THE RHINE AND RHENISH PRUSSIA.
First glimpse of the Rhine.—Cologne and the Cathedral.—"Shosef in ter red coat."—St. Ursula and the eleven thousand virgins.—Up the Rhine to Bonn.—The German students.—Rolandseck.—A search for a resting-place.—Our Dutch friend and his Malays.—The story of Hildegund.—A quiet Sabbath.—Our Dutch friend's reply.—Coblentz.—The bridge of boats.—Ehrenbreitstein, over the river.—A scorching day upon the Rhine.—Romance under difficulties.—Mayence.—Frankfort.—Heidelberg.—The ruined castle.—Baden-Baden.—A glimpse at the gambling.—The new, and the old "Schloss."—The Black Forest.—Strasbourg.—The mountains.
WE had made a sweep through Belgium and Holland, intending to return by way of the Rhine and Switzerland. Accordingly, in leaving Amsterdam, we struck across the country to Arnhem, where we found a pleasant hotel near the station, outside of the town. Here we spent the night in order to break the monotony of the ride to Cologne. After climbing stairs to gain our room, wide, but so perpendicular that we were really afraid to descend by them, we had, from a rickety, upper piazza, our first glimpse of the Rhine, winding through flat, green meadows, with hardly more than a suggestion of hills in the distance. There is nothing of interest to detain one at Arnhem. The guide-book informed us that it was the scene of Sir Philip Sidney's death; but no one in the hotel seemed ever to have heard of that gentle knight—sans peur et sans reproche.
We reached Cologne at noon the next day. The road makes a détour through the plain, so that, for some time before gaining it, we could see the city nestling under the wings of the great cathedral. How can I tell you anything about it? If I say that it is five times the length of any church you know, and that the towers, when completed, are to be the same height as the length, will my words bring to you any conception of its size? If I say that it was partially built a couple of centuries before the discovery of America; that it was worked upon for three hundred years, and then suffered to remain untouched until recently; that the architect who planned it has been forgotten for centuries, so that the idea embodied in its form is like some beautiful old tradition, whose origin is unknown,—will this give you any idea of its age? The new part, seen from our hotel, was so white and beautiful, that, when we had passed around to the farther side, it was like waking from a sleep of a thousand years. The blackened, broken Gothic front told its own story of age and decay. Ah, the interminable dusky length of its interior, when we had crept within the doors! It was a very world in itself, full of voices, and echoes, and shadows of its own. We followed the guide over the rough stone floor, giving no heed to the tiresome details that fell in broken words and monotonous tones from his lips. I recall nothing now but the fact (!) that behind the choir lie buried, in all their magnificence, the Three Wise Men of the East. As we came down one of the shadowy aisles, we paused before a fine, old, stained window. Our guide immediately became prolix again. "Dis," he said, pointing to one of the figures upon the glass, "is Shosef, in ter red coat; and dis is Shon ter Baptised; and dis, ter Holy Ghos' in ter form off a duff."
When the old woman at the door offered pictures of the cathedral, he assured us that they were quite correct, having been taken "from nature, outzide and inzide."
You must see the old Roman remains of towers and crumbling walls, sniff the vile odors of the streets, which have become proverbial, and be sprinkled with cologne—then your duty to the city is done. But almost everybody visits the Church of St. Ursula, which is lined with the skulls of that unfortunate young woman and her eleven thousand virgin followers.
The story is, that she was an English princess, who lived—nobody knows at what remote period of antiquity. For some reason equally obscure, she started with her lover and eleven thousand maidens to make a pilgrimage to Rome. Fancy this lover undertaking a continental tour with eleven thousand and one young women under his care! Even modern travel presents no analogy to the case. "And they staid over night at my aunt's," droned the sleepy guide, who was telling the story. The girls looked at each other. "Good gracious! what unbounded hospitality!" whispered one. "At his aunt's!" exclaimed a second, somewhat puzzled by the anachronism. "Don't interrupt," said a third interested listener; "he means Mayence;" and he proceeded with the narrative. They accomplished their pilgrimage in safety; but, upon their return, were "fetched up py ter parparians," as the guide expressed it, which means, in English, that they were murdered, here at Cologne. If you doubt the story, behold the skulls! We turned suddenly upon the guide.
"Do you believe this?"
"I mus; sinz I tells it to you," was his enigmatical reply, dropping his eyes.
