CHAPTER IX

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Good-by to Paris, for we are on the road to Brussels, in a night express train, swiftly passing through Douai and Valenciennes, harassed, bothered, and pestered at Quievran, on the frontier, where our baggage was critically inspected. Through Valenciennes, which is suggestive of lace--so is Brussels--yes, we are getting into the lace country. But don't imagine, my inexperienced traveller, that the names of these cities are pronounced, or even spelled, in our country (as they ought to be) as they are by the natives.

In Bruxelles we recognized Brussels easily enough; but who would ever have understood Malines to be what we denominate Mechlin, or have known when he reached Aix la Chapelle by the German conductor's bellowing out, "Aachen"? And I could well excuse an American friend, some days after, when we reached Antwerp, who, on being told he was at Anvers, said, "Confound your Anvers. This must be the wrong train. I started for Antwerp."

Why should not the names of foreign cities be spelled and pronounced, in English, as near like their real designation as possible? There appears to be no rule. Some are, some are not. Cöln is not a great change from Cologne, but who would recognize München for Munich, or Wien for Vienna?

We rattled through the streets of Brussels at early morning, and, passing the great market square, saw a curious sight in the side streets contiguous, in the numerous dog-teams that the country people bring their produce to market with. Old dog Tray is pretty thoroughly utilized here; for while the market square was a Babel of voices, from bare-headed and quaint-headdressed women, and curious jacketed and breeched peasants, arranging their greens, fruit, and vegetables, and clamoring with early purchasers, their teams, which filled the side streets, were taking a rest after their early journey from the country. There were stout mastiffs in little carts, harnessed complete, like horses, except blinders; some rough fellows, of the "big yellow-dog" breed, tandem; poor little curs, two abreast; small dogs, big dogs, smart dogs, and cur dogs, each attached to a miniature cart that would hold from two pecks to three bushels, according to the strength of the team; and they were standing, sitting, and lying in all the varieties of dog attitude--certainly a most comical sight. Some time afterwards, while travelling in the country, I met a fellow riding in one of these little wagons, drawn by two large dogs at quite a tolerable trot (dog trot), although they are generally used only to draw light burdens, to save the peasants' shoulders the load.

From our windows at the Hotel de l'Europe we look out upon the Place Royale, in which stands the handsome equestrian statue, in bronze, of that stout crusader, Godfrey de Bouillon, who, with the banner of the cross in one hand, and falchion aloft in the other, is, as he might have rode at the siege of Jerusalem, or at the battle of Ascalon, a spirited and martial figure, and familiar enough to us, from its reproduction in little, for mantel clocks. We visited the celebrated Hotel de Ville, a magnificent old Gothic edifice, all points and sculptures, and its central tower shooting up three hundred and sixty-four feet in height. In front of it are two finely executed statues of Counts Egmont and Horn, the Duke of Alva's victims, who perished here. A short distance from here is a little statue known as the Manikin, a curious fountain which every one goes to see on account of the natural way it plays, and which on some fête days sends forth red wine, which the common people flock in crowds to bear away, with much merriment at the source of supply.

Besides a museum of paintings in Brussels, which contained several fine pictures by Rubens, we visited a gallery of somewhat remarkable and original pictures at the residence of an artist (now deceased) named Wiertz. The subjects chosen were singular, and so was the original manner in which they were treated. One represented Napoleon in hell, surrounded by tormenting demons, with flitting visions of the horrors of war and carnage, and its victims upbraiding him; another, a huge picture of a struggle of giants--giving the best idea of giants possible, it seemed to me, outside of the children's story-books. Another picture was so contrived that the spectator peeped through a half-open door, and was startled at beholding what he supposed to be a woman with but a single garment, gathered shrinkingly around her, and gazing at him from an opposite door, which she appeared to have just shrunk behind to avoid his intrusion--a most marvellous cheat. An apparently rough sketch of a huge frog, viewed through an aperture, became the portrait of a French general. The pictures of two beautiful girls opening a rude window, and presenting a flower, were so arranged that, whatever position the spectator took, they were still facing him, and holding out their floral offerings. An aperture, like that of a cosmorama, invited you to look through, when, lo! a group, clothed in arctic costume, and one more grotesque than the rest arrests you; it is like a living face; the eyes wink; it moves! You start back, and find that by some clever arrangement of a looking-glass, you yourself have been supplying the face of the figure.

A little table, standing in the way, bears upon it an easel, some brushes, a red herring, and other incongruous things, which you suppose some careless visitors to have left, till you discover it is another of the artist's wonderful deceptions. I say wonderful, because his forte seems to have been some of the most astonishing practical jokes with brush and color that can possibly be imagined. Some would absolutely cheat the spectator, although prepared for surprises, and excite as much laughter as a well-told story; and others would have an opposite effect, and make his very hair almost stand erect with terror. One of the latter was that which represented a maniac mother, in a half-darkened room, cutting up one of her children with a butcher knife, and putting the remains into a pot boiling upon the fire. The spectator, who is held to this dreadful scene by a sort of terrible fascination, discovers that the wild woman thinks herself secure from observation, from the appearance of the apartment, the windows and even key-hole of which she has carefully covered, and that he himself is getting a view from an unobserved crevice. Although the subject is anything but a pleasant one, yet the rapid beating of the heart, the pallid countenance, and involuntary shudder with which the spectator withdraws from the terrible spectacle, is a tribute to the artist's marvellous skill.

Brussels is divided into two parts, the upper and lower city: the latter is crowded, and inhabited principally by the poorer and laboring classes, and contains many of the quaint old-fashioned Dutch-looking buildings of three centuries ago; the upper part of the city, the abode of the richer classes, contains fine, large, open squares and streets, palace gardens, &c. In one of the latter we attended a very fine instrumental concert, given by the orchestra of the Grand Opera--admission ten cents! and we found that we were now getting towards the country where good music was a drug, and we could get our fill at a very reasonable price, with the most agreeable surroundings.

The most interesting church in Brussels is the splendid Cathedral of St. Gudule, founded in 1010, the principal wonders of which are its magnificently-painted windows,--one an elaborate affair, representing the last judgment, the other various miracles and saints,--and the pulpit, which is a wondrous work of the carver's art. Upon it is a group representing the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden; the pulpit itself is upheld by the tree of knowledge, and high above it stands the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus, who is striking at the serpent's head with the cross. The tracery of the foliage, the carving of the figures, and ornamental work are beautifully chiselled, and very effectively managed.

Having sent a trunk on before me to Brussels, I had an experience of the apparently utter disregard of time among Belgian custom-house officials; and, indeed, of that slow, methodical, won't-be-hurried, handed-down-from-our-ancestors way of transacting business, that drives an American almost to the verge of distraction.

My experience was as follows: First, application was made and description given; next, I was sent to officer number two, who copied it all into a big book, kept me ten minutes, and charged me eight cents; then I was sent to another clerk, who made out a fresh paper, kept the first, and consumed ten or fifteen minutes more; then I was sent back, up stairs, to an official, for his signature--eight cents more--cheap autographs; then to another, who commenced to interrogate me as to name, where I was staying, my nationality, &c.; when, in the very midst of his interrogations, the hour of twelve struck, and he pushed back the paper, with "_Après déjeûner, monsieur_," shut his window-sash with a bang, and the whole custom-house was closed for one hour, in the very middle of the day, for the officials to go to lunch, or "_déjeûner à la fourchette_."

Misery loves company. An irate Englishman, whose progress was as suddenly checked as mine had been, paced up and down the corridor, swearing, in good round terms, that a man should have to wait a good hour for a change of linen, so that a parcel of cursed Dutchmen could fill themselves with beer and sausage. But remedy there was none till the lunch hour was passed, when the offices were reopened, and the wheels of business once more began their slow revolutions, and our luggage was, with many formalities, withdrawn from government custody.

"When you are on the continent don't quote Byron," said a friend at

## parting, who had been 'over the ground;' "that is, if possible to

refrain;" and, indeed, as all young ladies and gentlemen at some period of their lives have read the poet's magnificent romaunt of Childe Harold, the qualification which closed the injunction was significant. Can anybody that has any spark of imagination or romance in his composition refrain, as scene after scene, which the poet's glorious numbers have made familiar in his mind, presents itself in reality to his sight? We visit Brussels chiefly to see the field of Waterloo; and as we stand in the great square of Belgium's capital, we remember "the sound of revelry by night," and wonder how the streets looked when "then and there was hurrying to and fro," and we pictured to ourselves, as the moon poured down her silver light as we stood there, and flashed her beams upon the windows in the great Gothic structures, the sudden alarm when "bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men," and how

"the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;"

and it all came back to me how I had sing-songed through extracts from Byron in my school readers when a boy, spouted the words of the Battle of Waterloo at school exhibitions, and sometimes wondered if I should ever visit that field where Bonaparte made his last grand struggle for the empire. Yes, we should feel now the words of the poet as we approached it--"Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust." And so I stood musing, and repeating the poet's lines, _sotto voce_, when an individual approached, and, touching his hat, interrupted my musings.

"Waterloo to-morrow, sir?"

"Sir?"

"Would you like to visit Waterloo to-morrow, sir? Coach leaves at nine in the morning--English coach and six--spanking team--six horses."

We looked at this individual with some surprise, which he dissipated as follows:--

"Beg pardon, sir--agent of the English coach company--always wait upon strangers, sir."

We took outside tickets for the field of Waterloo on the English coach.

The next morning dawned brightly, and at the appointed time a splendid English mail coach, with a spanking team of six grays,--just such a one as we have seen in English pictures, with a driver handling the whip and ribbons in the most approved style,--dashed into the Place Royale, and, halting before a hotel at one end, the guard played "The Campbells are Comin'" upon a bugle, with a gusto that brought all the new arrivals to the windows; three or four ladies and gentlemen mounted to the coach-roof; the driver cracked his whip, and whirled his team up to our hotel, while the uniformed guard played "The Bowld Soger Boy" under the very nose of old Godfrey de Bouillon; and we clambered up to the outside seats, of which there were twelve, to the inspiring notes of the bugle, which made the quiet old square echo with its martial strains. Away we rolled, the bugle playing its merriest of strains; but when just clear of the city, our gay performer descended, packed his instrument into a green baize bag, deserted, and trudged back, leaving us only the music of the rattling hoofs and wheels, and the more agreeable strains of laughter of half a dozen lively English and American ladies.

The field of Waterloo is about twelve miles from Brussels; the ride, of a pleasant day, behind a good team, a delightful one: we pass through the wood of Soignies, over a broad, smooth road, in excellent order, shaded by tall trees on either side--this was Byron's Ardennes.

"Ardennes waves above them her green leaves."

We soon reached the field, which has been so often described by historians, novelists, and letter-writers, that we will spare the reader the infliction.

We are met by guides who speak French, German, and English, who have bullets, buttons, and other relics said to have been picked up on the field, but which a waggish Englishman informed us were manufactured at a factory near by to supply the demand. The guides, old and young, adapt their sympathies to those of customers; thus, if they be English, it is,--

"Here is where the brave Wellington stood; there is where _we_ beat back the Old Guard."

Or, if they be French or Americans,--

"There is where the great Napoleon directed the battle. The Imperial Guard beat all before them to this point," &c.

The field is an open, undulating plain, intersected by two or three broad roads; monuments rise here and there, and conspicuous on the field, marking the thickest of the fight rises the huge pyramidal earth-mound with the Belgian Lion upon its summit.

We stroll from point to point noted in the terrible struggle. Here is one that every one pauses at longest; it is a long, low ridge, where the guards lay that rose at Wellington's command, and poured their terrible tempest of lead into the bosoms of the Old Guard. We walk over the track of that devoted band of brave men, who marched over it with their whole front ranks melting before the terrific fire of the English artillery like frost-work before the sun, grimly closing up and marching sternly on, receiving the fire of a battery in their bosoms, and then marching right on over gunners, guns, and all, like a prairie fire sweeping all before it--Ney, the bravest of the brave, four horses shot under him, his coat pierced with balls, on foot at their head, waving his sword on high, and encouraging them on, till they reach this spot, where the last terrible tempest beats them back, annihilated. Here, where so many went down in death,--

"Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent,"--

now waved the tall yellow grain, and the red poppies that bloomed among it reminded us of the crimson tide that must have reddened the turf when it shook beneath the thunder of that terrible charge.

Let us pause at another noted spot; it is where the English squares stood with such firmness that French artillery, lancers, and even the cuirassiers, who threw themselves forward like an iron avalanche, failed to break them.

We come to the chateau of Hougoumont, which sustained such a succession of desperate attacks. The battle began with the struggle for its possession, which only ended on the utter defeat of the French. The grounds of Hougoumont are partially surrounded by brick walls, which were loopholed for musketry. This place, at the time of the battle, was a gentleman's country-seat, with farm, out-buildings, walled garden, private chapel, &c., and the shattered ruins, which to this day remain, are the most interesting relics of the battle; the wall still presents its loopholes; it is battered as with a tempest of musket balls.

The French charged up to the very muzzles of the guns, and endeavored to wrest them from the hands of those who pushed them forth.

Four companies of English held this place for seven hours against an assaulting army, and bullets were exhausted in vain against its wall-front, before which fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour.

There are breaches in the wall, cannon-shot fractures in the barn and gate; the little chapel is scarred with bullets, fire, and axes, and a fragment of brick buildings looks like part of a battered fort. Victor Hugo's "Les Misérables" gives a most vivid and truthful description of this little portion of the battle-field, and of the desperate struggle and frightful scenes enacted there, serving the visitor far better than any of the guide-books.

Passing from here, we go out into the orchard--scene of another deadly and dreadful contest. We are shown where various distinguished officers fell; we walk over the spots that Napoleon and Wellington occupied during the battle; we go to the summit of the great mound upon which stands the Belgian Lion, and from it are pointed out the distant wood from which Wellington saw the welcome and fresh columns of Blucher emerge; we pluck a little flower in Hongoumont's garden, and a full and nearly ripened blade of grain from the spot where the Imperial Guard were hurled back by their English adversaries, pay our guide three francs each, and once more are bowling along back to Brussels.

