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

LETTER I.
Project for spending the Summer on the Banks of the Lake of Como.—Fine Spring.—Stormy Weather.—Passage from Dover to Calais.—The Diligence.—Paris.—Plan of our Route.

I am glad to say, that our frequent discussions of this spring have terminated in a manner very agreeable to every one concerned in them. My son and his two friends have decided on spending their summer vacation on the shores of the lake of Como—there to study for the degree, which they are to take next winter. They wish me to accompany them, and I gladly consent.

Can it, indeed, be true, that I am about to revisit Italy? How many years are gone since I quitted that country! There I left the mortal remains of those beloved—my husband and my children, whose loss changed my whole existence, substituting, for happy peace and the interchange of deep-rooted affections, years of desolate solitude, and a hard struggle with the world; which only now, as my son is growing up, is brightening into a better day. The name of Italy has magic in its very syllables. The hope of seeing it again recalls vividly to my memory that time, when misfortune seemed an empty word, and my habitation on earth a secure abode, which no evil could shake. Graves have opened in my path since then; and, instead of the cheerful voices of the living, I have dwelt among the early tombs of those I loved. Now a new generation has sprung up; and, at the name of Italy, I grow young again in their enjoyments, and gladly prepare to share them. You know, also, how grievously my health has been shaken; a nervous illness interrupts my usual occupations, and disturbs the ordinary tenor of my life. Travelling will cure all: my busy, brooding thoughts will be scattered abroad; and, to use a figure of speech, my mind will, amidst, novel and various scenes, renew the outworn and tattered garments in which it has long been clothed, and array itself in a vesture all gay in fresh and glossy hues, when we are beyond the Alps.

I have been spending the last two months at Richmond. What a divine spring we have had! during the month of April not a drop of rain fell—the sun shone perpetually—the foliage, rich and bright, lent, before its time, thick shadows to the woods. No place is more suited than Richmond where to enjoy the smiles of so extraordinary a season. I spent many hours of every day on the Thames—days as balmy as midsummer, and animated with the young life which makes fine weather in spring more delicious than that to be enjoyed in any other season of the year: then the earth is an altar, from which fresh perfumes are for ever rising—not the rank odours of the autumnal fall, but those attendant on the first bursting of life, on the tendency of nature in springtide to multiply and enjoy. I visited Hampton Court, and saw the Cartoons—those most noble works of the Prince of Painters. All was delightful; and ten times more so, that I was about to break a chain that had long held me—cross the Channel—and wander far towards a country which memory painted as a paradise.

We are to leave England at the conclusion of the Cambridge term, and have agreed to rendezvous at Paris in the middle of June. Towards the end of May I came here, intending at the appointed time to cross to Dieppe. The weather, at first, continued delightful; but after a time a change has come, and June is set in cold, misty, and stormy. A morbid horror of my sea-voyage comes over me which I cannot control. On the day on which we were to cross, I had an attack of illness which prevented my going on board. It becomes a question whether we shall remain for the next packet in the middle of next week, with the chance of a long, tempestuous passage, or proceed along the coast to Dover. I prefer the latter.

We left Brighton for Hastings, and arrived on a fine evening; the sea was calm and glorious beneath the setting sun. On our way we drove through St. Leonard’s-on-Sea. Some years ago I had visited Hastings, when a brig, drawn high and dry on the shore near William the Conqueror’s stone, unlading building materials, was all that told of the future existence of this new town. It has risen “like an exhalation,” and seems particularly clean, bright, and cheerful.

The next day blew a fierce tempest; our drive to Dover was singularly inclement and disagreeable. We arrived in the evening, very tired and uncomfortable; a gale from the north-west raged, and the sea, wild and drear, broke in vast surges on the shore; the following morning it rained in torrents, as well as blew. The day after, however, the sun shone bright, and the waves sparkled and danced beneath its early rays. We were on the beach by seven, and reached the steamer in a small boat, one of the annoyances attendant on embarking at Dover. We had a rough passage—for some half way over the wind grew into a gale; I lay down on deck, and by keeping very still, escaped sickness: in two hours and a half we were on the French coast. Why we left Dover so early I cannot tell, since the tide did not serve to admit us into Calais harbour for an hour after our arrival—an hour of disagreeable tossing; at last, happy sight, the fishing boats were seen coming out from the port, giving token that there was water enough for us to enter. We landed. I was quite well immediately, and laughed at my panic.