The scenery along the Rhine from Cologne, for twenty miles, is uninteresting; just now, too, the weather was uncomfortably hot, and we were glad to leave the steamer for a few hours at Bonn. Upon the balcony of a hotel, looking out upon the river, we found a score of young men in bright-colored caps—students from the university here. When dinner was announced, they crowded in and filled the table, at which the ladies of our party were the only ones present. Such a noisy, loud-talking set as they were! When each one had dined, he coolly leaned back in his chair, and lighted his pipe! Before we had finished our almonds and raisins the room was quite beclouded. Then they adjourned with pipe and wine-glass to the balcony again, where we left them when we went out to see the town.
The university was formerly a palace, the guide-book had told us; but all our childish conceptions of palaces had been rudely destroyed before now, so that we were not surprised to find it without any especial beauty of architecture—only a pile of brown stone, three quarters of a mile long. I think we had left all the students drinking wine upon the balcony, for we saw none here,—though we went through the library, museum, and various halls,—except one party outside, who stared unblushingly at the girls remaining in the carriage.
Somewhere in the town we found a lovely old minster, through the aisles of which we wandered for a while, happy in having no guide and knowing nothing whatever about it. Outside, in a little park, was a statue of Beethoven, and in a quiet street near the water the musical girls of our party found the house where he was born. In the cool of the day we took another steamer, and went on towards the beckoning hills, at nightfall reaching Rolandseck. There was no town in sight, only a pier and three quiet hotels upon the bank, with a narrow road between their gardens and the water. We chose the one farthest away, and were rowed down to it, dabbling our hands in the water, and saying over and over again, "It is the Rhine!"
But the hotel was full; so we filled our arms with luggage, and walked back, up the dusty road to the second. A complacent waiter stood in the doorway, with nothing of that hungry, eager air about him which betokens an empty house; cool, comfortable-looking tourists, in enviable, fresh toilets, stared at us from the windows; a pretty German girl upon the balcony overhead was sketching the river and the Seven Mountains just below, uttering little womanly exclamations at times, ending in "ach" and "ich." After some delay, four single rooms were offered us; our party numbered twelve; we left a portion of our company here; the others went on—to the pier where we had landed, in fact, and with all meekness and humility sued for accommodations of the little hotel here, which we had at first looked upon with disdain. Fortunately, we were not refused.
When we came down the next morning, the sole occupant of the piazza opening upon the garden—where our breakfast was spread—was a stout, red-faced gentleman of general sleek appearance, who smiled a courteous "good morning." He proved to be a Dutchman from Rotterdam, who had in charge a couple of Malay youths sent to Holland to be educated—bright-faced boys, with straight, blue-black hair, olive complexions, and eyes like velvet. They were below us, walking in the garden now.
"We have but just come from Holland," we said, after some conversation; and, with a desire to be sociable, added that it was a very charming, garden-like little (!) country. (O dreadful American spirit!)
He smiled, showing his gums above his short teeth, and with a kind of enraged humility replied,—
"It is nothing."
"It is indeed wonderful," we went on, trying to improve upon our former attempt, and quoting a sentiment from the guide-book, "how your people have rescued the land from the clutch of the sea!"
But his only reply was the same smile, and the "Yes?" so fatal to sentiment.
"We visited your queen's 'House in the Wood,'" we ventured, presently. "Is it true that the domestic relations of the royal family are so unhappy?"
"O, the king and the queen are most happy," he replied. "You may always be sure that when he is in town she will be in the country."
This was a phase of domestic bliss so new to us that we were fain to consider it for a moment. Various other attempts we made at gaining information, with equally questionable success. Our Dutch acquaintance, though disposed to conversation, avoided the topic of his own country. Still he sought our society persistently, asking at dinner that his plate might be laid at the same table. Our vanity was considerably flattered, until he chanced to remark that he embraced every opportunity of conversing with English and American travellers, it did so improve his English. From that time we found him tiresome. Think of being used as an exercise-book!
It is here at Rolandseck that the romance of the Rhine, as well as its world-renowned scenery, commences. Across the river is the Drachenfels—the crag upon which the remains of a castle may still be seen, where, "in the most ancient time," dwelt Hildegund, a maiden beautiful as those of all stories, and beloved by Roland, a nephew of Charlemagne. When he went away to the wars, she waited and watched at home—as other maidens have done; but alas! instead of her lover, came after a time only the news of his death. Then Hildegund laid aside her gay attire and happy heart, with her hopes, and leaving her father's castle, came down to bury her young life in the nunnery upon the island at its foot. But the rumor was false; and in time Roland returned, only to find himself too late, for Hildegund was bound by vows which could not be broken. Then, upon the rock called now Rolandseck, the unhappy lover built a castle opposite the Drachenfels and overlooking the Island of Nonnenworth. Here he could watch the nuns as they walked in the convent garden, and perhaps among them distinguish the form of Hildegund.