Near the field is a sort of museum of relics kept by a niece of Sergeant Major Cotton, who was in the battle, which contains many interesting and well-attested relics found upon the field years ago. There are rusty swords, that flashed in the June sunset of that terrible day, bayonets, uniform jackets and hats, buttons, cannon shot, and other field spoil, and withal books and photographs, which latter articles the voluble old lady in charge was anxious to dispose of.

Just off the field,--at the village of Waterloo, I think,--we halt at the house in which Wellington wrote his despatch announcing the victory. Here is preserved, under a glass case, the pencil with which he wrote that document. The boot of the Marquis of Anglesea, who suffered amputation of his leg here, is also preserved in like manner; and in the garden is a little monument erected over his grace's limb, which is said to be buried there.

Did we buy lace in Brussels? Yes.

And the great lace establishments there?

Well, there are few, if any, large lace shops for the sale of the article. Those are all in Paris, which is the great market for it. Then, it will be remembered that "Brussels lace" is not a very rare kind, and also that lace is an article of merchandise that is not bulky, and occupies but very little space. In many of the old cities on the continent, shopkeepers do not believe in vast, splendid, and elegantly-decorated stores, as we do in America, especially those who have a reputation in specialties which causes purchasers to seek them out.

Some of the most celebrated lace manufacturers in Brussels occupied buildings looking, for all the world, like a good old-fashioned Philadelphia mansion, with its broad steps and substantial front door, the latter having a large silver plate with the owner's name inscribed thereon. A good specimen of these was that of Julie Everaert and sisters, on the Rue Royale, where, after ringing the front door bell, we were ushered by the servant into a sort of half front parlor, half shop, and two of the sisters, two stout, elderly Flemish ladies, in black silk dresses and lace caps, appeared to serve us. So polite, so quiet, well-dressed and lady-like, so like the mild-voiced, well-bred ladies of the old school, that are now only occasionally met in America, at the _soirée_ and in the drawing-room, and who seem always to be surrounded by a sort of halo of old-time ceremony and politeness, and to command a deference and courtesy by their very presence that we instinctively acknowledge--so like, that we began to fear we had made some mistake, until the elder and stouter of the two, after the usual salutations, inquired in French if "madame and monsieur would do them the honor to look at laces."

Madame and monsieur were agreeable, and chairs were accordingly placed before a table, which was covered by a sort of black velvet comforter, or stuffed table-cloth, and behind which stood a tall fire-proof safe, which, being opened by the servant, displayed numerous drawers and compartments like to that of a jeweller. The lace dealer commenced an exhibition of the treasures of the iron casket, displaying them upon the black velvet with the skill of an expert, her quiet little servant removing such as were least favorable in our eyes, when the table became crowded, and she went on, as each specimen was displayed, something as follows:--

"_Vingt francs, monsieur_" (a neat little collar).

"_Cinquante francs, plus jolie_" (I expressed admiration audibly).

"_Cent francs, madame_," said the frau Julie, abandoning at once the addressing of her conversation to an individual who could be struck with the beauty of a fifty franc strip of lace.

"_Cent cinquante francs, madame, très recherché._"

"_Deux cent francs. Superbe, madame._"

"_Quatre cent francs. Magnifique._"

"Eighty dollars for that mess of spider's web!" exclaimed Monsieur, in English, to his companion. "Eighty dollars! The price _is_ magnifique."

"He is varee sheep for sush _dentelles_," says the old lady, in a quiet tone, much to monsieur's confusion at her understanding the English tongue; and the exhibition went on.

How much we sacrificed at that black velvet altar I do not care to mention; but, at any rate, we found on reaching America that the prices paid, compared with those asked at home, _were_ "varee sheep for sush _dentelles_."

Antwerp! We must make a brief pause at this old commercial city on the Scheldt; and as we ride through its streets, we see the quaint, solid, substantial buildings of olden times, their curious architecture giving a sort of Dutch artistic air to the scene, and reminding one of old paintings and theatrical scenery. One evidence of the commercial importance of Antwerp is seen in its splendid docks; these comprise the two docks built by Bonaparte when he made the port one of his naval arsenals, which are splendid specimens of masonry, the walls being five feet in thickness; then the Belgian government have recently completed three new docks, which, in connection with the old ones, embrace an area of over fifty acres of water. We visited several of the dock-yards here, and were astonished at the vast heaps of merchandise they contained. Still further improvements that are being made seem to completely refute the assertion that all the commercial enterprise of Antwerp has departed. Here, for instance, were two new docks in progress for timber and petroleum exclusively, which enclose seventeen acres of water, and here we saw literally enough of splendid timber for a navy. I was actually staggered by the heaps of every kind of timber, from all parts of the world, that was piled up here, while the American petroleum was heaped up and stored in warehouses the size of a cathedral, suggesting the idea of a tremendous illumination should fire by any means get at it, which, however, is guarded against very strictly by dock-guards and police.

Then there are three new and spacious dry docks, one of which is the largest in Europe, being nearly five hundred feet long, and capable of holding two ships at a time of one thousand tons register each. The splendid facilities for ships of every description, and for the landing and storage of merchandise, are such as cannot fail to excite admiration from every American merchant, and make him sigh for the time when we may have similar accommodations in the great seaports in this country. There were huge warehouses, formed by two blocks _vis-à-vis_, with a glass roof covering the intermediate space, and a double rail track running through it, affording opportunity of loading, unloading, and sorting merchandise in all weathers, while the depth of the "lazy old Scheldt," directly opposite the city, is sufficient for a ship drawing thirty-two feet of water to ride safely at anchor.

The magnificent cathedral spire in Antwerp is familiar to almost everybody who looks into the windows of the print shops; and we climbed far up into it, to its great colony of bells, that make the very tower reel with their chimes. Here, leaving the ladies, our motto was, Excelsior; and we still went onward and upward, till, amid the wrought stone that seems the lace-work of the spire, we appeared to be almost swinging in the air, far above the earth, as in a gigantic net, and, although safely enclosed, yet the apertures and open-work were so frequent that our enthusiasm was not very expressive, however deeply it might have been felt at the splendid view, though our grasp at the balusters and stone-work was of the most tenacious character; and, in truth, the climbing of a spire of about four hundred feet high is an undertaking easier read about than practised.

Inside the cathedral we saw Rubens's fine pictures of the Elevation and the Descent from the Cross, in which the figures are given with such wonderful and faithful accuracy as to make the spectator sigh with pity at the painful spectacle.

The interior of this splendid cathedral is grand and imposing; but I have already, in these pages, employed so many adjectives in admiration of these grand old buildings, that I fear repetition in the attempt to give anything more than the dimensions which indicate its vast extent, which are five hundred feet long and two hundred and fifty wide. In front of this cathedral is an iron canopy, or specimen of iron railing-work, as we should call it; but it is of _wrought_ iron, and by the hammer and skilful hand of Quentin Matsys.

In the Church of St. Jacques, with its splendid interior, rich in beautiful carved marble and balustrades, we stood at the tomb of Rubens, who is buried here, and saw many more of his pictures among them his Holy Family. The house where he died is in a street named after him, and a statue of the artist graces the Place Verte.

Antwerp rejoices in good musical entertainments. The most prominent and aristocratic of the musical societies is that known as the "Royal Society of Harmony of Antwerp," who own a beautiful garden, or park, at which their out-of-door concerts are given during the summer season. None but members of the society are admitted to these entertainments, except visiting friends from other cities, and then only by approval of the committee of managers.

The garden is quite extensive, and is beautifully laid out with walks beneath shady groves, rustic bridges over ponds and streams, gorgeous plats, and parterres of flowers. In the centre of the grounds rises an ornamental covered stand for the orchestra; and round about, beneath the shade trees, sit such of the visitors who are not strolling about, eating ices, drinking light wine or beer, and indulging in pipes and cigars. A handsome pavilion affords accommodation in case of bad weather, and the expenses are defrayed by assessments upon the members of the society.

After seeing the London Zoölogical Garden, others seem very much like it; and that in Antwerp is nearest the London one, in the excellence of its arrangement and management, of any I have since visited. The collection is quite large, and very interesting.

The cabs and hackney coaches in this old city are the most atrocious old wrecks we have ever seen, the horses apparently on their last legs, and the drivers a seedy-looking set of fellows, most of whom understand neither English, French, nor German, only Flemish; so that when a stranger calls a "vigilante," which is the title of these turnouts, it is well to have the assistance of a native, else the attempted excursion may end in an inextricable snarl of signs, phrases, and gesticulations, "full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing" to either party.

I believe if an individual, who does not understand German or Flemish, can make the journey from Antwerp to Dusseldorf alone, he may be considered competent to travel all over Europe without a courier or interpreter. The conductors or guards of the train appeared to understand nothing but German and Flemish. The changes of cars were numerous and puzzling, and our "_Change-t-on de voiture ici?_" and "_Ou est le convoi pour Dusseldorf?_" were aired and exercised on a portion of the route to little purpose. Nevertheless, we did manage to blunder through safely and correctly, by dint of showing tickets, and being directed by signs and motions, and pushed by good-natured, stupid (?) officials from one train to another; for we changed cars at Aerschot, then at Hasselt, then again at Maestricht, where we were compelled to leave the train, and have all small parcels examined by the custom-house officials; then at Aix la Chapelle, or Aachen, as the Dutchmen call it, we had to submit to an examination of trunks, all passing in at one door of a large room and out at another, in an entirely opposite direction, and apparently directly away from the train we had just left, to continue our journey. I never shall forget the jargon of Dutch, French, and English, the confusion of wardrobes of different nationalities that were rudely exposed by the officers, the anathematizing of obstinate straps that would not come unbuckled, the turning out of pockets to search for missing keys, and the hasty cramming back of the contents of trunks,--for the train was a few minutes late,--that imprinted the custom-house station of Aix la Chapelle like a disagreeable nightmare on my memory.

At last we reached Ober Cassel, where we debarked, took seats in a drosky, as they call cabs here, the driver of which hailed us in French, which really sounded almost natural after the amount of guttural German we had experienced.

Over the pontoon bridge that spans the Rhine, we rode towards Dusseldorf, whose lighted windows were reflected upon the dark, flowing stream; and we were soon within the hospitable and comfortable hotel, denominated the Breidenbacher Hof, where the servants spoke French and English, and we forgot the perplexities of the day in an excellent and well-served supper.

Dusseldorf is one of those quiet, sleepy sort of towns where there is little or no excitement beyond music in the Hofgarten, or the Prussian soldiers who parade the streets; it is the quiet and pleasant home of many accomplished artists, whose paintings and whose school of art are familiar to many in America, and it is often visited by American tourists for the purpose of purchasing pictures from the easels of its artists; indeed, the guide-books dignify it with the title of the "Cradle of Rhenish Art." Americans visiting Dusseldorf find an efficient and able cicerone in Henry Lewis, Esq., the American consul, who, from his long residence there, and being himself a Dusseldorf artist, and withal a member of their associations, and having an intimate acquaintance with artists and artist life, is a gentleman eminently qualified to aid our countrymen in their purchases of pictures, which is done with a disinterestedness and courtesy that have won for him the warmest regards of Americans who have visited the place.

To be sure, some Americans, with very queer ideas of propriety in pictures, visit Dusseldorf, as they do other places in Europe, sometimes mortifying their countrymen by their absurd extravagances of conduct. At one of the artists' exhibitions a fine picture was pointed out to me, representing a cavalier who had just returned from the chase, and was seated in an old mediæval hall. At one side, in the painting, was a representation of a fine, wide, high, old, ornamented chimneypiece. This picture attracted the attention of an American, well-known in his native country as a proprietor of patent medicines. He saw nothing in the rich costume and coloring of the cavalier's dress, the fine interior of the old mediæval mansion; but he noticed that the mantel of the antique fireplace was empty. Lucky circumstance! He proposed to purchase the picture of the artist on condition of an alteration, or rather addition, being made, which was the painting in of a bottle of the purchaser's celebrated syrup, with its label distinctly visible, to be represented occupying one end of the mantel, and boxes of pills and ointment (labels visible) occupying the other end.

To his credit be it known, the artist absolutely refused to commit such an outrage, notwithstanding double price was offered him for "the job;" and the glories of Blank's pills continue to be painted in printer's ink, and not the artist's colors.

Through the kind courtesy of Mr. Lewis, we were enabled to visit the studios of nearly all the leading artists of Dusseldorf. We saw the fine Swiss scenery of Lindler, the life-like, quaint old burghers and Dutch figures of Stammel, the heavy Dutch horses and the quiet, natural, rural, and roadside scenes of Hahn, and the sharp, bold style of figure-painting of Stever, rich in color and striking in expression--an artist whose pictures, in the exhibition, always have a group of spectators about them; and then we saw Lewis's own clever landscapes and Swiss mountain scenes, and finally went off to the Dusseldorf gallery, where we saw a host of original sketches and drawings by the most celebrated artists of all schools.

One thing newly-arrived Americans quickly learn here, as well as in Rome and Florence; and that is, that good pictures command good prices: they may be obtained at a lower figure than at home, yet they are by no means sacrificed for a song. The facilities of travel are now so great, and Americans and English with money to spend do so pervade the continent, that the opportunities of obtaining really meritorious works of art at a very low price in Europe are decreasing every day.

The Prussian soldiery are seen everywhere in Dusseldorf; they are a fine, intellectual-looking set of men, not very tall, but splendidly drilled. A regiment that I have seen pass, with its magnificent military band at its head, was so exact in the perpendicular of the muskets carried by the men, that I verily believe a plank might have been laid upon the points of the upright bayonets, and it would have been found a true level.

The band in the Hofgarten plays the Strauss waltzes deliciously. The shady walks, the flower-beds, the pretty vases and fountains, are enchantingly soothing and romantic on a summer's evening, under the influence of music, Rhine wine or lager. But we must bid adieu to old Dusseldorf, which we learn, with some surprise, as we turn our back upon it for the city of perfumes (Cologne), to be a town of fifty thousand inhabitants--a fact one would never dream of, from its lack of that bustling spirit that characterizes an American town or city of that population.