We went to Roberts’s Hotel, a very good one, and the charges moderate. I made my first experiment at a table d’hôte, and disliked its noise and numbers very much. We were to proceed to Paris by the diligence, a disagreeable style of travelling, but the only one we could manage. We have forgotten night-travelling in England—thanks to the railroads, to which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful; for many a new scene have they enabled me to visit, and much of the honey of delightful recollections have I, by their means, brought back to my hive: a pleasant day it will be when there is one from Calais to Paris. We left Calais at about ten in the forenoon. P. chose the banquette, as young Englishmen are apt to do; it resembles, more than any other part of this ponderous vehicle, the outside of a stage-coach. There were some merry Irish students there also, who could not speak a word of French: they leapt down from the top at every possible opportunity, so to tease the conducteur, who, to his flock of travellers, acts as shepherd and dog in one—gathering them together with the bark of, “En route, Messieurs!” most authoritatively. I and my maid were in the intérieur, with two Frenchwomen from England: one was a governess at a school, coming for a holiday; she was young, and her eyes were accustomed to the English style; she found fault with the diligence. The elder one would not allow any fault; and, if there were any deficiency, it was because things were not first-rate on this road. The road to Bordeaux was the grand one: the diligences there were Lord Mayors’ carriages for splendour. The longest day has an end, and our hours of penance came to a close. We arrived in Paris, and found pleasant apartments taken for us at Hotel Chatham. Travelling by diligence had been an experiment for me. I was delighted to find that, with all my nervous suffering, whenever my mind was intensely or disagreeably occupied, I could bear the fatigues of a journey far better than I had ever done. Several years before I had been a bad traveller; and, even in a comfortable English travelling chariot, suffered great fatigue, and even illness. When I returned from Italy I had tried the diligence, and been knocked up, and obliged to abandon it after the first night; yet then I enjoyed perfect health. Now I complained, and with reason, of most painful sensations; yet the fatigue I endured seemed to take away weariness instead of occasioning it. I felt light of limb and in good spirits. On the shores of France I shook the dust of accumulated cares from off me; I forgot disappointments, and banished sorrow: weariness of body replaced beneficially weariness of soul—so much heavier, so much harder to bear.

There is a cheerfulness in the aspect of Paris, that at once enlivens the visitor. True, the want of trottoirs is intolerable. From the absence of drains, the state of the streets is filthy; the danger of being run over by hack-cabs, which turn short round the corners, and accelerate their pace on purpose so to do, is imminent. The gravel of the Tuilleries and the Champs Elysées is not half so inviting as the sward of Hyde Park; yet there is an air of cheerfulness and lightsomeness about Paris, which seems to take the burthen from your spirits, which will weigh so heavily on the other side of the Channel. Nor, perhaps, in any city in the world is there a scene more magnifique—to use their own word in their own sense—than the view at high noon or sunset from the terrace of the Tuilleries, near the river, overlooking the Seine and its bridges; the Place de la Concorde, with its wide asphaltic pavements, sparkling fountains, and fantastic lanterns, looking on to the Barrière de l’Etoile one way, or down upon the horse-chestnut avenues of the gardens on the other. There is gaiety, animation, life; you cannot find the same in London. Why? One cause, of course, is the smoke of the sea-coal fires; another results from the absence of fountains. When will London have these ornaments, which could be so readily constructed from our great supply of water? Truly in France the water is all used ornamentally, and there is a sad deficiency for utility; but the coup-d’œil of a fountain is more pleasing than the consciousness of a pipe underground—at least, to the passing traveller.

We have spent a week agreeably in Paris, as we have several friends here. Our two companions are arrived. We are seriously preparing to set out on our travels. The lake of Como is our destination, and we have put the general guidance of our route into the hands of one of the party. I was a little startled when I was told that I was to reach Como viâ Franckfort; this is something like going to the Line by the North Pole; but I am assured that the journey will be the more delightful and novel. I was shown our way on the map—Metz to Trèves; then down the Moselle—unhacknied ground, or rather water—to Coblentz; up the Rhine to Mayence; Franckfort, and the line south through Heidelberg, Baden-Baden, Freyburg, Schaffhausen, Zurich, the Splugen, Chiavenna, to the lake of Como. These are nearly all new scenes to me. The portion of the Rhine we were to navigate I longed to revisit after an interval of many years. So this route being agreed upon, we have taken our places in the diligence for Metz.