On our way down from the arch, which, with a few crumbling stones is all that remains now of Roland's castle, we passed through one of the vineyards for which the banks of this river are so noted. Do you imagine them to be picturesque? They are almost ugly. The vines are planted in regular order and pruned closely. They are not suffered to grow above three feet in height, and each one is fastened to a stout stake until the wood itself becomes self-supporting.
We spent a quiet Sabbath at Rolandseck. There was no church, no church service at either of the hotels. We rested and wrote letters, sitting in the grape arbors of the garden; only a low hedge and narrow, grass-grown road between us and the river. Down below, the rocks and the island shut out the world; across, the hills rose to the sky, their slopes covered with yellow grain, or dotted with red-roofed farm-houses, while tiny villages had curled up and gone to sleep at their feet. It was impossible to write. The breeze that rippled the yellow water blew away our paper and our thoughts; and when the steamer, puffing, and evidently breathless from stemming the current, touched at the little pier, we left everything and ran out to see the passengers disembark. A band played at the railroad station just above our hotel, and the park attached to it swarmed with excursionists during the afternoon. At dusk, when they had all gone, we wandered up the magnificent road which follows the course of the river; built originally by the Romans, and said to extend for a long distance—five hundred miles or more—into Germany, returning with our hands full of wild flowers. When we went on board the steamer, Monday morning, we were closely followed by our Dutch friend and his Malays. They strolled off by themselves, as they seemed always to do; he joined our group under the awning spread over the deck. An English tourist seized upon him immediately, and when he had disclosed his nationality, proceeded with a glance towards us, to quiz him upon Dutch ways.
"Now, really," said the tourist, tilting back against the rail in his camp chair, "how dreadful it must be to live in a country where there are no mountains! nothing but a stretch of flat land, you know. I fancy it would be unendurable."
"Yes?" was the Dutchman's sole response.
"You still keep up your peculiar customs, I observe from Murray," the Englishman went on, loftily. "Your women carry the same old foot-stoves to church, I fancy. They hang up, you know, in every house."
"Ah!" and the Dutchman only smiled that same incomprehensible smile that had so puzzled us.
"And you smoke constantly," continued the inquisitor, growing dogmatic; "a pipe is seldom out of your mouths. Really, you are a nation of perpetual smokers."
"Yes," assented the Dutchman; "but then—" and here his eyes, and indeed his whole round, rosy face twinkled with irresistible humor, "you know we have no mountains."
A shout went up from the listeners, and our English acquaintance became at once intensely interested in the scenery.
The sail of half an hour to Coblentz was a continual delight. The rocky mountains rose abruptly from the water, terraced to their peaks with vineyards, or stood back to give place to modest towns and villages that dipped their skirts in the stream. At their wharves we touched for a moment, to make an exchange of passengers or baggage. Often from the lesser villages a boat shot out, the oars held by a brown-armed maiden, who boarded us to take, perhaps, a single box or bale, or, it might be, some bearded tourist with sketch-book under his arm. The passengers walked the deck, or gathered in groups to eat ices and drink the wines made from the grapes grown in these vineyards, with the pictured maps of the river spread out upon their laps, and the ubiquitous Murray in their hands.
As we neared Coblentz the villages increased as the hills vanished. Each had its point of interest, or monkish legend—the palace of a duke, a bit of crumbling Roman wall rising from the water—something to invest it with a charm. One—Neuwied—is noted for holding harmoniously within its limits, Jews, Moravians, Anabaptists, and Catholics. The Millennium will doubtless begin at Neuwied.
"At the word of command they struck the most extraordinary attitudes." [Page 157].
At Coblentz we remained a day, in order to visit the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. From our windows at the hotel we could look directly across to this grim giant of rock, as well as down upon the bridge of boats which crosses the Rhine here. It was endless amusement to watch the approach of the steamers, when, as if impelled by invisible boatmen, a part of the bridge would swing slowly round to make an opening, while the crowd of soldiers, market-women, and towns-people, waiting impatiently, furnished a constant and interesting study.