Now for the "castle-crowned Rhine." We leave Dusseldorf behind, and as the steamboat journey from here is a somewhat dull and uninteresting one, there being no features of natural beauty on the river between the two points, we rattle down by Cologne and Minden Railway in about an hour and a half, and quarter at the fine Hotel du Nord, at Cologne, near the railway bridge, which is all of a bustle on account of the arrival of the King of Sweden and suite; and some of the blue-eyed, golden-haired blondes of that "suite" we had the pleasure of meeting occasionally, as we passed in or out, would have been "all the rage" in America, could they have been transplanted to that country.

Cologne, the oldest town on the Rhine, is built with long, winding, semicircular, narrow streets, along the river. It is now the capital of Rhenish Prussia, and appears to be a strongly fortified place, being surrounded by strong, high walls. A bridge of boats and a stone bridge span the Rhine from Cologne to a little town called Deutz, opposite, and the city seems to have considerable business activity. Before one ever sees the city, his impressions are, that its chief article of commerce and manufacture is cologne water; and that impression is strengthened on arrival, for about every other store, especially those in the square about the cathedral, claims to be "_the_ original Jean Antoine Marie Farina." The competition in this matter is ridiculous, and even laughable; and the Farinas are so numerous, and opinion is so divided respecting the original, that it is said if you purchase of either one you will wish you had bought of another.

The cathedral at Cologne, grand and majestic in its proportions, rich in ornament, and considered among lovers of architecture a masterpiece among existing Gothic buildings, was commenced in 1248, and, though more than six centuries have passed, is still unfinished, and the name of the architect who planned the original designs of the structure unknown to the world.

The sight of this great cathedral, that has been in process of construction for so many centuries, sometimes nearly abandoned to ruin, and then again carried forward by builders with new zeal, till at last the original designs were forgotten, and men proceeded to work on at an apparently endless task,--the style of work here and there marking the age in which it was wrought,--was strikingly suggestive of the vanity of human aspirations. It also brought to mind that almost forgotten old German legend respecting a compact between the original architect of this cathedral, I think, and his Satanic Majesty, in which the former some way outwitted the latter, who, in revenge, caused him to be killed by a fall from the tower bearing the well-known derrick so familiar in all the pictures on the cologne-bottle labels. His Sulphuric Highness, in the story, also vowed that the edifice should never be completed, and that the architect's name should be forgotten by men.

The fiendish promise appears to have been faithfully kept, although, on the other hand, it is averred by some American travellers that the building is kept unfinished to extract contributions from the faithful to complete it, and thereby furnish builders, workmen, and contractors with work; indeed, a New York man was struck with the bright idea that it would be to get the Prussian government to undertake it, and let the job out to contractors, and he knew that the builders of the new City Hall in New York would undertake it, and spend time and money enough over it, and in a manner that would astonish the old church builders of Europe.

The cathedral stands on a slight elevation, some fifty or sixty feet above the Rhine, upon a portion of the old Roman camp-ground, where the soldiers of Agrippina, the mother of Nero, rested after war's alarms, and watched the flow of the winding river at their feet. Countless sums of money have been lavished upon the building, and centuries of labor. Guilty monarchs, and men whose hearts have reeked with sin, have bestowed wealth upon it, in the hope to buy absolution for their crimes with the same dross that had purchased so many of the world's coveted pleasures. In 1816, forty-eight thousand pounds were expended on it, and between 1842 and 1864 over three hundred thousand pounds were laid out. The great southern portal, which is two hundred and twenty feet high, cost alone one hundred and five thousand pounds. Some idea of the vastness of the cathedral may be had from the figures representing its dimensions. The interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one hundred and forty broad; the transept two hundred and thirty-four feet long, and the choir one hundred and forty feet in height. The part which is appropriated for divine service occupies an area of seventy thousand square feet.

We strolled round this stupendous old building, and after shaking off the guides and _valets de place_, who proffered their services, the agents of cologne-water houses in the vicinity, and the venders of books, stereoscopic views and pictures of it, and even a monkish old fellow who came out of one of the side doors, and rattled a money-box for subscriptions for the workmen, proceeded to have a look at it in our own way. There stood out the old derrick, or crane, an iron arm fifty feet long, that has projected from one of the towers, which is one hundred and ninety feet high, for four hundred years, probably in waiting to assist in completing the remaining two hundred and eighty-six feet, the projected height being four hundred and seventy-six. The Gothic arches, canopies, buttresses, and tracery, with statues of the apostles and saints, are bewildering in detail and number. In one ornamental arch is a relief containing no less than seventy different figures, and another has fifty-eight small canopies wrought in it. In fact, the building seems to be a monument of stone-cutters' skill, as well as an exemplification of the detail of Gothic architecture; and you may mark that which is crumbling to decay beneath the unsparing tooth of time, and on the same edifice that which, sharp and fresh, but yesterday left the sculptor's chisel; and so the work goes on. The central tower and iron framework of the roof of the body of the church and transept were only completed in 1861, and the interior of the church since 1863, that is, if the interior can be said ever to be completed, with workmen continually _finishing_ it.

To get inside we find that a series of tickets must be purchased of the custodian who guards the entrance at the transept. These paid for, we proceeded, under the pilotage of a good-natured, though not over-clean churchman, to the various points of interest in the vast interior. We had the same beautiful view of Gothic arches and cluster pillars that form so grand a perspective in these cathedrals. We counted fifty-six pillars in all. Those of the nave were one hundred and six feet in height, and of the side aisles forty-five. The seven chapels are rich in pictures, decorated altars, and relics. The most celebrated is that known as the Chapel of the Three Magi, in which was a gorgeous crystal casket, protected by a cover richly ornamented and set with precious stones. When this was reverently removed, we beheld the tops of three human skulls, circled with golden crowns, which our conductor gravely informed us were the skulls of Caspar, Melchoir, and Balthazar, the Three Magi, or Wise Men of the East, who figured at the adoration of our Saviour.

One can hardly repress a smile at such assertions, made in the nineteenth century, by a man who has had the advantages of education, as our priestly guide evidently had; but the serious manner in which he imparted his information, and to our doubting comments pointed to the names set in rubies, and assured us that the relics were presented in the twelfth century by the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, and that he had not time now to question historical facts, disposed of the subject in our case. So, at the Church of St. Ursula here, where the bones of _eleven thousand virgins_ (!), who were murdered in Cologne on their return from a pilgrimage to Rome, are shown. The unbelieving Thomases of the Protestant faith try the patience of the pious custodian sadly by their irreverent questions and disrespectful remarks.

In the great sacristy and treasury of the cathedral we saw a rich collection of magnificent vestments for priests, bishops, and other church officials, costly gold and silver chalices, cruets, fonts, goblets, church vessels, &c. Among these were several splendid "monstrances" or a sort of framework, in which the consecrated wafer, or host, is held up to view before the congregation in Roman Catholic churches. One of these was of silver, weighing eight pounds and a half, adorned with rubies and diamonds, with a superb diamond cross hanging from it, and around it a collar of turquoises, amethysts, and sapphires; there was another of solid silver, much heavier, the gift of Pope Pius IX., and still a third, which far outshone all the rest in magnificence. This last was a foot and a half in height, was of solid gold, and weighed ten pounds and two ounces; it was studded with large jewels, and the gold beautifully enamelled. The cylindrical space for enclosing the host measured four and a half inches in diameter, and is cut out of a piece of mountain crystal. The value of this monstrance is immense, and it is only used on great holidays, and carried in procession but once a year--Corpus Christi, the next Thursday after Trinity Sunday.

The cabinets in this treasury were rich indeed with material wealth of the cathedral; and our priestly guide took a pride in displaying it, furnishing me many facts for my note-book not down in the guide-books, and anxious that we should have a correct idea of the wealth of the Church. Two splendid silver censers, weighing nine pounds each, were shown us; next came a great crucifix of polished ebony and silver, a gold and enamelled flower set with precious stones, an enamelled painting of the Crucifixion surrounded by diamonds, rubies, and pearls, a cross and ring worn by the archbishop at every pontifical service, magnificent ornaments set with diamonds and pearls, and valued at twenty-five hundred pounds sterling; then there were splendid reliquaries, richly set with jewels, some said to contain portions of the true cross; splendid crosiers, one of ivory and crystal, of ancient workmanship; crosses, silver busts, carved ivory figures, and the splendid silver shrine of St. Engelbert, weighing one hundred and forty-nine pounds, and adorned with bass-reliefs and numerous small statuettes--a most valuable piece of plate, and curious work of art, made in the year 1635.

From this rich storehouse of gold, silver, and jewels we passed out once more into the body of the cathedral, where ragged women or poverty-stricken men, with hunger in their cheeks, knelt on the pavement to tell a string of beads, or mutter a prayer or two, and then rise and follow us into the street to beg a few groschen, or, as we passed, to be solicited by an individual, who had charge of a rattling money-box, for a contribution towards the completion of the church.

Nearly two hundred workmen are at work upon the Cologne Cathedral, renewing that which has crumbled from decay and time, and completing that which is still unfinished. A good idea of its magnitude can be obtained by a tour of the galleries. Access is had to these by a flight of steps in one of the great pillars. One hundred and one steps--I counted them as we went up--carry the visitor to a gallery which extends across the transept. Up thirty-six steps more, and you reach another gallery running around the whole building, in a tour of which you may study the details of the architecture, and also have a fine view of the town, and a beautiful one of the Rhine, and the lovely surrounding landscape.

There is a gallery corresponding to this on the interior of the building, which affords the visitor an equally good opportunity to observe the interior decorations and architectural features. You mount ninety-eight steps more, and reach a third gallery, which runs around the entire roof of the cathedral, a distance of sixteen hundred feet. Here the panorama is more extended and beautiful. You see the river winding on its course far in the distance. Below are the semicircular streets, the bridges of stone and of boats, the numerous little water craft dotting the stream, and on every side the lovely landscape, fresh and verdant in the summer sunlight. Above us, on the roof, or ridge-pole, runs an ornamental gilt crest, looking like spikes from below, but really a string of gilt spires, nearly five feet in height, while the great cross above is twenty-seven feet high, and weighs thirteen hundred and eighty-eight pounds. From this gallery we passed in through a little door under the roofing, and above the vaulted arches of the interior, to an opening which was surrounded by a railing. Through this opening the spectator has an opportunity of looking to the interior beneath him, and has a view directly downwards to the pavement, one hundred and fifty feet below.

The middle steeple is yet to be ascended. This is strongly built of iron, and ninety-four steps more carry us up to the highest point of ascent--three hundred and twenty-nine steps in all. The star which surmounts the steeple above us is three hundred and fifty feet from the pavement. A glance below at the cathedral shows the form of its ground plan, and the landscape view extends as far as the eye can reach.

Cologne is not an over-clean city, and we were not sorry to embark on the _dampschift_, as they call the little Rhine steamboat, for our trip to Mayence. These little steamers, with their awning-shaded decks, upon which you may sit and dine, or enjoy the pure light wines of the country,--which never taste so well anywhere else,--and view the romantic and beautiful scenery upon the banks of this historic river as you glide along, afford a most delightful mode of transit, and one which we most thoroughly enjoyed, the weather being charming, and the boat we were upon an excellent one, and not crowded with passengers.

The great Cathedral of Cologne, a conspicuous landmark, and the high arches of the railroad bridge, gradually disappear as we steam away up the river, looking on either side at the pleasant views, till the steeple and residences of Bonn greet us, after a two hours' sail. Here we make a landing, near the Grand Hotel Royal, a beautiful hotel, and charmingly situated. Facing the river, its two wings extend from the main body of the house, enclosing a spacious garden, which stretches down to the river banks, and is tastefully laid out with winding walks, rustic arbors, and flower-beds. From its garden and windows you may gaze upon the charming panorama of the river, with the peaks of the Seven Mountains rising in the distance, and the Castle of Godesburg on its lofty peak, near the river.

But our little steamer fumes and fusses at its landing-place, eager to depart; so we step on board, and it steams once more out against the curling current between the hills of Rhineland. The scenery now becomes more varied and interesting; pleasant little roads wind off in the distance amid the hills; a chapel is perched here and there, and ever and anon we meet some big, flat-bottomed boat floating idly down the stream, loaded with produce, with a heavy, loose-jacketed, broad-leaf-hatted German lounging in the stern, smoking a painted or ornamented pipe, and you think of the pictures you have so often stared at in the windows of the print shops.

We begin to note the vineyards on the sloping banks, the vines on sticks four or five feet high, and sometimes in what appears to be unpromising looking ground.

We pass various little towns with unpronounceable names, such as Niederdollendorf, for instance. We make occasional landings, and take on board women with queer head-dresses, and coarse, black, short dresses, stout shoes, and worsted stockings, and men with many-buttoned jackets, holiday velvet vests, painted porcelain pipes, and heavy, hob-nailed shoes; children in short, blue, coarse jean, and wooden shoes, all of whom occupy a position on the lower forward deck, among the light freight--chiefly provisions and household movables--that the steamer carries. The shores begin to show a background of hills; the Seven Mountains are in view, and Drachenfels (Dragon's Rock), with its castle perched eight hundred and fifty-five feet above the river, on its vine-clad height, realizes one's ideas of those ancient castles where the old robber chieftains of the middle ages established themselves, and from these strongholds issued on their freebooting expeditions, or watched the river for passing crafts, from which to exact tribute. The scenery about here is lovely; the little villages on the banks, the vine-clad hills, little Gothic churches, the winding river, and the highlands swelling blue in the distance, all fill out a charming picture.

