling Seidlitz water, but without iron, which is in another part of the garden. A band plays under the trees from six till eight in the morning, and from six till eight in the evening; at which hour the visitors walk and drink the waters.

I am in the midst of my cur, and we are all in the midst of a general cure of a regiment of sick people. It is odd enough to seek amusement by being surrounded by the rheumatic, the gouty, the afflicted of all sorts. I do not think I shall be tempted to a German bath again, unless I am seriously ill.

Kissingen, until lately, was not much visited, even by the Germans, and was quite unknown to the English. The Bubbles of the Brunnens brought the baths of Nassau into fashion with us. Doctor Granville’s book extended our acquaintance with the spas of Germany; and, in particular, gave reputation to those situated in Bavaria. Kissingen has thus rapidly acquired notoriety; and soon the English, who are flocking hither, will effect a change in the homely habits we have found. A throng of our country people soon effects a revolution, increasing both comforts and prices in a very high degree.

All the Germans get up at four, and parade the gardens to drink the waters till nearly eight; I contrive to get there soon after five. These waters are not mere salts, like Carlsbad, nor mere iron, but a very diluted mixture of both. I believe them to be very conducive to the restoration of health; but they must only be taken under a physician’s superintendence, as it is dangerous to play with them. The morning walk I find pleasant: I leave the gardens after each glass, and stroll beyond into the meadows bordering the Saale, away from the garish spectacle of the smart toilettes, and the saddening sight of the sick. I return to breakfast at eight, if that may be called breakfast, which is not one. So many things are supposed to disagree with the waters, that not only everything substantial, but also butter, fruit, tea, coffee, and milk are prohibited. We dine at one at the table d’hôte of the Kurhaus; the ceremony is, to the last degree, unsatisfactory and disgusting. The King of Bavaria is so afraid that his medicinal waters may fall into disrepute if the drinkers should eat what disagrees with them, that we only eat what he, in conjunction with a triumvirate of doctors, is pleased to allow us. Every now and then a new article is struck out from our bill of fare, notice being sent from this council, which is stuck up for our benefit at the door of the salle-à-manger, to the effect that, whoever in Kissingen should serve at any table pork, veal, salad, fruit, &c. &c. &c., should be fined so many florins. Our pleasures of the palate are thus circumscribed, not to say annihilated; for the food they give us is so uninviting, that we only take enough barely to sustain life: for, strangely enough, though butter is prohibited, their dishes overflow with grease. Oh! the disgust of sitting down with two hundred people in one hall, served slowly with uneatable food: each day we resolve to try to get a dinner at home; but there is a little knot of English about us, and we agree to endure together; but it is sad.

Our evening walks are pleasant. We desert the public gardens, as you may believe: sometimes we walk in the meadows bordering the Saale to the Soolen Sprudel, where the salt works are established, and where there is a spring of water strongly impregnated with gas, which boils up furiously at intervals. People have gas baths here—they ought to be carefully conducted; for though I believe efficacious cures, they sometimes kill. A Russian nobleman since our arrival, died under the operation of bathing in one.

Sometimes we cross the valley, and ascend the hills to the ruined castle of Bodenlauben, which commands a view of this rural vale; but our favourite walk is in the wood that clothes the hill on our side of the valley. They have the practice in Germany, in the neighbourhood of Baths, of laying out innumerable paths all through the woods, and across the hills, for the convenience of the visitors—long walks entering into the course of treatment. The woods, oak and elm, varied by magnificent silver birch, with their graceful tresses, are very fine. We find here a few fire-flies: like unfortunate Italian exiles, they gleam with subdued brightness in an ungenial clime, and one wonders how they can endure so northern a temperature.