An hour or two after noon we too crossed the bridge in an open carriage, nearly overcome by the stifling heat, and after passing through the village of Ehrenbreitstein, ascended the winding road—a steep ascent, leading under great arches of solid masonry, through massive gateways, and shut in by the rock which forms the fortress. At various points, guards of Prussian soldiers, as immovable as the stone under their feet, were stationed. Suddenly in the gloomy silence, as we toiled slowly up, echoed a sharp tramp, tramp, and a line of soldiers filed by in grim silence, each one with a couple of loaves of bread slung by a cord over his shoulder. In a moment another line followed with a quantity of iron bedsteads, each borne solemnly upon the shoulders of four men. The guards accompanying them were armed, and wore queer, shining helmets. Still another company came swinging down to meet us, with fixed, imperturbable countenances, each bearing a towel in one hand, with military precision. They were on their way to the bathing-house upon the bridge.
Scattered about upon the broad esplanade at the summit, or rather arranged in lines upon the breezy, grass-grown space, were squads of recruits being drilled. At the word of command they struck the most extraordinary attitudes. Taking a tremendous stride, they endeavored to poise themselves on one foot, while they threw the other leg straight out behind into the air. Being of all sizes, forms, and degrees of grace in movement, the effect, to say the least, was surprising; especially as the most intense silence and seriousness prevailed. A second stride and fling followed, then a third, when a pert young officer, of the bantam species, seized a gun, and strutting to the front, proceeded to illustrate the idea more perfectly. At this point our gravity gave way.
A young sergeant, with a stupid but good-natured face, attached himself to us in the capacity of guide. He could speak nothing but German, of which not one of us understood a word. We followed him from point to point, politely attending to all his elaborate explanations, and were surprised to find how many ideas we had finally gained by means of the patient and painful pantomimic accompaniment to his words.
The view from the summit is wonderfully extensive. All the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them seemed spread out at our feet; and our fat little guide grew fairly red in the face in his efforts to make us comprehend the names of the various points of interest.
When we returned to the carriage the animated jumping-Jacks were still engaged in their remarkable evolutions; and as we came down we had a last glimpse of our Dutch friend and his Malays, who were making the ascent on foot.
The next day, though passed upon the beautiful river, was a day of torment. The stream narrowed; the frowning rocks closed in upon us, shutting out every breath of air; the sun beat down upon the water and the low awning over our heads with fiery fury; in a moment of idiocy we answered the call to table d'hôte, which was served upon deck with a refinement of imbecility just as the climax of the striking scenery approached. For one mortal hour we were wedged in at that table, peering between heads and under the awning which cut off every peak, making frantic attempts to turn in our places, as parties across the table exclaimed over the scenery behind us, and consoling ourselves with reading up the legends in the guide-book held open by the rim of our soup-plates,—of the Seven Sisters, for instance, who were turned into seven stones which stand in the stream to this day, because they refused to smile upon their lovers (fortunately for navigation, maidens in these days are less obdurate); of the bishop who shut his starving peasants into his barn and set fire to it, though his granaries were full, and who, in poetic justice, was afterwards devoured by rats; of the Lurlei siren, who lured men to destruction, and became historical from the individuality of the case; of various maidens bereft of lovers by cruel fathers, and of various lovers bereft of maidens by cruel fate, &c., while storied ruins crowned the crags on every hand, always half hidden under a weight of ivy, and often indistinguishable from the rock on which they seemed to have grown.
At Bingen, which is not especially "fair" from the river, the precipices drop away, the stream spreads out in nearly twice its former width, and is dotted with islands. At Mayence you may leave the steamer; the beauties of the Rhine are passed.
From Mayence we made an excursion to Wiesbaden; then on to Frankfort-on-the-Maine, to rest only a few hours, doing the city hastily and imperfectly; and finally reached Heidelberg at night, in time for table d'hôte. A talkative young Irishman sat beside us at the table, who spoke five or six languages "with different degrees of badness," he informed us; had travelled half the world over, but held in reserve the pleasure of visiting America.
"I have a friend there," he added, "though he is in South America."
"Ah?"
"Yes; at Mobile," he replied. "He held some office under government for a number of years, but during your recent war—for some reason which I do not understand—he seems to have lost it."
It did not seem so inexplicable to us.