Still we glide along, and the arched ruin of Rolandseck, on its hill three hundred and forty feet above the river, appears in view. A single arch of the castle alone remains darkly printed against the sky, and, like all Rhine castles, it has its romantic story, which you read from your guide-book as you glide along the river, or hear told by some dreamy tourist, who has the romance in him, which the sight of these crumbling old relics of the past excites. And he tells you how Roland, a brave crusader of Charlemagne's army, left his lady love near this place, when he answered the summons of the monarch to the Holy Land; how the lady, after his prolonged absence, heard that he was dead, and betook herself to a convent on the picturesque little island of Nonnenworth; how the bold crusader, who had not been killed, hastened back on the wings of love, eager to claim his bride after his long absence, and found her in the relentless clutch of a convent; how, in despair, he built this castle, which commanded a view of the cloisters, where he could hear the sound of the convent bell, and occasionally catch a glimpse of a fair form that he knew full well, passing to her devotions; how, at last, she came no more, but the tolling bell and nuns' procession told him that she whom he loved was dead; and how, from that moment, the knight spoke no more, but died heart-broken, his last gaze turned towards the convent where his love had died; and all that remains of the knightly lover's castle is the solitary wall that lifts its ruined arch distinct against the dark-blue sky.

We pass the little island of Nonnenworth; and the nunnery is still upon it, founded far back in the eleventh century, but rebuilt in the fifteenth, and suppressed by Napoleon in 1802, and now a sort of school under the management of Franciscan nuns. The view about here, looking down the river, is romantic and beautiful. On one side, on the more level country, lie several small villages; then, down along the banks of the river, rise the rugged cliffs, the ruined castles of Rolandseck and Drachenfels crowning two jutting points of the hills, and in the distance, mellowed by the haze, the peaks of the hills known as the Seven Mountains, and Löwenberg peak, crowned with a crumbling ruin, rise to view, which, with the little island and its convent for a foreground, form a charming picture.

We sail along, and make another landing for passengers at Remagen. Opposite Remagen we see a huge cliff, which rises nearly six hundred and fifty feet above the river, and is profitable, as well as picturesque, for it is a stone quarry, the product of which can be placed directly into the river craft at its base. The Rhine now describes a long curve, as we approach Nieder-Breisig. A little village called Duttenberg is wedged in between the hills, on a little river that empties into the Rhine, and, as we pass it, the tall, round, stone towers of Arenfels come in view. Then we reach Nieder-Breisig, and opposite is Rheineck, with its modern-built tower crowning the height. Then we come to the two Hammersteins, with their vineyards and castle, and then the picturesque old town of Andernach heaves in sight, with its tall watch-tower overlooking the river. Then come Kaltenengens and others, which I at last became tired of noting down, and enjoyed the afternoon sunset that was softening the vine-clad slopes, and lighting up the arches and windows of each ruined castle, chapel, or watch-tower that was sure to crown every conspicuous eminence, until, at last, our little steamer rounded in at the pier at Coblentz, with its fine hotels strung along near the river bank, and the Gibraltar of the Rhine, the grim old Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, looking down on us from its rocky eminence on the opposite shore.

Coblentz, the guide-books tell us, is a famous stopping-place for tourists on the Rhine, between Cologne and Mayence, being equi-distant from both. It is certainly a capital half-way resting-place, and, however pleasing the steamboat trip may have been, the traveller can but enjoy the change to one of the clean, well-kept hotels at this beautiful situation.

The hotel agents were at the pier,--spoke English and French fluently,--and we were soon installed into the pleasantest of rooms, commanding a view of the river, whose swiftly-flowing current rolls not fifty paces distant. A bridge of boats spans it, and high above the river bank rises the old castle, upon the battlements of which I can see the glitter of the sentinels' bayonets in the summer sunset.

The bridge of boats, and the passengers who cross it, are a never-ceasing source of entertainment to us; soldiers and elegantly-dressed officers from the castle; country girls, with curious head-dresses; and now and then a holiday-rigged peasant; costermongers' carts and dog-teams--one, consisting of three big dogs abreast, came over at full gallop, the driver, a boy, cracking his whip, and the whole team barking furiously. We saw a whole regiment of Prussian infantry, armed with the Prussian needle-gun, march over from the castle--a fine body of men, and headed by a band of forty pieces, playing in a style that would make the military enthusiasm, if the listener possessed any, tingle to the very soles of his feet. When steamboats or other craft desire to pass this floating bridge, a section is detached,--a sort of floating "draw,"--and suffered to swing out with the stream; the steamer passes the gap; after which the detached section is pulled back to position again.

Right at this charming bend of the river, on one side of the town, flows the Moselle, as we call it, but Mözle, as you learn to pronounce it in Europe--the blue Moselle. "On the banks of the blue Moselle," ran the old song; and as picturesque and poetical a river as can be imagined is the Moselle, with its arched bridge spanning it, and its sparkling stream winding through a lovely landscape; but the portion of Coblentz that borders on its bank is poor and dirty, and in striking contrast with the elegant buildings and bright appearance of the Rhine front of the town: the "blue" of the Moselle refuses to mix with the more turbid glacier-tinted Rhine, and for a long distance down the stream this blue makes itself visible and distinct from the Rhine water, till gradually absorbed by it.

We are now beginning to come to those charming hotels on the great lines of continental travel routes, which in Germany and Switzerland are not the least attractive features of the tour. Here at Coblentz I enjoy excellent accommodations, room fresh and fragrant, with clean linen, spotless curtains, and not a speck of dust visible, my windows commanding the charming Rhine panorama, waiters speaking French, German, and English, a well-served _table d'hote_, and all for less than half the price charged in America.

The wine-drinkers here, from America, are in ecstasies, for we appear to be at headquarters for the light Rhine wines of the country; two francs buy a bottle costing one dollar and twenty-five cents at home, and five francs such as cannot be got in America for three dollars. The sparkling Moselle and celebrated Johannisberger are to be had here in perfection, and the newly-arrived American is not long in ascertaining what a different thing the same brand of wine is in this country from what it is at home.

"Ah, if we had wine like this at home, how I should like to have it oftener!" have I heard frequently said by travellers. It is too true that it is extremely difficult to get pure (imported) wines and liquors, pay what price one may in America; and perhaps one reason why the light wines of Germany are so agreeable to the tourist's palate, is in the surroundings and the time they are taken, such as on the deck of a Rhine steamer, at the top of a steep crag, in a picturesque old castle, in a German garden, where a capital orchestra makes the very atmosphere luxuriant with Strauss waltzes and Gungl galops, or at the gay _table d'hote_ with pleasure-seeking tourists, who, like himself, are only studying how to enjoy themselves, recounting past pleasure jaunts, or planning new ones.

However, be this as it may, it is, I believe, acknowledged that the only place to get the Rhine wines is in Rhineland; and the difference between them and the compounds furnished in America is obvious to the dullest taste. The purest and most reliable wines now in our own country are the California and other native wines, although they are not so fashionable as the doctored foreign, and imitation of foreign that are palmed off as genuine.

As I looked from my windows over the river and up at the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, seated on its rocky perch three hundred and seventy-seven feet above the river, and the eye caught the occasional glitter of a weapon, or the ear the faint rattle of a drum, or the sound of the bugle call, softened by the distance, I found myself repeating fragments of Byron's Childe Harold.

"Here Ehrenbreitstein with her shattered wall, Black with the miner's blast upon her height, Yet shows of what she was when shell and ball Rebounding lightly on her strength did light."

"A tower of victory" it is indeed, for it has only twice been taken by an enemy during the best part of a thousand years--once by stratagem, and once being reduced by famine.

We crossed the bridge of boats, which is fourteen hundred and ten feet long, got tickets of admission to the fortress in the little town of Ehrenbreitstein the other side, mounted with labor up the steep ascent, and as we came within view of these tremendous works, upon which money and engineering skill seem to have been expended without stint, we did not wonder at their impregnability, or that they excite so much admiration among the military engineers of the world. From the ramparts we enjoyed a magnificent view of the whole river and the country between Andernach and Stolzenfels. Below us was triangular-shaped Coblentz, and its row of handsome buildings facing the River Rhine, the bridge of boats and never-ending moving diorama sort of scene, while at the right of the town glided the blue Moselle, its azure waters moving unmixed as they flowed along with the Rhine, and the railroad bridge spanning the stream with its graceful arches; beyond that the fortifications of Fort Franz, commanding the river and vicinity; and far off to the right of that a fertile plain towards Andernach, the scene of Cæsar's first passage of the Rhine, B. C. 55, and of the sieges of the thirty years war, in 1631 to 1660, and the bloody campaigns of Louis XIV.

Farther to our left, and near the junction of the two rivers, we observed the Church of St. Castor, built in 1208; and it was in a small square near this church, in one of our walks about the town, that we came to a little monument, raised by a French official at the commencement of the campaign against Russia, bearing this inscription:--

"Made memorable by the campaign against the Russians, under the prefecturate of Jules Doazan, 1812."

When the Russian general entered the town, he added these words, which still remain:--

"Seen and approved by the Russian commander of the city of Coblentz, January 1, 1814."

A delightful afternoon ride, in an open carriage, along the river bank for three or four miles, brought us to the foot of the ascent leading to the castle of Stolzenfels, which looks down upon the river from a rocky eminence about four hundred feet above it. Refusing the proffers of donkeys or _chaise à porter_ for the ladies, we determined to make the ascent on foot, and very soon found that the "guides," donkeys, and portable chairs were "a weak invention of the enemy," for the road, although winding, was broad, easy, and delightfully shady and romantic. We passed an old Roman mile-stone on the road, and after crossing a drawbridge, reached the royal castle.

This most beautifully restored relic of the middle ages was, in 1802, a ruin of a castle of five hundred years before; in 1823 it was partially restored, and since then has been completely rebuilt and beautified at a cost of fifty-three thousand pounds sterling. Everything is in good proportion, Stolzenfels being somewhat of a miniature castle, its _great_ banquet hall scarcely double the size of a good-sized drawing-room; but its whole interior and exterior are a model of exquisite taste. It has its little castle court-yard, its beautifully contrived platform overlooking the Rhine, its watch-towers and its turrets, all undersized, but in exact proportions. Through the tower windows, which are wreathed with ivy; from the windows of little boudoirs of rooms, which were cabinets of rare china and exquisite cabinet paintings; from embrasures in galleries and halls which had exquisite statuettes, instead of large size statues; from little Gothic windows in the chapel; and, in fact, from every conceivable and most unexpected point was the visitor encountering different lovely framed views, as it were, of the natural scenery of the country. These outlooks were so skilfully contrived as each to give a different view, and as at this point of the Rhine is the narrowest and most romantic part of the valley, the views are of the most enchanting description.

Looking out of an ivy-wreathed window of Stolzenfels, the spectator would see, framed, as it were, in stone-work and green leaves, a picture of the river, with its boats and bridges: through another, or an embrasure, a square-framed picture of an elevation on the opposite bank, crowned by a pilgrims' chapel, while from the watch-tower you look down upon the lovely valley of the River Lahn, which near this point flows into the Rhine; and from another turret we look back upon the massy walls of Ehrenbreitstein, Coblentz, with the apex of its triangle pointing out into the stream, and behind its base the strong walls of Fort Constantine, marked out like stone lines on the greensward. The apartments in this castle are exquisitely furnished, and the furniture, tapestry, pictures, and statues adapted to harmonize with their size, which is fairy-like in comparison with castles generally.

In one hall were a series of beautiful frescoes of chivalric scenes--Godfrey de Bouillon at the Holy Sepulchre; John of Bohemia at the Battle of Cressy; Rudolph of Hapsburg judging knightly robbers, &c. There was a beautiful little chapel with elegant frescoes. In the armory were specimens of light and curious armor, among which were swords of Napoleon, Blucher, and Murat, specimens of exquisite Toledo blades, arabesque ornamented daggers, exquisitely wrought and flexible chain-mail shirts, and other curiosities of defensive armor. In the different rooms through which we were conducted, among other works of the old masters, were cabinet pictures by Holbein, Titian, Van Dyck, Albert Dürer, Rembrandt, &c. The charming views of the surrounding scenery without, and the exquisite taste displayed on the interior of this royal castle, made us regret to leave its little leaf-clad turrets, fairy-like watch-towers, romantic terraces, and picturesque battlements; and we believed the custodian when he averred that Queen Victoria was charmed with the place when she visited it a few years since, for it was fit to charm even a queen with its beauty.

Once more we are steaming up the river, and Stolzenfels is left behind us, and the towers of Lahneck come in sight, a feudal castle restored by a wealthy Englishman, and which occupies a crag above the River Lahn; we pass little white villages nestled at the foot of the hills, and looking far inland, see the slopes bristling with vineyards; we are in the land of the vine. Next comes another great castle, Marksburg, frowning from its rocky height four hundred and eighty feet above the stream, and we lazily inspect it by the aid of a double field-glass, as we lie at full length on a settee, beneath the steamer's awning, and, on inquiry, find that after being an old feudal castle, and bearing its weight of half a thousand years bravely, it has been degraded into a states prison! The little town near the river, an old watch-tower, a road winding off amid the hills for a foreground, and this old castle high above as the background, forms so charming a picture, that one wishes it might, by some magic process, be transferred to canvas, that he could carry it away, and show it to others as it appeared to him. Farther on we pass the little castle of Liebeneck; then comes Boppard, where, in feudal times, once existed an establishment of the Knights Templars. Next we sweep round a great angle or elbow of the river, and there come in sight of a little village, with a Gothic church of the fifteenth century, behind and high above it, the two castles known as "the Brothers," connected with each other by a narrow natural bridge of rock.

These two castles have a legend, as in fact nearly all the Rhine castles have, and half the charm of one's trip consists in having them told to you at the right time, or recalling the half-forgotten story of boyhood piecemeal with some _compagnon de voyage_. The story of these castles is familiar, and is of two brothers loving the same lady, of faithlessness, of jealousy; and finally the lady in the case, with the delightfully German romantic name of Hildegarde, retires to the convent at the foot of the hill--that is the way they always do in these Rhine legends; it brings the convent into the story, and, perhaps, excites a desire on the part of the tourist to see the cell occupied by the fair penitent, without suspecting that the exhibition may prove something more of a sell than he bargained for. Well, the lady retired, the two brothers were reconciled, and lived ever after in one castle, instead of two.