I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me, now that I am leaving Paris. I bid adieu to all acquaintance, and set out to wander in new lands, surrounded by companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with its sorrows, and who enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself, apt to be too serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past and the future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even more than they. Among acquaintance, in the every-day scenes of life, want of means brings with it mortification, to embitter still more the perpetual necessity of self-denial. In society you are weighed with others according to your extrinsic possessions; your income, your connexions, your position, make all the weight—you yourself are a mere feather in the scale. But what are these to me now? My home is the readiest means of conveyance I can command, or the inn at which I shall remain at night—my only acquaintance the companions of my wanderings—the single business of my life to enjoy the passing scene.

We left Paris on the 25th of June, at six in the evening, and were thirty-seven hours reaching Metz, a distance of about two hundred miles, stopping only for half an hour at a time, and that only twice during the one day we were on the road. I suffered excessive fatigue during the two nights of this journey, partly on account of a cough I caught at Paris; but my health was not in the slightest degree hurt. The weather was very fine; the country we passed through was beautiful, abundant in corn and vines, then in midsummer luxuriance. There was a portion of those dull vast plains, so usual in France; but for the most part the country was varied into hill and dale, arable and forest land. The season setting in so genially in early spring, joined to the refreshing rains which have since succeeded, have caused rich promise of abundance to appear everywhere. I never remember feeling so intimately how bounteous a mother is this fair earth, yielding such plenteous store of food to her children, and this food in its growth so beautiful to look on. How full of gratitude and love for the Creator does the beauty of the creation make us! By a sort of slovenly reasoning, we tell ourselves that, since we are born, sustenance is our due; but that all beyond—the beauty of the world, and the sensations of transport it imparts, springs from the immeasurable goodness of our Maker. True we were also created to experience those emotions. God has not reduced our dwelling-place—as Puritans would his—to a bare meeting-house; all there is radiant in glorious colours; all imparts supreme felicity to the senses and the heart. Next to the consciousness of right and honour, God has shown that he loves best beauty and the sense of beauty, since he has endowed the visible universe so richly with the one, and made the other so keen and deep-seated an enjoyment in the hearts of his creatures.

We passed through Chalons-sur-Marne, Clermont, and Verdun. The corn-fields, the vineyards clothing the uplands, the woods that varied the landscape, and the meandering river that gave it light and life, were all in their fairest summer dress. Plenty and peace brooded over a happy land. From a traveller in a diligence no more detailed description of city, village, or scenery, can be expected. I will only add, that this was by far the most agreeable part of France I had ever traversed.

We had been told at Paris that we should arrive at Metz in time for the diligence to Trèves. Out of England one does not expect exactness; still it was provoking, as we wanted to get on, to find, when arriving at seven in the morning, that the diligence had started at six. We needed rest, certainly; and so made up our minds to endure with equanimity the necessity we were under of not fatiguing ourselves to death from a principle of economy. The inn was tolerable, and the table d’hôte sufficiently good; and, best praise, quietly served. Metz is a clean, pleasant town, a little dull or so; but from the gardens on the ramparts we commanded a view of the hill-surrounded plain in which it is built, with the Moselle flowing peaceably at our feet. We hired a boat, and loitered several hours delightfully on the river; but being without a boatman, found difficulty in discovering the main stream amidst a labyrinth of canals and mill-dams. Afterwards, we walked in the public gardens, which would have been pleasant, but for the foreign style of gravel, which is not gravel, but shingle; smooth turf and a velvet sward are never found out of England: they don’t know what grass means abroad, except to feed horses and cows. The weather meanwhile was fine, the air balmy; it was a day of agreeable idleness.

At six in the morning we left Metz for Trèves, the distance fifty-five miles, which occupied us fourteen hours. We had now entered the true region of German expedition. The diligence was a sort of char-à-banc, with a heavy roof. We had the front seats; but the people behind had ingress and egress only by passing ours, which was done by raising the middle seat, in the style of the public boxes at our theatres. The horses went well enough (I have an idea we only changed them once, half way); but the peculiarity of German travelling consists in its frequent and long stoppages. During each of these the people behind got out, and refreshed themselves by eating and drinking. Another inconvenience resulted from our stopping so often; our left-hand leader went well enough when once off, but it was very difficult to persuade him to move; and he was never urged by any but the gentlest means. Every time we stopped he refused to set off; on which our driver got down to pat and coax him, and feed him with slices of bread—horses eat a great deal of bread in Germany. When he thought he had succeeded, he mounted again; but the horse being still obstinate, he had to get down and renew his caresses and bits of bread. Sometimes he repeated these manœuvres half a dozen times before he succeeded. Once, just as the horse, after showing himself particularly self-willed, had deigned to yield, a passenger behind, a simple-looking bumpkin, started forward, exclaiming in accents of distress— “Oh, mon gâteau!” He had bought a cake; but by some accident had left it behind, and he entreated the driver to stop, that he might recover it: this was too much; a full quarter of an hour’s coaxing and much bread could not thus be wasted, all to be begun over again.