Our conception of Heidelberg had been most imperfect. We knew simply that it held a university and a ruin. The former did not especially attract us, and we were sated with ruins. So, when we took possession of our lovely room,—a charming salon, converted temporarily into a bedroom,—it was with a kind of listless indifference that we stepped out upon the balcony before the window. And, behold! down below, an old, paved square, walled in by delightfully dingy old houses; a stone fountain; a string of waiting landaus (for Landau itself is near by), with scarlet linings to their tops—giving a bit of color to the picture; a party of German students crossing the square, wearing the caps of different colors to betoken different societies or clubs, and almost every one with a scarred cheek or suggestive patch upon his nose; and, lastly, on the right hand, and so precipitous as almost to overhang the square, a hill crowned with the castle, grand, though in ruins, which nature vainly tries to conceal. There are ruins, and ruins. Except the Alhambra, in Spain, none in the world equal these.
What this castle must have been in the days of its glory, when it was the residence of a court, we could only faintly imagine. It is of red sandstone, and was a succession of palaces, built to enclose a square, or great court-yard, each of entirely different architecture and design, the façade of one being covered with statues, another having pointed gables, &c.; all having been erected at periods fifty or a hundred years remote from each other. At each corner were watch-towers to apprise of coming foes. You may still ascend the winding stairs of one, though the steps have been hollowed into bowls by dripping rain and mounting feet. Between these towers, upon one side, and on the verge of the hill, still remains the grand stone terrace,—where a hundred couples might promenade in solitude on moonlight evenings,—with summer-houses at each end; and beautiful gardens are still connected with the ruins. For all these palaces are in ruins. A few habitable rooms only remain among them all. Several sieges, and partial demolition at times, the castle suffered, and at last, a hundred years ago, lightning completed the work, since which time no efforts at restoration have been made.
The whole is overgrown with ivy, and embowered in shrubbery. Great trees spread their branches in the midst of the walls that still remain standing, and crumbling earth and drifting dust have filled many parts, even up to the broken window ledges of the second story. Across the broad stone steps leading to one of these palaces, tangled vines disputed right of way, and a neglected cherry-tree had scattered with wanton hand its over-ripe fruitage. Thrust through a casement was an ivy that might have vied with many of the trees around in the size of its trunk, and no artistic hand could have trailed its creepers with the grace Nature alone had displayed.
There was a grand banqueting-hall, with the blue heavens for a ceiling overhead. There was a drawing-room, the floor long since crumbled away, and only the broken walls remaining. Standing upon the loose earth, you may see the blackened fireplace far above your head, before which fair faces grew rosy centuries ago, and where white hands were outspread that have been dust and mould for ages. There was— But words cannot describe it, though I should speak of the winding ways like a labyrinth beneath it all; of the queer paved court-yard, from whence the knights sallied out in the olden time; of the great tower, split in twain by an explosion during the last siege; of the wine-cellars and the "Great Tun," upon which the servants of the castle danced when the vintage was gathered. In all attempts at word-painting there remains something that defies description, that will not be portrayed by language. And, alas! in that the charm lies.
We turned away from it with regret. One might linger here for days; but we had little time for dreaming.
The road from Heidelberg to Baden-Baden led through a charming country: indeed, we ceased to exclaim after a time over the cultivation of the land. So far as we saw it, the whole of Europe was a market-garden, with prize meadows interspersed. Not a foot of neglected or carelessly-tilled ground did we see anywhere.
We chanced to spend the Sabbath in this most un-Sabbath-like city of Baden-Baden. But so far as we knew to the contrary, it might have been a Puritan village. There was a little English chapel out in the fields beyond the city, where morning service was held, and our windows, overlooking a quiet square, told nothing of the gayeties of the town. It is an interesting old city in itself, built upon a side hill, full of unexpected stone steps leading from one street to another, and by and crooked ways, that were my especial delight. It being just now "the season," the town was full of visitors. The hot springs are of course the nominal attraction; the shops, parks, and new parts of the city, fine; but, after all, the interest centres at the Kursaal, or Conversation-haus. It is a great white structure, with a colonnade where it fronts an open square, and contains reading-rooms, cafés, a grand ball-room, and the gambling salons. Government has at length interfered, and these last, hired by companies paying a certain sum for the privilege of beguiling and beggaring visitors, were to be closed now in two years, I think, or less. In front of the Kursaal a band plays every afternoon; the colonnade and square are thronged with people promenading or occupying the chairs placed there, eating ices, drinking wine, and enjoying the fine music, but all perfectly quiet in manner and plain of dress. No one was gaudily or even strikingly attired. The Hanoverian women were the most marked for their queer head-dresses, consisting of an enormous bow and ends of wide, black ribbon perched upon their crowns, and giving their heads a peculiar, bat-like appearance. And in this connection I might say that national peculiarities in dress are seldom met with in the ordinary course of continental travel. They still exist to some extent among the lower classes, and are often assumed and perpetuated to attract the attention of travellers; but ordinarily you will find people whom you meet anywhere and everywhere to be costumed much alike. Paris fashions, with modifications (and in America with intensifications), have prevailed universally, until there are few outward dissimilarities to be observed among the people of different nationalities. Nothing strikes the attention of the traveller more than this universal homogeneousness; and not in dress alone. In Bruges, under the shadow of the belfry tower, little girls trot off to school in water-proofs, just as they do at home with us; and at the entrance to Stirling Castle, we passed a sturdy little boy with his hands in his pockets, whistling, "Not for Jo," exactly like other sturdy little boys we know at home.