More quaint little villages, other ruined castles! Thurnberg, the "Mouse" tower, looms up, with its square, shattered walls, and round tower, rising from their midst against the sky as we sweep by it; and St. Goar, a conspicuous-looking town, comes in view, with the huge ruins of Rheinfels, three hundred and seventy feet above it, the most magnificent ruin on the river, a second Ehrenbreitstein in strength, and which has laughed one siege of fifteen months to scorn in the thirteenth century, and in 1692 was again defended successfully against an army of twenty-four thousand men, but blown up by the French revolutionary army of 1794. It is now simply a picturesque ruin on its rocky eminence, with the railway track creeping around its base; below the track, nearer the river, winds the carriage-road to the town.

The Mouse, or Maus Tower, which we passed before reaching Rheinfels, was so called by the envious counts of Katzenelnbogen (there's a name to write), who named their own castle, near here, the Cat (Katz); but the story goes that the mouse and its stout old warrior were more than a match for the cat; in fact, he was so feared in his day that the proverb was reversed, and when the mouse was away the cat would play.

Now we reach the precipitous rocks known as the "Lurlei" crags, towering four hundred and twenty feet above the river, which flows swiftly down their base; and here was where Lurlei, the siren, sat and chanted her songs, which lured fishermen, knights, and sailors to their destruction in the rapids that whirled beneath her lofty and romantic seat. As we passed we heard no siren's song, but our ears were saluted with the shrill whistle of that practical chanter of the advance of civilization, the locomotive, that rushed through a tunnel, piercing the very base of the magic rock, and whirling out of sight with a shriek that made the hills echo like the scream of a demon, leaving an angry puff of smoke issuing from the rocky orifice, as if the fiend had vanished from the surface to the centre.

Now we pass Oberwesel, with its romantic ravines, picturesque vineyards, and old ruins of Castle Schönburg; farther on, on the opposite bank, the grand old castle of Gutenfels stands guard over the town beneath it; then comes that little hexagonal castle, or stone fortification, on an island, looking as though anchored in mid stream, known as the Pfalz; it was erected in the thirteenth century, as a toll-house for exacting tribute, and has served, if not as a prison, as a place of royal confinement--tradition being that the Countesses Palatine remained here during their accouchements. We wind round a point, and the Castle of Stahleck, once the principal residence of the Counts Palatine, makes its appearance; then come the ruins of Fürstenburg, once the stronghold of an old robber, who was bold enough to fire into the emperor's boat that refused to pay toll as it passed; the stream now narrows perceptibly, and a little slender tower, perched like a sentinel on watch on its walls, at a narrow ravine, attracts attention; it is Sooneck, and was a robbers' stronghold in the eleventh century.

Now we sweep round another bend in the river, and come in sight of the lofty pinnacles, turrets, and towers of the beautiful Castle of Rheinstein, two hundred and fifty feet above the river, completely restored, the banner floating in the breeze from its topmost tower, and a basket suspended upon an iron crane from one of the towers towards the river; the whole shows the tourist just how these old strongholds used to look during the middle ages, and a party of ladies, far up in a little ivy-clad bower, at an angle of the castle terrace, exchanged greetings with us in handkerchief wavings as we passed.

Now we come to Ehrenfels, and the vineyards where the Rüdesheimer grapes are raised; these vineyards are arrayed in terraces, one above the other, and the banks all along on the side of the hill, upheld by arches of masonry, and brick and stone supports, put up apparently to keep the earth in place, and afford more space for the vines from which the celebrated vintage is obtained. At this point, on a rock, in mid stream, stands the well-known Mouse Tower, celebrated in Southey's legend as the retreat of Bishop Hatto, who sought to escape the rats by fleeing to it; but his enemies swam the stream, entered the stronghold, and

"Whetted their teeth against the stones, And then they picked the bishop's bones."

Bingen would never have attracted so much attention from Americans and Englishmen if the Hon. Mrs. Norton, I think it was, had not written her beautiful poem of the dying soldier, who was a native of the place, and whose last words to the comrade who knelt by his side on the field of battle, were his memories of "Sweet Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine," and sent messages home to his friends who lived at

"Bingen on the Rhine."

For no other reason than because they had read this poem and wished to see Bingen, that had been so charmingly written about, did a party of Americans land here; and in truth the little town was prettily situated, with a little river at one side of it, the Nahe, flowing into the Rhine, spanned by an old arched bridge, while its slender spires and white houses look forth upon the swift-flowing river, divided by the little island bearing the Mouse Tower, and upon the steep slopes of vineyards on the other side of the Rhine, backed by the old Castle of Ehrenfels.

After leaving Bingen we come to the square-looking old Castle of Bromserburg, its shattered turrets green with vines and weeds, and farther on, other old ruins, "whose names I noted not," except one little church, that stood out like a white toy, away up on a sharp point of the hills; and then I was sorry I attempted to note it, for the Prussian, who spoke English, was compelled to write the name for me, it being an absolute impossibility for me to do so correctly, according to the pronunciation of the country; so I will leave Rochuscapelle, and the bright-looking little villages that we pass, for the old castle, Johannisberg, which greets our view on its vine-clad eminence, three hundred and forty feet above the river.

The vineyards which circle round and about the great hill surmounted by this castle are said to cover forty acres of ground, and it is here that the celebrated _Jo-hannis-bagger_--as they pronounce it--wine is made.

This Johannisberg vineyard is situated in the district, about fifteen miles in length, celebrated as producing the finest wines of the Rhine. There are Rudesheim, Hosheim, Hattenheim, the Steinberger, Graffenberg, and many other "heims" and "bergs," whose mellowness and flavor, which is more or less injured by travel, may be enjoyed here by wine-drinkers, in their perfection, at a comparatively moderate cost.

Now we pass two or three islands, with unpronounceable names, more white-walled towns, backed by castle ruins, or handsome country residences and well-kept vineyards, with their serried rows of vines rising terrace above terrace on the hill-sides. Here come the ancient, quaint little village of Niederwalluf, known in record as far back as the year 770, Schierstein embosomed in trees, and Biebrich with its ducal palace, splendid garden, and park; we glide between two islands, and come in sight of the triple line of fortifications and cathedral steeples of Mayence.

Mayence, which claims to be the place where the Emperor Constantine saw his vision of the cross, which is the strongest fortress in the German confederation, which was founded B. C. 14 by the Romans, and where they show you the remains of a Roman acqueduct, a Roman burial-ground, and the site of the Roman camp, and, in the walls of the citadel, a monument erected by two of the Roman legions in honor of their commander-in-chief, Drusus, more than eighteen hundred years ago, an aged-looking, gray, circular tower, forty feet in height,--Mayence, with its bridge of boats, two thousand two hundred and twenty feet in length, and Mayence, which is the end of our journey up the Rhine.

We expected, from travellers' stories, to have been disappointed with the Rhine, and were--favorably disappointed. The succession of natural beauties of its scenery, the historic interest attached to almost every foot of the course between Cologne and Mayence, the novelty to American eyes of the romantic ruins that crown the picturesque heights, the smiling vineyards, quaint little towns, odd churches, prim watch-towers, Gothic cathedrals, white-walled cities, and boat-bridges, of course lend a charm to this beautiful river, and, notwithstanding my national pride, I cannot agree with some of my countrymen, who assert that the Hudson River is as rich in picturesque scenery as the Rhine, "leaving the castles out." The river scenery in America, that in character most resembles that of the Rhine, is the Upper Mississippi, between Prairie du Chien and St. Paul, and there some of the remarkable natural formations of the limestone bluffs supply the place of the Rhine castles; but where that river widens out into Lake Pepin, the comparison, of course, ceases.

The Rhine is a river of romance. A sail up the Rhine is something to be enjoyed by a student, a tourist who has "read up," a lover of travel who has longed to wander amid the scenes he has pored over on the pages of books, gazed at in pictures and engravings, and wondered if the reality could possibly be equal to the counterfeit presentment; and to such it will be as it was to us,--

"A thing of beauty, _and_ a joy forever."

We rambled around Mayence, visited its filthy market-place, and its old cathedral, founded in the tenth century, which has felt the stern vicissitudes of war quite severely, serving at different periods as a garrison for troops, a hay and provision magazine, &c. In the interior are quite a number of monuments of German electors, with tongue-puzzling names, and a tablet to the memory of one of Charlemagne's wives; and in the Chapter-house is a beautiful sculpture by Schwanthaler, representing a female figure decorating a sarcophagus with a wreath; a monument, erected by the ladies of Mayence in 1842, in memory of a certain holy minstrel, who sang of piety and woman's virtue some time in the early part of the fourteenth century. Not far from the cathedral is Guttenberg Square, where we saw Thorwaldsen's statue of Guttenberg, representing him as an old man, with the long, flowing, philosopher-looking gown, or robe, full beard, and skull-cap, with some of his precious volumes under his arm, and upon the pedestal of the monument were bass-reliefs representing scenes in his life. A bronze statue of Schiller adorns another square here.

After Mayence, we found ourselves taking a two hours' ride to Wiesbaden, one of the oldest watering-places in Germany, and for gambling second only to Baden-Baden. Here we found fine rooms at the Hotel Victoria, and the polite landlord, Herr Holzapfel, with a desire to facilitate the enjoyment of the tourist, very graciously presented me with a handsome little local guide-book, bearing the astounding title, "_Fremdenfuhrer fur Wiesbaden und seine Umgebung_," and its imprint informed me, "_Im Auftrage des Verfchönerungsvereins herausgegeven._"

Fancy an individual, unacquainted with the German tongue, with this lucid little guide, printed in small German text, to aid him in seeing the sights! However, I thanked the landlord, and pocketed the guide-book as one of the curiosities of the place. Our first walk was to the chief attraction here to all visitors, the great gaming-house known as the Cursaal,--which is suggestive of the more appropriate title Curse-all,--where the spacious and elegant gaming-saloons, that have been described so often, were open for play from eleven A. M. to eleven P. M., and which, during the season, are thronged with players at the roulette and _rouge-et-noir_ tables. The central figure of attraction to strangers, when we were there, was the old Duchess of Homburg, who was each day wheeled in a chair to the table by her servant, and gambled away furiously, not scrupling a malediction when she lost heavily, or caring to conceal the eager gratification that played upon her wrinkled features, or made the gold rattle in her trembling and eager clutch, when she won.

This gaming-hall is furnished with elegant dining, ball, and reading-rooms, and adjoining the building is an extensive and elegantly laid out park and pleasure-ground, where a fine band play during the afternoon, and throngs frequent its delightful alleys, walks, and arbors. All these are free to the visitor; and sometimes, in the evening, the band plays in the ball-room, and gayly-dressed crowds are whirling about in German waltzes and galops, and couples, for a rest now and then, will stroll into the adjacent lofty saloons of play, the silence of which is in striking contrast with the ball-room clatter without. Here the only loud words spoken are those of the managers of the table, which, at regular intervals, rise above the subdued hum and the musical rattle of gold and silver, or its clink against the croupier's rake, as they sweep in the stakes from every part of the table to the insatiate maw of the bank, with the familiar and oft-repeated formula of,--

"_Faites votre jeu, messieurs._"

"_Le jeu, est-il fait?_"

"_Rien ne va plus._"

(Make your game, gentlemen. Is the game made? Nothing more goes). Or, at the roulette table, audible announcement of the numbers, and color which wins, determined by the ball in the revolving wheel.

Leaving Wiesbaden, its gamesters, and its mineral spring, the water of which tasted very much like a warm decoction of salt and water, we sped on to Frankfort-on-the-Main. Here we rode through beautiful streets, upon each side of which were broad double houses, surrounded by elegant gardens. Here is the monument of Guttenberg, consisting of the three figures of Guttenberg, Fust and Schöffer, beneath which, on the ornamental work, are likenesses of celebrated printers, and grouped around the monument are figures of Theology, Poetry, History, and Industry.

Here we saw the house in which Goethe was born, and rode down through the _Judengasse_, or Jews Street. The quarter inhabited by the Jews is a curious old place, some parts too narrow to permit two vehicles passing each other; the unpainted, high, quaint, and solid old wooden houses, totally black with age, stores in the lower stories for the sale of second-hand clothes, and every species of cheap and second-hand merchandise; on all sides were troops and troops of children, with sparkling black eyes, and the unmistakable Jewish nose. The houses had antique carved wood door-posts to deep, dark entries, in which were deeply-worn stairs, that lead away up to the overhanging stories above; and in the entry of one of the blackest and most aged of these old structures yawned a huge trap-door, occupying more than half the space from the threshold to the stair. Peeping down the aperture, left where the half leaf had been raised by its old-fashioned iron ring, I could see nothing but blackness, and imagine how some wealthy Hebrew might have made this the drawbridge to his citadel, so that the robber, who gained access beyond the bolts and chains that guarded the portal, would, with a step, be precipitated into the depths below. An iron ring, a trap-door, and old house in the Jews' quarter--what an amount of capital or material for a sensational story-writer in a cheap publication!

Here, in the Jews' quarter, we were shown the house in which Rothschild was born,--Rochid they call the name here,--and just as we were emerging from the narrow, gloomy, and dirty passages of this quarter, my eye caught a familiar object in the little grated window of a sort of shop or office. I looked a second time, and there, the central figure amid a straggling display of bank notes of different nationalities, was a five-hundred dollar United States five-twenty bond, a part of the stock in trade of a Jew exchange and money broker, who, notwithstanding the unpretending appearance of his shop, which looked like a prison cell with the outside shutter down from the grated window, would probably have been able to furnish a purchaser ten times the amount on demand if he required it.

In striking contrast to the Judengasse is the Ziel, the finest street in Frankfort, filled with elegant shops and houses. The Jews in Frankfort were so tyrannically treated, that they founded the Jews Street themselves in 1462, and lived exclusively in that quarter of the city till the year 1806, and in olden times, on Sundays and holidays, the entrances to this quarter were closed with gates and bars, and any Jew who ventured into any other part of the city incurred a heavy penalty. Now, midway between Judengasse and the Ziel rise the business offices of the Rothschilds, that opulent family to whom even the proudest in their hours of need would fain doff their caps for favors; and hard by the progress of toleration is marked by a fine new synagogue, built in the Oriental style in 1855.