The fields on the road-side were planted with cherry-trees, which, for the purpose of distilling kirchen-wasser, abound all over Germany; the fruit was ripe, and the heavily-laden branches hung over the road; our outside passengers helped themselves plentifully, so that in a short time we were pursued by a hue and cry of peasants. There is a heavy fine for robbing cherry-trees; and these people wanted to be paid: fierce objurgations passed, and a frequent use of the word schwein—the most opprobrious name a German can give or receive. The peasants had the worst and got nothing. We stopped nearly two hours at Thionville for dinner. In the same room, at the other end of the same table, a civic feast was prepared, delayed only by the non-arrival of the sous-préfet: he came at last and was joyously welcomed. But here German was the usual language; and we became worse than deaf, for we heard but could not understand.

Thionville is pleasantly situated in the valley of the Moselle, close to the river. It was the eve of some great feast in honour of the Virgin; and all the girls around were erecting altars and triumphal arches, and adorning them with waxen figures in full dress, and quantities of flowers and ribbons. They were enjoying themselves greatly and very proud of their handy-work.

Soon after leaving Thionville we arrived at the Prussian frontier; there was but one passenger besides ourselves, and he only had any taxable goods—sugar-plums from Nancy. Our luggage was taken down and some portion of it slightly inspected; the necessary ceremony was soon over; but two hours were loitered away, one knew not wherefore. The people were civil and the day fine, so we did not feel inclined to be discontented. The country after this grew more varied and pleasant, but the villages deteriorated dismally. They were indescribably squalid. The dung before the doors—the filth of the people—the wretched appearance of the cottages, formed a painful contrast, which too often presents itself to the traveller, between the repulsive dwellings of man and the inviting aspect of free beautiful nature, all elegant in its forms, delicious in its odours, and peaceful in its influence over the mind.

As we slowly proceeded, and were entering a village, a violent thunder storm came on; the driver drew up the diligence to the road-side, and he and the conducteur, and all the outside passengers took shelter in an inn, where they remained drinking beer while the storm lasted. After we had proceeded thence about three miles, our fellow-passenger, who had appeared a mild quiet German, and had been conversing good-humouredly with us, discovered that he had been taken beyond his place of destination, which was indeed the village where we had stopped during the storm. This he considered the fault of the conducteur, and flew into the most violent rage. We escaped the benefit of his angry language since we did not understand him;—he and his portmanteau were left under a tree, looking helpless enough; and we went on.

The disagreeable part of a slow style of travelling is, that although at the outset we take it patiently, and may find it even amusing, yet, when we are to reach a definite bourne, and the hours pass, and apparently we are still as far off as ever, we become excessively weary. The country was pretty, and after the shower, the evening wore a garb of sober gray not unpleasing. But our fatigue increased rapidly; and mile after mile we proceeded, not interspersed with the capricious and ludicrous stoppages that had marked our outset, but in a sort of determined jogtrot, that showed that the men and horses had lost the gay spirit which had led them to play with their work, and were seriously set upon finishing it with all the slow haste of which they were capable. We arrived at Trèves at ten o’clock last night.

The inn (l’Hôtel de Trèves) is the best we have yet met with; the civility and alacrity with which we are served is quite comforting,—as well as the cleanliness of the house, and the ultimate moderation of the charges. Our first care on arriving has been to arrange for descending the Moselle. There is no steamer; one is promised for next year; but, for the present, there is only a passage-boat twice a week, Thursday and Saturday, and this is Monday. Upon inquiry, we learn that we can hire a tolerably commodious boat, with three men to work her, at no extravagant price. We have found also at the hotel two young Cantabs, friends of one of our party, bent on the same voyage, on their way to a tour in Switzerland. They have agreed to join us. By early rising and late arriving, we might accomplish the descent in two days; we prefer a more easy style of proceeding. We are to sleep two nights on shore, and occupy the better part of three days going down the river.