We have tried to get a German master. Our first attempt was infelicitous, being an “unwashed” metaphysician, who fairly beat our faculties of enduring disagreeable odours. We have now another, who assures us that he is first-rate; and that it is much better to learn German of the rough Bœotian (Bavarian) sort, than the effeminate softness of Saxony and Hanover. I am afraid I shall not make much progress. We malades are forbidden to exert our intellects; and, to make this prohibition more stringent, the gas one imbibes with the water produces a weakness in the eyes, which has rendered this letter the work of many days.

The progress of the cur, or treatment, indeed, is not pleasant; I find the waters have a very agitating effect on the nerves. I drink the Ragozzi, which contains more iron than the Pandur. It is not disagreeable; that is, the first glass seemed so; but after that one forgot that it had any taste, and the effervescence of the gas makes it rather agreeable. Those to whom iron is hurtful put the glass in warm water, when the gas quickly flies off. We bathe in the water of the Pandur, brought boiling in casks to the house; the baths are mere wooden coffins, and on first entering them their shape rather shocks the feelings. The water made hot has the colour of iron rust, and is opaque. The bathing rooms in our house are badly managed and very dirty; but it is soothing to sit for an hour in hot water, which does not, like a common warm bath, weaken afterwards.

I trust to receive benefit in the end; but it is rather an infliction upon my companions to be dieted by the King of Bavaria, and to live, as they say, surrounded by lepers. We are still undecided as to our ulterior movements.

As I was sitting at breakfast this morning I had a visit from my physician. He looked with consternation on the table. “Butter!” he exclaimed; “strawberries! tea! milk!” There was a crescendo of horror in his voice. One by one, these slender luxuries were withdrawn, and I was left with a little bread, and water (the staple of the place) ad libitum.

Though the cur of these waters is not an agreeable process, I have great faith in the advantages that accrue. There is a day or two called the crisis, which I have just passed—about the fifteenth or sixteenth after beginning the waters—which, indeed, resembles the crisis of a serious illness. The body becomes inert and languid, with a sense of illness pervading the frame; the mind is haunted by apprehension of evil, and is disturbed by a nervous restlessness and irritability of the most distressing kind. After a day or two these symptoms disappear. I experienced it most painfully, and am now quite well, but rather eager to get away: I am heartily tired of the waters, the promenade, the dinners, the sick; and the surrounding scenery is by no means interesting enough to compensate for our disagreeable style of life.

Generally, the assembling at a German bath is a signal for gaiety; but the physicians here discountenance every sort of excitement, and their malades are very obedient. The Queen of Wurtemburg is here incog. as Frau Grafinn von Teck, with two Grafinnin her daughters—fine girls, with all the beauty of youth and health. The artificers of Kissingen celebrated her arrival by walking in procession, with torches, into the court-yard of her hotel, where the band played, and the torches flared and smoked, till everybody was blinded and begrimed. The Queen walks in the morning early to drink the waters, and the centre allée of the gardens is left free for her. Such persons as have been presented, she has asked to dinner, but gives no further sign of life. Once a week there takes place what they call a reunion, when everybody meets in the Conversationhaus built by the King of Bavaria for the benefit of the baths. It is as good a ball-room as that of Almack, or in the palace of the King of Holland at the Hague; but the miserable use they made of it shocked us. At half-past eight the room is crowded; but the company do not dance, although there is a good band playing quadrilles, waltzes, and galoppes, the whole evening; sometimes two couples may be seen turning in the midst of the crowd; sometimes these may augment to six—but it is rare—and this in a room where several hundred people are assembled. The cause is the despotic decree of the triumvirate of doctors above-mentioned, who maintain dancing to be absolutely incompatible with drinking the waters.

They tried to get up the appearance of a fête on the birthday of the Queen of Bavaria. They dressed the salle a manger at the Kurhaus with boughs of trees; the Governor dined at our table, and gave a toast, “the Queen;” while the band (we always have music at dinner) played our National Air, which the Bavarians claim for their own. The ceremony of dining was thus longer and more tiresome than usual. There was an illumination in the evening; and the canopy to the mineral springs looked pretty, picked out in lamps.