We rode to the Hessian Monument, as it is called, near one of the city gates; it consists of huge masses of rock heaped together, upon which stands a pillar bearing a sword, helmet, and ram's head, and on the sides are bronze tablets with the names of the Hessians who fell on that spot in 1792. The Latin inscription informs the reader that the monument was erected by Frederick William, King of Prussia, who was an admiring witness of their bravery.

When we rattled over the pavements of the city of Heidelberg, on our way to the Prince Charles Hotel, I looked on all sides for groups and bands of the celebrated students who figure so prominently in novels and stories, and half expected to meet a string of six, arm in arm, walking in the middle of the streets, smoking big meerschaums, and wearing queer-cut clothes and ornamental caps, or singing uproarious college songs. Or I might encounter several devil-may-care fellows, each bearing a scar upon some part of his face, the result of one of those noted Heidelberg duels the story-writers tell of. But either the story-tellers had romanced most magnificently, or we had arrived at a time of day--which we afterwards found to be the case--when the students were engaged in their favorite pastime of swilling lager beer, in the dense atmosphere of tobacco smoke, from scores of pipes, in their favorite coffee-house; for we only met a snuffy old professor in a black velvet skull-cap and big round spectacles, and an occasional very proper-looking young man, save one whose scarlet embroidered cap gave him the appearance of a member of an American base-ball club.

Some forward Americans had gone before us, and secured the remaining rooms in the Prince Charles, which were next the roof; so we were driven to the Adler (eagle), on the same square, an enclosure known as the Cornmarkt, where we were admirably served. Our apartments looked out upon the curious old square with its fountain in the middle, to and from which women went and came all day long, and bore off water in jars, pails, and tubs, some poising a heavy wash-tub full upon their heads, and walking off with a steady gait under the burden. Overlooking the little square, rose the famous Heidelberg Castle, three hundred feet above us; and we could see a steep foot-path leading to it, known as the Burgweg (castle-way), which commenced on the side of the square opposite our hotel.

Heidelberg is charmingly situated on the River Neckar, is rich in historical associations, and, as all readers are aware, is attractive to the tourist chiefly from its university, and its castle, which is one of the last creations of the old castle-builders, and seems in its style to be something between a stronghold and a chateau, a palace and a fortification. It certainly is a most imposing and magnificent ruin, with its lofty turrets, great round towers, terraces, arched gateways, and still splendid court-yards and grounds; the splendor of the building and beauty of its situation induce one enthusiastic guide-book to style it "the Alhambra of the Germans."

A good, comfortable night's rest at the Eagle Hotel prepared us for the ascent next morning by the steep pathway and steps that led up to it from the Corn Market; up we go, and after an ascent of about fifteen minutes, we pass through a massive arch-way, known as Frederic IV.'s building, and stand in the great court-yard of the castle.

The portion of the buildings fronting on this grand enclosure are elegantly carved and decorated with arcades and life-size sculptures; here is one known as Rudolf's building, the oldest part of the castle, a Gothic structure, then Rupprecht's building, founded in the year 1400, by Rupprecht III., with beautiful Gothic windows, over which are the architect's arms, three small shields upon an escutcheon. This carving is taken by many to be some sort of a masonic mark, but is nothing of the kind, but according to a little local guide, a coat of arms common to all German artists; and an interesting legend as to its origin is told, which is to the effect that one day the Emperor Charles V. visited Holbein, the artist, and found him busy painting at the top of a high scaffolding; the emperor signed to the artist not to disturb himself, and at the same time motioned to one of his suite to steady the tottering ladder; the young noble, however, thinking it beneath his dignity to render such menial service to an artist, pretended not to understand the emperor, who thereupon advanced and steadied it himself, and commanded that from that time the German artists should be reckoned among the nobility of the empire, and their coat of arms should be such as Holbein decided upon. The artist then made choice of three small uniform silver shields on a blue field.

Then we have other beautiful buildings fronting on the great court-yard, and named after their builders, who at different periods made their contributions of architectural ornament to this romantic old pile. One of the most gorgeous is that known as Otto Heinrich's building, finished in 1559, restored twice,--the last time in 1659, and finally destroyed in 1764,--but the splendid front remains standing, and even now, in its

## partially ruined condition, excites admiration, with its splendid

façade, rich to prodigality with statues, carvings, and decorations. Ludwig's building is another, into which we can go and see the great kitchen, with its huge fireplace and great hearth in the middle, where, on festal occasions, whole oxen were roasted.

Near here is the castle well, fifty-four feet deep, with four pillars taken from Charlemagne's palace, to support its canopy, the pillars being those sent to Charlemagne by Rome for his royal edifice. Then comes Frederick's building, founded by Frederick IV. in 1601, rich in statues and sculpture, and under it a chapel, over the portal of which is inscribed, in Latin, the words of the Psalmist,--

"This is the gate of the Lord; The righteous shall enter into it."

But we are bewildered with the different façades, towers, fronts, and buildings that succeed each other in this, what we now find to be a sort of agglomeration of castles, and so pass out to the great stone terrace or platform that looks down upon the town and the valley below.

These old castle-builders did have an eye for the beautiful; and a grand point for observation is this great terrace. Only fancy a broad stone platform, seventy or eighty feet long by thirty feet wide, midway up the front wall of an elegant castle, rich in architectural beauty, the terrace itself with heavy cut stone rails, vases, seats, and ornamental stone bowers at the corners, while spread out far below and before the spectator lies one of the loveliest landscape views that can be imagined. We can look right into the streets of the town directly below us; beyond is the winding River Neckar, with its beautiful arched bridge, and beyond that a vine-clad height known as the Holy Mountain; on one side is the lovely valley of the Neckar, romantically and luxuriously beautiful as it stretches away in the distance. The town of Heidelberg itself is squeezed in between the castle hill and the River Neckar, which widens out below the town, and finally unites with the Rhine, which we see in the distance, and beyond it blue mountains, binding in the distant horizon, frame in the charming picture.

I cannot, of course, describe, in the limits of a sketch, the massiveness, vast extent, and splendor of this castle, the production of three centuries,--commenced when the crusades were at their height, and not finished till long after cannon were in use; so that we mark the progress and changes of architecture in each century, and cannot but feel that, in some respects, the builders of old times were in advance of those of the present day. One might stay here weeks, and enjoy the romantic scenery of the vicinity and the never-ending new discoveries which he makes in this picturesque old ruin. In 1689 the French captured the place and undertook to blow up the principal round tower; it was so solidly and compactly built, however, that the enormous mass of powder they placed under it, instead of lifting the great cylinder into the air to fall back a heap of ruins, only broke off a third part of it, which toppled over entire in one solid chunk, and it lies as it fell, broken off from the main body as if by the stroke of a gigantic mallet, and exposes the wall of close-knit masonry _twenty feet in thickness_.

We wander through halls, court-yards, vaulted passages, deep dungeons, and lofty banquet halls, into round and square towers; cross a regular broad old drawbridge wide enough for a troop of mail-clad knights to ride out from the great arched entrance, which stands in good preservation, with its turrets and posts for warders and guards, and there is the huge, deep castle moat and all, just as we have read about them, or seen them illustrated in poetic fictions.

We pass out upon a sort of long spur or outwork from the castle--a kind of outer battery, which is styled the great terrace, and was built in 1615--a charming promenade, upon which is a mall, shaded by trees, and from which we get another picturesque view of the scene below, and of the castle itself.

But we must not leave Heidelberg Castle without seeing the Great Tun; and so we pay our kreutzers to the little maid who acts as guide, and descend below, to the cellars of the famous wine-bibbers of old. We came to a cellar in which there was a big barrel indeed, as it held two hundred hogsheads of wine; but this not coming up to the expectations of some of the party, there were expressions of dissatisfaction, until our guide informed us that this was only the front cellar, where they used to keep twelve _little_ barrels of this size, and pointed out the raised platforms upon which they used to stand; but the _great_ barrel was in the back cellar. So we followed in, and found a big barrel indeed, large as a two-story house, thirty-two feet long and twenty-six feet high. It holds eight hundred hogsheads of the vinous fluid, and its contents fill two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles. The diameter of the heads of this big barrel is twenty-two feet, and the circumference of the centre two hundred and thirty-one feet. The bung-hole of this great cask, however, seems more out of proportion than an elephant's eye, for it measured scarcely four inches in diameter. Steps lead around the tun, and up to its top, upon which is laid a platform, on which a cotillon has been danced by enthusiastic visitors. Remember, this is down cellar. If they keep barrels of this kind _down cellar_, the reader may imagine the size of the house above, and, perhaps, the drinking capacities of those who used to inhabit it.

A beautiful carriage road, passing the ruined walls, and leaving them below, leads up to a pretty _chalet_, three hundred feet above the castle; and here, one day, we halted on the rocky platform, and gladdened the heart of the landlord by an order for lunch for the party, which was spread for us in the garden, from which we could look down into the ruins of the old castle, upon the town below, and the winding river. We were not permitted to enjoy our _al fresco_ repast, for a thunder storm came rolling up the valley, and we were hustled in doors, where, however, we found the host was prepared for such emergencies, as our viands were spread out in an apartment with a glass side, looking towards the valley, so that we sat there, and watched the great gusts sweep up the river, and the rain come swirling down in sheets of rattling drops, amid the peals of thunder that echoed and reverberated between the hills, and finally swept past with the shower, angrily muttering in the distance, as though the spirits of the Hartz Mountains and Black Forest were retiring before the fairies of the valley, who went sweeping after them in great clouds of shining mist, overarched by a gorgeous rainbow.

We enjoyed the prospect from this place, which was the site of the ancient castle, traces of which still remain, and then took carriage for the Königsstuhl, or King's Seat, a round tower far above us. A ride of about an hour through the dripping woods, with the vegetation bright and fresh from the recent shower, brought us to this elevation, which is eight hundred and fifty feet higher than the castle, and seventeen hundred and fifty feet above the level of the sea.

Upon the summit of the King's Seat, a round stone tower, ninety feet in height, is erected, which we ascended, and were rewarded with a still more extensive view than any we had previously had of the surrounding country. In one direction is the dark and sombre foliage of the Black Forest; in another, the picturesque mountains and valleys of the Odenwald; in another, we look down upon the old castle and town far beneath, and see the River Rhine winding away off through the landscape, like a crinkled ribbon of steel; there are the Hartz Mountains, of which we have read so many old German legends, in which wehr wolves, and mysterious huntsmen, who wound magic horns, figured. Far in the distance, beyond the dark-green forests, we descry, with our field-glass, the cathedral spire of Strasburg. Turn whichever way we may, the view is superb, and the hill is indeed a kingly seat, for it commands as magnificent a prospect as king could wish to look upon.

Heidelberg is a paradise of pipes--so I thought till I reached Vienna; but meerschaums of splendid carving and quality are sold here at prices so low, in comparison with what they cost in America, that the temptation to smokers to lay in a stock is almost irresistible. Malacca joint canes, with elegantly carved pure ivory handles, are another article that is marvellously cheap here, twenty francs (four dollars, gold) purchasing the best and most elaborate patterns, the grips or handles of which were wrought into figures of fruit, flowers, wreaths, and heads of birds and animals. The shop windows held many pictures of students' clubs,--some clubs famed for the number of glasses of beer their members could guzzle, he being elected president who could hold the most of that liquid--in fact, who made the biggest beer barrel of himself. In other windows were displayed huge horns, with a silver cup, and a tall mug, of huge capacity, said to represent the draught of the presidents of two rival clubs,--supposed to be what they could swill at a single pull.

The beer halls frequented by the students are similar to the great lager beer saloons in this country; and, in the evening, the tables are thronged with students, talking, discussing questions, playing dominoes, smoking, and drinking. There is a tremendous clatter of voices, and the smoke is so thick--well, none but Germans and Spaniards could live in such a dense cloud.

The University of Heidelberg, which is the oldest in Germany, I think was founded in 1386. The university buildings--which are very old, some of them erected in 1693--are plain and unpretending in their appearance. The great library here contains over two hundred thousand volumes, and many curious manuscripts, which we did not inspect, as they are of interest chiefly to scientific scholars, and only accessible between the hours of ten and twelve in the forenoon. There is but little in the town of Heidelberg itself to interest the tourist. The great attraction is the noble old castle, and the romantic highlands about it.

A three hours' ride from Heidelberg, and we are at Baden-Baden, that gayest of the gay watering-places on the continent. We are driven to our hotel, the Hotel de l'Europe, a most charming house, large, clean, and splendidly kept by hosts who thoroughly know their business, and entirely free from any of the extortions, swindles, and sharp practices which disgrace our Saratoga and Newport hotels. Indeed, everything in the hotels in Baden-Baden is so comfortable to the tourist, so pleasant, and even luxurious, and at such comparatively moderate cost, that one is half inclined to think the proprietors of them may be interested in the gambling bank, and have an object in making their houses too agreeable to leave with a short visit. There are three proprietors to this hotel; and always one, and generally two, are in constant attendance in the lower halls and at the table d'hote, to attend personally to their guests, to answer all questions, and, in fact, to serve them in every way possible, which, it is but justice to say, is done in the most unexceptionable manner.

The Hotel de l'Europe is wide, deep, and cool; the broad staircase in the centre is ornamented with pretty flowers in pots, and running and trailing plants twining about the balusters, all the way up to the second story. Directly beneath my window is a beautiful strip of flower-garden, and the fresh air comes in at the casement laden with the odors of roses, carnation pinks, honeysuckles, and a score of other beautiful flowers, which are blooming in profusion. Beyond this little garden, say twenty or thirty feet from the hotel, runs the little River Oos, over a smooth-paved, artificial bed of stone--a swift, clear, sparkling little stream, of scarce three feet deep, and its width of not more than a score, spanned by little rustic bridges, connecting the grounds of the different hotels that are strung along its banks with the opposite shore, which is the broad, high road, along which the numerous gay equipages which frequent watering-places are continually passing.