Trèves, or, as the Germans call it, Trier, is a very interesting town, as being one of the oldest in the northern part of Europe. It was a metropolis, we are told, before the time of Julius Cæsar. After the Roman Conquest, and during the decay of the empire, it was the centre of northern civilisation. During the middle ages, and till the time of the French Revolution of 1789, it flourished as the capital of an archbishopric, such as existed in Germany, where the mitre was united rather to the sword and sceptre, than to the crosier. It is now in a state of decay, but venerable in its fall. The old Roman ruins give token of that magnificent spirit which causes the steps of the masters of the world to be made evident everywhere, through the solidity, grandeur, and utility of their works.

My friends have been rambling about the town and are returned highly delighted. I did not go, for I felt very much fatigued; I repent me now—but it is too late.

We left Trèves soon after noon; our boat was rude enough, but tolerably large. A queer-looking old man steered her, and the oars were held by two young fellows, one with an aspect of intelligence and good humour, the son of the old man; the other, belonging to a grade beneath him in the human scale. Our luggage was piled aft, and we had an awning. Thus, on a fine, but not hot, June day, we pushed off from Trèves; and, full of curiosity and expectation of pleasure, dropped down the swift stream between verdant banks that rose into hills—not striking in their outline, but agreeable to the eye, while frequent villages, each with its church and pointed spire, either nestled in the foldings of the hills, or graced some promontory that formed a bend in this much-winding river. Peace seemed to brood over and lull us—a deeper peace, as at evening the green shadows of the mountains gathered on the quiet river; and now and then a ruined castle crowned a height, and with that peculiar impression of stately tranquillity which a time-honoured ruin imparts, added the touch of romantic dignity, which otherwise had been wanting, to the scene.

We arrived at Piesport at seven, and our boatmen counselled us to remain here for the night. One of the gentlemen, who had joined us, had studied German for this tour, and a very necessary accomplishment we found it. Nothing can be more futile than the idea that French will carry a traveller through Germany or Italy. At some of the best inns on the most frequented routes, waiters are provided who can talk both French and English; but, go ever so little off the high-road, or address a person not especially put there for the benefit of your ignorance, and you are instantly at fault; and wanderers, like ourselves, if they cannot speak the language of the country, nine times out of ten, run every risk of not obtaining the necessaries of life. We had been told on this occasion, that one of our boatmen spoke French, but oui, and non, and bonjour was the extent of his vocabulary, and we could never make him understand a word we said. We took great interest, therefore, in our friend’s first experiment in German, and his success was a common triumph. Piesport is a miserable village, with a miserable inn, and it was matter of difficulty to procure beds for so large a party; the rooms looked dirty and disconsolate—but there was no help; we ordered supper, coffee and eggs, and, our great staple of consumption throughout Germany, fried potatoes; and with the agreeable promise of the excellent wine of the country, we hoped to restore our fatigues. While all this was preparing, we walked up a hill and looked down on the windings of the river, and the green hills that closed around to guard and shelter it. We encountered a poor stray fire-fly on our road, flashing a pale sickly light: how it came there who can tell? it looked lost and out of place.

We left Piesport at five in the morning; the mists gathered chill, white, and dank around us. We met many barges towed up the stream by horses up to their middles in the cold foggy river. The hills grew higher and steeper—broken into precipice and peak—crowned by ruined towers and castles. To a certain degree, it might be called a miniature Rhine; yet it had a peculiar character of its own, more still, more secluded than the nobler river. There were no country seats; no large towns nor cities; but the villages, each with its spire, and overlooked by a ruined tower on a neighbouring height, succeeded to each other frequently. At eight o’clock we arrived at Berncastel; by the windings of the river, it was fifteen miles to Trarbach; across the hills, it was but three. Our boatmen advised us to cross the hill, as the boat thus lightened would make speedier way; accordingly, with the morning before us, we left the boat at Berncastel, and ordered breakfast. My companions scrambled up a steep hill to a ruined castle that overhung the village. We had a good breakfast, and then began our walk. The hill was very steep; the day very warm; I never remember finding the crossing of a mountain so fatiguing. The path was good, not broken into zigzags, but for that reason steeper; and after the fatigue of the ascent, the descent became absolutely painful. At length we reached Trarbach. It was market-day, and the high-street was thronged. One plenteous article of merchandise was cherries: we gave a few groschen, and in return bore off many pounds; the woman who sold them seemed never tired of heaping up our basket. The boat arrived soon after, and repose was delightful after our laborious walk.