But to return to Baden-Baden.
We almost fancied a sulphurous odor hung about the gambling salons. Not a footfall echoed upon the softly-carpeted floors as we entered. The most breathless silence hung over everything. In the centre, a crowd, three in depth at least, surrounded and hid the table covered with green cloth, before which sat the croupier, with a kind of little rake in his hand. In our eyes he was the incarnation of evil, though to unprejudiced vision he would appear simply a well-dressed—not flashily-arrayed—gentleman, of a rather intellectual countenance, who might have passed upon the street as a lawyer in good practice, or possibly a doctor somewhat overworked.
One after another of the bystanders covered the figures stamped upon the table with gold or silver. The ball in the centre, spinning in its circle, fell into a pocket with a "click." The croupier called the winning number I think (though confessing that the game is a hidden mystery). That quick, sharp utterance was the only sound breaking the silence. At the same time, with wonderful dexterity, he raked the money into a pile, and pushed it towards the winner, or, more frequently, added it to the pile before himself.
I looked in vain for any exhibition of excitement or anxiety among the players sitting or standing around the table. All were serious, silent; some few absorbed. Both sexes were equally represented, and old as well as young. Beside us was standing a woman with a worn, though still fine face, unobtrusive in dress and manner; a traveller and spectator, I judged, like ourselves. It was something of a surprise, not to say a shock, to see her suddenly stretch out her hand, and lay down a handful of gold pieces, selecting the numbers with an air that proved her to be no novice. "Click," fell the ball. The croupier, with a sweep of the rake, gathered up her Napoleons. The bank had won. Again she laid down her gold, placing each piece with thoughtful deliberation. Again they were swept away; and even the third time. She made no exclamation. She did not so much as raise her eyes from the table as she prepared to make a fourth attempt. There was no change in her face, except a certain fixedness which came over it, and a faint tinge of color rising in her cheeks.
We breathed more freely when we had gained the open air. I am sure there was an odor of sulphur about the place.
The scenery around Baden-Baden is striking and wild. Gloomy valleys abound, and dark forests cover many of the hills. We took a kind of wagonet one morning, and climbed the mountain behind the city, passing what is known as the "New Schloss," or castle, before leaving its limits. It is anything but new, however, having been erected some four or five hundred years. Its horrible dungeons, where all manner of torments were inflicted, and tortures suffered by the unfortunate wretches incarcerated here, attract scores of visitors. We went on, by the zigzag road up the mountain, to the Old Schloss upon its summit. This was the residence of the reigning family of Baden before the erection of the New Schloss. Hardly anything remains of it now but the walls of a square tower, from the battlements of which, by mounting to an encircling gallery, you may obtain a view well worth the effort. As far as the eye can see in one direction, extends the Black Forest—the very name of which brings to mind elfish legends innumerable. But, though our way led along its edge, so that we were shut in by the chill and gloom of the evergreens which give it its name, we saw neither elves nor gnomes, nor the traditional "wood-cutter, named Hans, who lived upon the borders of the Black Forest," about whom we used to read when we were children.
From Baden-Baden we took the railroad, following the course of the Rhine to Strasbourg, spending only a night here, in order to visit the beautiful cathedral; then on to Lucerne, waiting an hour or two to break the long day's ride, at Basle. Here the mountains began to grow before our eyes. We shot through tunnel after tunnel, cut in the solid rock, and suddenly sweeping around a curve, the everlasting hills wrapped in perpetual snows, greeted our astonished sight. We had reached the Mecca of our hopes at last.