Beyond the road, beneath shady trees, is the Trink Halle, or, as the English have dubbed the place, the pump-room, probably because there is no pump there, except the natural one of the springs, whose mineral waters are conducted into ornamental fountains, which the drinkers and bathers visit at seven A. M., to the inspiriting and lively music of an excellent band. This pump-room is a long, one-story building, two hundred and seventy feet long and thirty-six wide, the façade resting on sixteen Corinthian pillars. Beneath the façade, and upon large panels of the building behind the colonnade of pillars, are fourteen great frescoes, executed by an artist named Götzenbreger, and representing pictorially some of those wild legends and weird stories of magic and enchantment for which Germany is so noted.

Baden, be it remembered, lies at the entrance of the celebrated Black Forest, popularly inhabited by various powerful enchanters, gnomes, dwarfs, and sprites. These great pictures were all handsomely executed, but the weather, to which they are partially exposed, is rapidly fading away their rich tints. There was one, representing a beautiful, light-haired, blue-eyed German girl, with but a light drapery flowing around her shapely limbs as she walked down to a mountain stream with her arm on the neck of a snow-white stag: an entranced huntsman knelt upon the opposite bank, gazing at this lovely vision; and while he gazed, one busy gnome was twisting a tough bramble about his ankle, another huge-headed fellow was reaching out from beneath a rock, and severing his bow-string, while a third, a sturdy, belted and hooded dwarf, was robbing his quiver of its arrows: all around, the rocks looked out in curious, wild, and grotesque faces; they leered from the crags, grinned from pebbles in the water, or frowned awfully from the great crags above the hunter, who, dazzled by the enchantress, sees nothing of this frightful scene, which is like the figures of a troubled dream--thoroughly phantasmagoric and German. Another picture shows a brave knight just on the point of espousing a weird lady before an abbot, the satanic glare of whose eyes betrays his infernal origin; cock-crow has evidently prevented these nuptials, as at one side chanticleer is represented vigorously sounding his clarion, and in the foreground lies another figure of the same knight in a deep sleep. Other scenes represent encounters of shepherds with beautiful water-sprites or Undines of the mountain lakes and rivers, knights at enchanted castles, and sprites in ruined churches, each one being the pictorial representation of some well-known legend of the vicinity.

We arrived at Baden on Saturday, after dark, and I was roused Sunday morning to look out upon the scene I have described, by the music of a magnificent band, which commenced with the grand hymn of Old Hundred; then a piece from Handel; next came the grand Wedding March of Mendelssohn; and we looked from our windows to see throngs of people promenading up and down the piazza in front of the Trink Halle, to the inspiriting harmony, or coming in every direction from the different hotels and _pensions_, or boarding-houses, for their morning drink of spring-water. Gradually the music assumed a livelier character, till it wound up with sprightly quadrilles and a lively polka, played with a spirit that would almost have set an anchorite in a dancing fever.

A fit illustration was this of the regard for the Sabbath in this headquarters of the enemy of man, where, at noon, the great doors of the gambling-house swung open, and the _rouge-et-noir_ and roulette tables were at once thronged with players, without intermission, till midnight.

This great gaming-house, which has been so often described, is styled the Conversation-haus, and is beautifully fitted up with drawing-rooms, lofty and elegant ball-room, with each end opening out into magnificent gardens, that are rich in parterres of flowers, shady alleys, beautiful trees, fountains, and statues. During the afternoon and evening these gardens are thronged, the magnificent band plays the choicest of music, elegantly-dressed people saunter amid the trees and flowers, or sit at little tables and sip light wines, eat ices, and chat; you hear German, French, English, and Italian amid the clatter of voices in any momentary lull of the music; you may order your ice-cream in any of these languages, and a waiter is at hand to understand and serve you; you may spend the whole day in this beautiful spot, enjoy music that you gladly pay a concert price at home to hear, without a penny expense, or even the remotest hint for remuneration from any servant, except it be for the refreshments you order--for the proprietor of the gaming establishment gladly defrays all the expenses, for the privilege he enjoys exclusively, and he pays besides the sum of sixty thousand dollars per annum; so we enjoy it somewhat freely, although we cannot help reflecting, however, that those who really bear the expense are the victims insnared in the glittering and alluring net which they themselves help to weave.

From the flutter of passing butterflies of fashion, the clatter of tongues, the moving throng, and rich strains of music, we pass through the noiselessly swinging doors that admit us to the almost hushed inner court of the votaries of chance. Here, as at Wiesbaden, the only voices above a subdued tone are those of the dealers, with their regular formula of expression, while ever and anon, following the rattle of the roulette wheel, comes the clink of the gold and silver which the presiding high priests of Mammon rake into the clutches of the bank. People of every grade, nation, and profession jostle each other at these tables. Here all meet on a common level, and rank is not recognized. The only rank here is the guinea-stamp, and that, if the possessor conduct himself in an orderly manner, insures prince and peasant an equal chance at the tables. The language used is French.

I have seen beautiful young ladies, scarce turned nineteen, seated here next their young husbands, with whom they were making their bridal tour, jostled by the elegant Parisian member of the demi-monde, whose noble "friend" hands her a thousand francs to enjoy herself with for a while; young students, trembling, eager old men; raw Americans, taking a "flyer;" and sometimes astonishing the group by the magnitude of their bets; old women, Russian counts, who commence by getting several notes changed into a big pile of gold, which steadily diminishes beneath the assaults they make on the bank, with as little effect as raw infantry charging against a fortified breastwork; nay, I even saw the sallow countenance of a Turk, looking on from beneath his fez cap, while its owner fumbled uneasily at his girdle till he had detached his purse, and gratified his curiosity by losing a few gold pieces; professional gamblers, sharpers, women of uncertain character; old, young, and middle-aged, all sacrificing at the same shrine.

"But some win?"

Yes, and the very ones whose success is least expected. Old habitués will study the combination of figures for weeks, and keep a record of the numbers, and the order in which they turn up, and then, having, by mathematical certainty, made sure of lucky numbers, stake--and lose. The croupiers go on regularly, mechanically, and, unmoved by success or loss, or whatever takes place about them, they rake in heavy stakes, and pay out huge losses, without moving a muscle of their countenances, or betraying the least emotion, raking in a huge stake while I was watching the game that made even the old habitués glare at the player, without even so much as a glance at him, and paying out a big loss with only the simple dialogue,--

"_Billets du banque?_"

"_Non._"

And a dozen rouleaux of twenty-franc pieces were pushed over to the winner.

I saw one of these unexpected winners, in the person of a young Heidelberg student, who commenced with a couple of Napoleons (forty francs). He won; doubled his stake, won again; doubled, and won again; then he took up the pile of gold, and placed two double Napoleons (eighty francs) on a single number; it came up, and the bank paid him the amount won, which was fifteen or twenty times the amount of his stake; he put this whole heap on _rouge_ (red), and the ball fell in rouge, and he won, and the amount was doubled; he moved the increased heap to _noir_ (black), and won again! He pulled the heap of loose gold, rouleaux, and notes towards him; players looked up, an obsequious servant brought a chair for him to sit down, and two or three friends gathered at his back; he crammed gold and notes--all but five twenty-franc pieces--promiscuously into his pantaloons pocket, bet those five on the red, won; moved the ten to the black, won again; the twenty to another figure, and won thrice his stake.

By this time other players began to follow him in their bets; he put forty francs on a single number, and half a dozen players crowded their bets on to the same.

It lost.

Nothing daunted, they followed him, and rained down their Napoleons upon the black; this time they were rewarded; black won.

The student pocketed his heap of gold again, all except five pieces, and then with that capital bet again; lost three of the five; tried a single number with one Napoleon, lost, of course; put the other on the black, won again; balanced the two pieces on his fingers for a moment, while half a dozen players were watching him, and then put one on the black again, which in an instant was almost obscured by the thick plating of metal that followed the lead of his stake from other players.

"_Rouge, dix-huit._"

Down came the croupier's rake, and away rattled the glittering heap towards the banker, while the student smilingly balanced his remaining Napoleon in a sort of uncertain manner on his forefinger, then turned and whispered a word to his friends, rose and tossed the twenty francs magnificently to the servant who had handed him a chair, and who was still behind him, and then, with bulging pockets, walked away.

Baden is beautifully situated, and its scenery and surroundings charming. A broad, well-kept, and shady avenue commences opposite our hotel, and affords a splendid drive of over two miles, and, like the drive at Newport, is frequented by gay equipages during the fashionable season. Then there are the old and new castles above the town, reached by winding and romantic roads, and from the summit of the former a fine view of the valley of the Rhine, and the beautiful valley of Baden, with its great hotels, elegant grounds, and pretty villas.

The bazaar, a sort of open-air fair of booths, in a pleasant grove, not far from the grounds of the Conversation-haus, is another novelty, and an attractive one to foreigners; for here is a collection of all those miscellaneous trinkets that tourists load themselves down with, such as carved wood of Switzerland, garnets from Prague, worsted work from Berlin, shaded photographs from Munich, all sorts and kinds of sleeve-buttons, breast-pins, shawl-pins, ivory carvings, ribbons, crystals from the Alps, leather work from Vienna, and a thousand and one curious and pretty articles to tempt the taste of purchasers.

We left the beautiful Hotel de l'Europe, with its pleasant rooms, elegant _table d'hote_, and prompt attention, with regret, for two reasons: one, that it was so agreeable a place of rest; and the other, that the price, at this most expensive of the hotels, with all its privileges, was less than two dollars per diem.

Up and away, for we must see the grand old Cathedral of Strasburg--a two hours' journey; and here we are, at the magnificent portal of this edifice, founded by old King Clovis, in 510. The carvings above the portal are magnificent. Here are equestrian statues of Clovis, Dagobert, and other old worthies, elegantly wrought, amid a wealth of rich tracery and carving; but as the spectator looks up, up, up, at the magnificent cathedral tower and spire, soaring away into the air till it seems to have a needle-like sharpness, he gets almost dizzy with gazing; and, upon being informed that the ascent of this highest spire in the world is not unattended with danger, of coarse all Americans are seized with an uncontrollable desire to ascend it; and so were we.

So we took a look at the splendid front, with the two great square towers, something after the style of those of York Minster or Westminster Abbey, with a huge rose window between them; the elegant Gothic architecture of arches, pillars, and points; the grand, arched portal, crowded, every inch of it, with carving and statues; and finally, up again at the light steeple, which, from one of the square towers, rose into the air with such grace and boldness.

We enter direct from the street, pay the custodian at the foot of a flight of stairs of easy ascent, and, ladies and all, begin the climb-up. We go till we have trodden over three hundred and thirty stairs, and find ourselves two hundred and thirty feet above the street, upon a place called the platform. Here are several rooms, and a custodian lives up here, who acts as a watchman for fires, has general charge of the place, keeps a visitors' register, and sells stereoscopic views. The panoramic view from here is superb, and this point, which is about two thirds of the way up, is as high as ladies generally ascend; for the remainder of the ascent, which is by circular staircases on four sides of the tower, requires some nerve and steadiness of head, the masonry being of open-work, with the apertures nearly large enough for the body to pass through, while the staircases, which are winding and narrow, are likely to provoke an attack of giddiness. I could compare the ascent to nothing but an ant climbing a corkscrew. Every turn brought us to these great wrought openings, which, from the ground, appeared like delicate lacework, and which seemed to give one the feeling, as he went round and round, as if he were swinging and swaying in the network between heaven and earth; and the wind, which pipes, whistles, rushes, roars, and sighs, in every variety of tone, and apparently from every point of the compass, owing to the innumerable and different-shaped openings, adds to this illusion.

Breathless, we reach a circular gallery running round outside, and at the top of the square part of the steeple, and pause, clinging to the stone-work of the balustrade to look at the fine view, which takes in Baden, the Black Forest, the Rhine, and the chain of the Jura, in the distance.

Still higher! Here we are at the base of a pyramid of light, ornamental turrets, which gradually converge towards a point, and support the "lantern" above us. The winding staircases in these turrets were also narrow, and through open stone-work, as before, till you reach the lantern, an enclosed observatory. Higher up is the "crown" which, as the steps leading to it are outside, and with no other protection than the wall to which they were fastened, we did not care to attempt. The total height of this lofty spire is four hundred and sixty-eight feet.

The descent through the open-work spire to the platform where the ladies were left was far more trying to the nerves than the ascent. In ascending, one is continually looking up, and the open spaces in the stone-work have the appearance of passages through which you are to pass, but continually avoid by the winding of the staircase; but in descending, the gaze being directed downward, you have the vast height continually before the view; the huge apertures, which appear at your very feet at every turn, seem like yawning crevasses, through which to shoot your body into the blue distance, or on to the Gothic points and pinnacles that are far, far below. I clung to the rope and iron hand-rails convulsively, and am not ashamed to mention that, more than once, as I came to the more elaborate open-work of this stone filigree, which seemed to dangle between heaven and earth, I closed my eyes, and followed the rail, feeling the way downwards. The descent was made almost in silence, and there was a sigh of relief when the platform was reached, and we joined the ladies again.

The open-work that one encounters in the turrets during the ascent of the spire, although scarcely large enough to admit the passage of a man's body, is so frequent, and so directly on the staircases, which are winding and narrow, as to give the semblance of great danger and insecurity, though comparatively very little exists. The only thing to be feared is giddiness, which might render it difficult for the adventurer to go up or down, after reaching a certain point; and it is, therefore, not advisable for those liable to be affected in that manner to attempt the ascent above the gallery, which really adds very little to the view.

Viewed architecturally, Strasburg Cathedral seems to bring together all the styles or orders of architecture of the middle ages, from the simplicity of the Byzantine to the Gothic, with its arches and excess of superfluous ornament. The façade of the church, and especially the portal, is so elaborately ornamented with carved work as to convey the impression of chasing, instead of sculpture. The figures in bass-relief and carving represent scenes in the life of the Saviour, the saints, and the apostles, besides statues of kings and warriors.