The finest scenery of the Moselle occurs after leaving Trarbach; but words are vain; and in description there must ever be at once a vagueness and a sameness that conveys no distinct ideas, unless it should awaken the imagination: unless you can be placed beside us in our rough-hewn boat, and glide down between the vine-covered hills, with bare craggy heights towering above; now catching with glad curiosity the first glimpse of a more beautiful bend of the river, a higher mountain peak, a more romantic ruin; now looking back to gaze as long as possible on some picturesque point of view, of which, as the boat floated down but slightly assisted by the rowers, we lost sight for ever—unless you can imagine and sympathise in the cheerful elasticity of the setting out at morning, sharpened into hunger at noon, and the pleasure that attended the rustic fare we could command, especially accompanied as it was by bright pure Moselle wine; then, the quiet enjoyment of golden evening, succeeded by still and gray twilight; and last, the lassitude, the fatigue, which made us look eagerly out for the place where we were to stop and repose:—there is a zest in all this, especially on a voyage unhacknied by others, and therefore accompanied by a dash of uncertainty and a great sense of novelty, which is lost in mere words:—you must do your part, and feel and imagine, or all description proves tame and useless.

We arrived at Kochheim at ten, and found a comfortable inn. In the salle-à-manger was a respectable-looking man, apparently some sort of merchant;—he could talk English, and we entered into conversation with him. I observed that it was sad to see the wretched villages and the destitution of the inhabitants, and this in a land which yielded such lucrative produce as Moselle wine, the sale of which must render the landed proprietors rich, while the mere cultivators languished in penury. The man replied, that it was not so—the villagers were well off, having all they desired, all they wanted. During the French revolution, he said, the nobles forfeited their estates, which were mostly bought up by the peasants, and consequently these rich vineyards belonged to the cultivators. It was true that the trade was carried on by wine merchants, who made large profits; but the peasants might do better if they chose. They were, however, cut off from the rest of the world; they lived as their fathers had done before them; and had no ideas or wishes beyond their present style of life. They had enough, and were content.

We left Kochheim at eight. The day grew warm; but a breeze sprung up, which helped us on our way. The vine-clad hills still sheltered the river; still villages with their spires occurred frequently; and still the landscape was distinguished and ennobled by the ruins of feudal towers and castles. At about four o’clock, we reached the mouth of the Moselle as it joins the Rhine. Our boatman wished to land us on the bank of the Moselle itself. We naturally desired to enter the Rhine and land close to an hotel. They declared it was impossible,—the stream was too swift. But they spoke to incredulous ears—some of my companions had before this relieved the men in their work, being accustomed to pulling at Cambridge. Two now took the oars: the old man continued to steer. The rowers did not find the stream very difficult to stem, working as they did with a will. The old boatman steered us near the banks, among the numerous barges, apparently with some malice, to bring us into difficulty. On one occasion, indeed, it appeared as if we should be inevitably run down by a large barge, and my maid screamed and wanted to jump overboard to save herself: a stroke of the oar saved us. We had not far to go. We landed at the bridge, and betook ourselves to the Hôtel Bellevue, close at hand.

The German hotels are all conducted with great order and regularity, and are very clean, quiet, and good. The head-waiter is the responsible person—he is paid for all the other servants; and the usual sum, a franc a day for every master, is reasonable enough, as it includes every one; and the traveller is not laid in wait for by sighing chambermaid or imploring boots. The only fault is, that the eating is carried on in the common room, where Germans smoke, and consider fresh air unhealthy. The Bellevue is one of three first-rate hotels at Coblentz. The Géant, however, is the largest, and enjoys the best reputation. There is a good one, I believe, on the other side of the river.

This day was passed on board the steamer, going to Mayence. We embarked at ten in the morning. Years had elapsed since I had passed down this river, before steamers were in use—in an ungainly boat, managed in a still more ungainly manner. Memory had painted the Rhine as a scene of enchantment; and the reality came up to what I remembered. The inferior beauty of the banks of the Moselle enhanced still more the prouder and more romantic glories of the Rhine. The promontories stood in bolder relief—the ruined castles and their ramparts were more extensive and more majestic—the antique spires and Gothic abbeys spoke of a princely clergy—and the extent of mouldering walls marked cities belonging to a more powerful population. Each tower-crowned hill—each picturesque ruin—each shadowy ravine and beetling precipice—was passed, and gazed upon with eager curiosity and delight. The very names are the titles of volumes of romance: all the spirits of Old Germany haunt the place. Even the events of modern days have added an interesting tale:—When the German soldiers, led by Blucher, and driving the proud fallen victor before them, beheld the river honoured by them, so late occupied by the enemy they hated, now open and free, the name of “The Rhine!” burst from many thousand voices, accompanied by tears of ecstacy. Some day I should like much to establish myself for a summer on the banks of this river, and explore its recesses. As we glide by, we obtain but a cursory and unsatisfactory survey. One longs to make a familiar friend of such sublime scenery, and refer, in after years, to one’s intimate acquaintance with it, as one of the most valued among the treasures of recollection which time may have bestowed.

We were a large party in ourselves, and enjoyed our voyage greatly; but, as evening came on, we left the more picturesque part of the river, and grew weary as still we did not arrive. When it became dark, we saw, looming up the river, a shadowy bark, with bright lanterns at its mast-head. What boat was that? The steamer that had left Coblentz at two—four hours later than ourselves. It neared—it passed us. “Oui, ça marche plus vite que nous,” replied the phlegmatic German captain, to our accents of surprise and discontent. To go a-head, never entered his mind as desirable. One boat went quick, the other slow—that was all the difference—their day’s work was the same. To us, however, the difference involved, besides great unnecessary weariness, our comfort for the night.

We did not arrive at Mayence till near midnight; and we were preceded by our rival, which, together with another steamer, had reached the pier, and disgorged their passengers. We had first to seize on porters, to carry our luggage; which, for our large party, was multifarious; and without the aid of our friend who spoke German, I know not how we should have managed it. We went to the best inn: it was quite full. The next—there appeared some hope; but it failed us. We were driven, at last, to a very mediocre one; but, though we were Godsends to these people, they were neither rude nor exorbitant: on the contrary, they received us with a sort of cordiality; their accommodation was bad, but they made up for it by civility. We were very tired, and very glad to go to bed.

We left Mayence early. Our plan had been to go by the last train of the previous night to Frankfort. Balked of this, we arranged to go by the earliest of this morning. Here we separated from our chance companions; as they stopped to view the lions at Mayence, and were destined for Strasburg, with which city we meant to have nothing to do.

The railroad from Mayence to Frankfort is not a very good one; but the carriages were comfortable, and the way short—twenty-one miles, which we did in little more than an hour. We went (guide-directed by the inestimable Murray) to the Hôtel de Russie—a most excellent one. Frankfort looks a clean, airy, but dull town. We have walked about it a good deal, but seen nothing worthy of remark. We missed, by stupidly not making proper inquiries, viewing the Ariadne of Dannecker, which is held in high estimation, as among the best modern sculpture. I am not well all this time, and tormented by a cough that fatigues me greatly. We have dined at the table d’hôte, which is thronged by English; and at the hotel the waiters all speak English, and are cross if you speak French, as they want to practise.

A bargain has been made this evening with a voiturier to take us to Schaffhausen for eleven napoleons. We were to stop a whole day at Baden-Baden, and reach our destination on the seventh day after leaving Frankfort.

We set off from Frankfort, feeling as if we were making a fresh start, and were about to traverse districts new and strange. The road we pursued was perfectly flat, and presents an easy task for the construction of the projected railway. To the right, a fertile plain stretches for several miles to the Rhine; to the left, high hills hemmed us in—by turns receding from, and advancing close to, the road. As usual in this frontier part of Germany, the foldings of the uplands were sprinkled by villages, with their spires; and the neighbouring heights were crowned by ruined castles and towers, which ever add so much to the interest of the scene. What lives did the ancient inhabitants of those crumbling ruins lead! The occupation of the men was war; that of the women, to hope, to fear, to pray, and to embroider. Very often, not having enough of the first in the usual course of their existence, they contrived a little more, which led to an extra quantity of the second and third ingredients of their lives, and, in the end, to many a grievous tragedy. Wayward human nature will rebel against mental sloth. We must act, suffer, or enjoy; or the worst of all torments is ours—such restless agony as old poets figured as befalling a living soul imprisoned in the bark of a tree. We are not born to be cabbages. The lady, waiting at home for her husband, either quaked for fear, or relieved the tedium of protracted absence as she best might, too happy if death or a dungeon were not the result. The young looked down from the hills, and fancied that joy would meet them if ever they could escape to countries beyond. Meanwhile, the peasant in the plain below toiled, and had been far happier than his lord, but for the desolation brought on him by the fierce wars, of which this region was perpetually the theatre.

The peasant, at least, has gained by the change. Hard-worked, he doubtless is; and, probably, poorly fed: but he is secure. We look round for the mansions, which we expect should replace fortified castles, as the abodes of the rich; but find none. It is strange; but, except in Italy and England (and I am told, in parts of France, but in none I ever traversed), the wealthy never seek to enjoy the delights which nature affords; and country-houses, and parks, and gardens, are nowhere else to be found.