A view of the interior is grand and impressive. Fourteen great cluster pillars uphold the lofty Gothic arched roof, over a hundred feet above the pavement. Midway, and above arches that unite the pillars, is a beautiful Gothic gallery on both sides, and many of the great stained-glass windows, representing scriptural subjects, are of wondrous beauty.

In the nave is a beautiful pulpit, built in 1486, and covered with little statues, delicately carved, and not far from it the organ, up midway between the floor and arched ceiling. The perspective view in these old cathedrals is grand, and figures hardly give one an idea of their vastness. This cathedral is five hundred and twenty-five feet long, one hundred and ninety-five feet in width, and is one of the finest of those wonderful monuments of religious art that rose during the middle ages.

The great astronomical clock here is a curious and wonderful piece of mechanism. Fancy a structure twenty-five or thirty feet in height, and twelve or fifteen broad at the base, having on either side two others nearly of equal height, one being the masonic flight of winding stairs, surmounted by five small emblematical Corinthian pillars, and the other a Gothic pillar, its panellings enriched with figures.

Placed directly in front of the base of the clock is a celestial globe, which, by means of the clock-work, shows the precession of the equinoxes, solar and lunar equations for calculating geocentric ascension and declination of the sun and moon at true times and places. Then in the base itself is an orrery after the Copernican system, by which the mean tropical revolution of each of the planets, visible to the naked eye, is shown. Then comes an ecclesiastical calender, a sort of perpetual almanac, indicating holy, feast, and fast days; above, and about ten feet from the floor, and just beneath the clock-dial, is an opening with a platform in front, upon which come forth figures representing each day of the week, as Apollo on Tuesday, Diana on Monday, &c. Thus a figure in a chariot representing the day appeared at the entrance in the morning, it had reached the centre in full view by noon, and drove gradually out of sight at the close of day. On either side of the clock-dial sat two Cupids, the size of a three-years-old child, one holding a bell and hammer, with which it strikes the hours and quarters, and the other an hour-glass, which it reverses each hour. Above is another dial, with the signs of the zodiac; above that a figure of the moon, showing its different phases, also put in motion by the clock-work; and, still above this, two sets of automaton figures, which appear only at twelve o'clock, at which time there is always a crowd gathered to witness their performance.

We viewed this wondrous piece of mechanism for an hour, and witnessed the following movements: At quarter past eleven the Cupid near the dial struck one; then from one of the upper compartments ran forth the figure of a little child with a wand, and as he passed he struck one on a bell, and ran away (Childhood, the first quarter). Round whirl the wheels of time, and the second quarter chimes; but this time it is Youth that passes, and taps the bell with his shepherd's staff twined with flowers. Again, we reach the third quarter, and Manhood strides forth, the mailed warrior, and smites the sonorous bell, ere he leaves the scene, three sounding blows with his trenchant weapon--the third quarter. Once more, the hands tremble on the point of noon; the fourth quarter is here, and Old Age, a feeble, bent figure, hobbles out, pauses wearily at the bell, raises a crutch, and taps four strokes, and totters away out of sight--"last scene of all," when, as a finale, the skeleton figure of Death, before whom all the four have passed, slowly raises his baton, which the spectator now discovers to be a human bone, and solemnly strikes the hour of twelve upon the bell. While he is engaged in this act, a set of figures above him, representing the twelve apostles, pass in procession before the Saviour, who blesses each as they pause before him in turn, and chanticleer, the size of life, perched upon the pinnacle of one of the side structures, lifts up his voice in three rousing crows, with outstretched neck and flapping wings, while the Cupid on one side of the dial reverses the hour-glass for the sand to flow back, and the other also strikes the hour with his bell and hammer.

Not far from this clock, in a sort of niched window, there is a sculptured figure, said to be that of the architect of this cathedral, represented as looking towards the entrance of the transept, and in such position as to attract attention and provoke inquiry--a cunning device for perpetuating one's memory as long as the figure shall last.

Before leaving this fine cathedral we are reminded of the ancient order of Masons by an enclosure opening out of one of the chapels, which is the area of the workhouse of the stone-cutters of the edifice. These Master Masons down to this day form a particular and exclusive society, which originated in the days of the great master mason and architect of this cathedral, Erwin of Steinbach, who rebuilt the nave in 1275, commenced the façade of the church, designed its towers, and superintended the work and the carrying out of the grand designs in its construction through various vicissitudes till his death in 1318.

The masons of this cathedral were distinct from other operative masons, did not admit all who presented themselves, and had secret signs, known only to each other. From the lodge of this cathedral emanated several others in Germany, and a general meeting of the masters was held at Ratisbon in 1459, at which they were united under one government or jurisdiction, and the Grand Masters chosen on that occasion were the architects of the cathedral at Strasburg, in which city the Grand Lodge was then established.

The Emperor Maximilian I. confirmed the establishment of this body October 3, 1498, and it remained here till the early part of the eighteenth century, when it was removed to Mayence. With this bit of masonic history we will bid adieu to Strasburg Cathedral.

The Church of St. Thomas looks inferior after it, though its magnificent monument to Marshal Saxe is one of the sights of the city. As we ride through the streets we see long-legged storks soaring far overhead, and perched on a tall old chimney-stack, behold the brushwood nest of one of these long-billed residents.

We view the bronze statue of Guttenberg, who made his first experiments in the newly-discovered art preservative of arts in this city in 1436, and four hundred years afterwards he is remembered in this bronze memorial.

I don't know what it was in particular that made me wish to see Basle, except it was, that when a youngster, I read of a curious old clock which the inhabitants on one side of the river put up to mock those on the other, which, the story said, it did by sticking out its tongue and rolling its eyes at every motion of the pendulum; so, when domiciled at the hotel of the Three Kings in that ancient town, I looked out on the swift-flowing Rhine, and as I gazed at the splendid bridge, nearly a thousand feet long, wondered if that was the one over which the wondrous head had ogled and mocked. Fancy my disappointment at being shown at the collection of antiquities a wooden face scarcely twice the size of life, which is said to be the veritable Lollenkonig, or lolling king, that used to go through this performance in the clock tower on the bank of the river till 1839. Here, in this collection, which is in a hall or vestry attached to the cathedral, we saw many curiosities; among them the arm-chair of Erasmus; for it was here in Basle that Erasmus, it will be recollected, waged bitter war with the Church of Rome; here also was preserved all that remains of the celebrated frescoes, the Dance of Death, painted in the fifteenth century, and ascribed to Holbein. The cathedral, a solid old Gothic structure, has some finely ornamented ancient arched portals, and its two towers are each two hundred feet in height.

Going through some of the quaint, old-fashioned streets of Basle, we were struck with the quiet, antique, theatrical-canvas-look which they had. Here was an old circular stone fountain, at which horses could drink and the people fill their jars; the pavement was irregular, and the houses were of odd architecture, which we in America, who have not been abroad, are more than half inclined to think exist only in the imagination of artists, or are the fancy of scene-painters. I came upon one of these very scenes which I have before referred to, in this old city, and stood alone a quarter of an hour looking at the curious street that lay silent in the sunshine, with scarce a feature of it changed since the days of the Reformation, when Basle held so important a position in the history of Switzerland, and "Erasmus laid the egg that Luther hatched;" and had a group of cavaliers in doublet and hose, or a soldier with iron cap and partisan, sauntered through the street, they would all have been so much in keeping with the scene as to have scarcely excited a second glance at them.

In the evening we attended one of those cheap musical entertainments which are so enjoyable here in the summer season of the year. It was given in a large building, one side of which opened on the river bank; and while thirty pieces of music played grand compositions, sprightly waltzes, or inspiriting marches, we sat at the little tables, with hundreds of other listeners, who sipped light wines or beer, enjoyed the evening air, and looked out upon the dark cathedral towers, the lights of the town reflected in the swift stream of the Rhine, watched the small boats continually passing and re-passing, marked "the light drip of the suspended oar," coming pleasantly to the ear, as they paused to listen to the melody, while now and then the tall, dark form of some great Dutch lugger-looking craft of a Rhine boat moved past, like a huge spectre out of the darkness--a dreamy sort of scene, the realization of old Dutch paintings, half darkened with age, that I have often gazed at when a boy. And all this fine music and pleasant lounge for half a franc (eleven cents).

"Wines extra?"

Yes. We called for a half flask, prime quality; price, a franc and a half more; total, forty-four cents. But then we were luxurious; for beer that was "_magnifique_" could be had in a "_gros pot_" for three cents.

We rode from Basle to Zurich in a luxurious, easy, comfortable drawing-room car, which a party of us--six American tourists--had all to ourselves, and whirled through long tunnels, and amid lovely scenery, in striking contrast to our hot, uncomfortable railroad ride from Strasburg to Basle. The Swiss railway carriages are on the American plan, and the line of the road itself kept in exquisite order. The houses of the switchmen were pretty little rustic buildings, covered with running flowering vines, plats of flowers before them, and not a bit of rubbish or a speck of dirt to be seen about them. The little country stations are neatly kept, and have flower gardens around them; and, as we passed one crossing where two roads met, a diamond-shaped plat, about twenty feet space, enclosed by the crossing of three tracks, was brilliant with its array of red, blue, and yellow flowers. At the stations and stopping-places there seemed to be special pains taken to keep the rude, unsightly objects, that are seen at stations in America lying about uncared for, out of sight. Here, and in Germany, we notice the red poppy scattered in and growing among the wheat, which one would suppose must injure the grain; but the people say not, though it imparts, I think, a slightly perceptible bitter taste to the bread.

We seem now to have got thoroughly into a land where they know how to treat travellers, that is, properly appreciate the value of tourist patronage, and treat them accordingly; and well they may, for a large portion of the Swiss people make their living for the year off summer tourists.

Notwithstanding this, and notwithstanding the English grumblers who scold at these better hotels, better railway accommodations, and better attention than they can get anywhere else,--notwithstanding the shoddy Americans, whose absurd parade, lavish expenditure of money, ignorance, and boorish manners make them a source of mortification to educated men, and have served, in France and Italy during the past few years, almost to double certain travelling expenses,--notwithstanding this, the traveller will be more honorably dealt with, and less liable to be cheated, in Switzerland than elsewhere in Europe. Efforts are made to induce travellers to come often, and stay long. Roads, passes, and noted points are made as accessible as possible, and kept in good order during the season. No impositions are allowed by guides, post-drivers, &c., and the hotel-keepers strive in every way to make their houses as attractive as possible in every respect to the guest, who enjoys the real luxury of an elegant hotel, in an attractive or celebrated resort, at a reasonable price, and does not suffer to that extent the same irritation that he experiences in England or America at such places--of knowing he is being deliberately swindled in every possible manner.

Here we are in Zurich,--"by the margin of Zurich's fair waters,"--at the Hotel Baur au Lac, fronting Lake Zurich--a large and beautiful hotel, with an extensive garden, with flowers, shrubs, and pretty walks in front of it. Our windows command a full view of the beautiful lake, with its sides enlivened with chalets, villages, vineyards, and a highly-cultivated country, while in the background rise the snow peaks of the Alps, glittering in the morning sunlight, or rosy in its parting rays. There was the great Reiseltstock, looming up over eighty-six hundred feet, the Kammtistock, very nearly ten thousand feet, between which and the Scheerhorn is imbedded a great glacier, the Bristenstock, and other "stocks" and "horns" that I have not noted down, and therefore forgotten, save that even in the distance they looked magnificently grand, and like great altars with their snowy coverings lifted up to heaven.

The scenery of mountain, lake, and valley, seen from the promenades in Zurich, like grand pictures framed in the rim of the horizon, and presenting charming aspects, varied by the setting sun, give the tourist a foretaste of the picturesque beauty of the country he is now just entering. Lake Zurich, or the Zuricher See, as they call it, looked so pretty and romantic that we determined to embark on one of the little steamboats, and sail up and down it, to know and enjoy it better. So, after enjoying the creature comforts of the fine hotel, and fortified with a good night's rest, we embarked in the morning.

This lake is twenty-five miles long, and, at its broadest part, two and a half miles wide. As we sailed along, we noted the beautiful slopes of the hills, which are finely cultivated at the base, close down to the little villages on the shore. Above are vineyards and orchards, and still farther up, the dark-green forests clothe the hills, which lift their frontlets twenty-five hundred feet above the clear mirror that reflects them on its surface. We passed numerous picturesque little villages, making landings on alternate shores as we proceeded. Here was Thalwyl, charmingly situated, Horgen, with its hotel and charming garden upon the lake front, the picturesque little wooded peninsula of Au, and a pretty little village of Mannedorf, behind which rises a romantic height, called some sort of a "stiel" or "horn." And so we glided along, sometimes stopping at little villages that seemed, as we approached them, children's toys upon a green carpet, this effect heightened by the huge mountains, which rose grand and sublime in the distance; but they had all that novelty so charming to the tourist--their odd-shaped little churches, and curious and quaint houses nestling in romantic nooks, and the occasional odd dress worn by peasants who had come down from the interior, and the customs which to us seemed so old-fashioned.

We found our steamer was a mail-boat, and at one station, instead of the usual official in waiting, the sole occupant of the little pier was a huge Newfoundland dog, who seized the little mail-pouch, holding perhaps a couple of quarts, that was tossed ashore, and galloped off with it at full speed for the village, half a mile distant, to the infinite amusement of the spectators. He was the regular mail-carrier, performing the service twice a day of bringing down the mail-pouch, which he deposited on the pier on the arrival of the boat, and carrying back the one which was left by it.

We went on shore at a town bearing the delightfully-euphonious name of Rapperschwyl--a picturesque old place, with an old castle and church, and wooded heights, which command fine views. At this point a fine bridge, forty-five hundred feet long, and supported by one hundred and eighty oaken pillars, crosses the lake. So we strolled over it, and through the town, which contains about two thousand inhabitants, looked at the old church and castle, and then reëmbarked on the return steamer, once more to admire the beauty of the scenery of the lake shores in this romantic region, and birthplace of Switzerland's freedom.

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