We were somewhat annoyed, and much amused, at Darmstadt, where we stopped for luncheon. The inn was good; but they were expecting the Grand Duke of Baden: the whole of the private rooms were prepared for him, and we were shut out from all, except the common eating-room—of course, redolent of smoke. It was impossible not to laugh, however, at the tokens every waiter gave that his head was turned by the expected arrival—I use this expression literally, as well as figuratively; for, as they unwillingly served us, still their heads were averted towards the window, and frequently they rushed madly to gaze; and whatever question we might ask, still their answer was—“The Grand Duke of Baden is coming.”

Darmstadt looked, like most of the towns we traversed in this part of Germany, clean and airy, with wide streets, and a large undecorated building—the palace of the reigning prince; but all rather dull. The road continued pleasant, and the mountainous district to our left became more picturesque. Agreeable excursions might be made among the hills; but we were bound right on, and could not indulge in extraneous rambles. We turned in among the inclosing hills, as we approached Heidelberg. The road lay on the right bank of the Neckar, and at every step the scenery acquired new beauty. Heidelberg is on the left bank; to our right, that is, as we advanced up the stream; and is situated on a sort of narrow platform between the river and the hill on which the castle stands. The town itself has a wholly different appearance from those we had recently passed. It has an ancient, picturesque, inartificial look, more consonant with our ideas of German romance. The best hotel was full; we were transferred to the second, which was very tolerable. We went out to walk by the river-side: the scene was tranquil and beautiful: the river gave it life. The castellated hill crowned it with aristocratic dignity, and the picturesque mountains around closed all in, giving an air of repose, and yet of liberty; for mountains ever speak of the free step and unshackled will of their inhabitants, and, at the same time, of their limited desires and local attachments. Parties of students passed down the streets; but all were quiet. There were numerous shops for painted German pipes: these my companions visited, and made purchases.

Before eight in the morning we were on the alert, that we might visit the Castle before our departure. We walked up the hill: the way was not long. The first aspect from the outer terraces, commanding a beautiful view of the country around, and the ruined towers and walls of the castle itself, all verdurous with ivy and other parasites, was exceedingly pleasing. The woman, who showed us over the Castle, was, without being pretty, very agreeable; with gentle, courteous, and yet vivacious manners: she spoke English with a very pretty accent, and her laugh was soft and joyous. It is always pleasant to meet, among the uneducated classes, individuals with whom you lose all sense of caste—who are instantly on a level with those deemed their superiors, from mere force of engaging manners, intelligence, and apparent kindness of heart. She took us to the ruins of the wing of the Castle built for the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our James I. She ought to have been happy in so beautiful a place. From her castle windows, she looked on her fertile and rich domains. Her habitation, whose situation was so much favoured by nature, had been adorned by the hands of fond affection; for her husband had not only built this wing for her comfort, but, to welcome her on her arrival, had laid out a flower-garden in the English style, the remains of which still bloom. But she wished to be a queen; and, to gain the shadowy crown of Bohemia, she devoted the beautiful Palatinate to desolation. Again, in Louis XIV.’s time, this unfortunate province was laid waste by his orders, with a barbarity that has cast an indelible stain on the reputation of that monarch, who was, perhaps, the most heartless and destructive among modern kings. These circumstances, and, in later times, an accidental fire, after which it was never repaired, has reduced the castle to a mere ruin; but it is thus one of the most beautiful, both in itself and for situation, in the world. And now, on this summer day, we felt how happily we could spend months at Heidelberg, to enjoy the pleasure of loitering, day after day, beneath these weed-grown walls, and in the surrounding grounds. The façade of the Hall of Knights, which was built by an Italian architect, charms the eye by its exquisite finish and perfect proportions. We saw also, of course, the famous tun, and the wax figure of the celebrated dwarf.

On we went from Heidelberg. Our route was altogether pleasant. The road preserved the same characteristics. I should say, that this part of Germany was peculiarly agreeable to the mere passing traveller. The towns have the appearance of health, comfort, and cleanliness. The manners of the people with whom we had to deal, was courteous and pleasing: many of the women we thought pretty. The custom of smoking is a drawback; but some annoyance is necessary, for the culture of toleration and patience in a traveller.

Carlsruhe, where we slept on the night after leaving Heidelberg, has spacious streets, and some good-looking public buildings. However, we saw them only from the windows of the inn, for it rained hard all the evening.