LETTER X.
Mayence, Germany, July 29th, 1888.
A fine city is this, a large one too, with broad, handsome streets. Our first visit was, as usual, to the cathedral. Service was going on, and this being some anniversary day, the church was profusely decorated with fresh plants and flowers. The entire chancel was filled with ferns and white blossoms. I sat a while listening to the service, but the only portion of it I was capable of appreciating was the fine tone of the organ as it sent out its waves of sweetness over me. When I arose to go I could not find F., nor could I find the way out. A handsome old German immediately comprehended my situation, and gallantly escorted me to the door, and upon leaving me bowed nearly to the ground. The German gentlemen are very polite; and when we were at Strassburg, at our first table d’hôte dinner there, we were the only ladies at the table, and there were ten gentlemen. We were the first to rise to leave, when, to our surprise and embarrassment, every gentleman arose and bowed. We of course recognized the courtesy by bowing also. In this Mayence cathedral we saw the monument to Gen. Lahmberg, who was killed at the siege of Mainz, and wondered at the ridiculousness of this costly piece of marble, which is like this: a figure representing Death is pushing the much-bewigged general into a sarcophagus, which appears altogether too small for him. Some of the statues and monuments, however, were very beautiful and appropriate; one of Frauenlob, the ‘champion of women,’ exceptionally so. His bier was carried to the grave by eight beautiful and noble women.
Like the rest of the German cities, this one seems full of soldiers. At the barracks we saw crowds of them, and in the streets saw several regiments marching, fine-looking specimens of mankind, and moving as if one man. I am told that in this one town there are more soldiers than in our whole army. That may be so, but I am thankful that our men devote their lives to better uses than the everlasting preparing for war! Think of the progress of our comparatively new country. Think of the condition of our working people! Think of the multitude of invaluable inventions American brains have given to the world! And when war has to come, that good may come from it, American men are not far behind, but they do not spend much time in ‘playing soldier.’ True it is that the military spirit pervades, fills, the whole of Germany in all ways and in all directions. At all of the railway stations it greets and surrounds us. Every man in Germany has served a number of years in the army. They all stand in a military attitude, and walk with a military step. The railroad officials and employees have all been soldiers. The rank of their present positions is indicated by their special uniforms. The captain of the station wears a showy costume of blue trousers with a red side-stripe, a frock coat, double-breasted, a gilt belt, and plenty of large gilt buttons, and a red cap always, with gilt trimmings. The guards are also dressed in uniform, but wear blue caps. When the passengers alight, these guards bow and salute, whether to do honor to the arrivals, or whether the salutes were for each other only, I cannot say, but will say it is a pretty custom, and much superior to the hurry-scurry, jostle-about manner of the depot employees in our own cities.
The railroad stations in Germany are very much finer than our own. The interiors of the buildings are neat, with comfortable furnishings, fine restaurants, and dress-coated waiters quick and ready to serve. The station-houses are surrounded with well-cared-for grounds, containing flowers, fountains often, gravelled walks, and comfortable seats, so that waiting for trains never becomes tedious. Think of all this, you who wait at some of our country stations! And, better than all, every man is courteous and polite, never in too much of a hurry to answer questions and give information. To the captain at the station here we are particularly indebted for kindness and grateful to him for his assistance, and especially for rendering all as if it were his greatest pleasure. In a drive about the city we visited the museum. Saw many quaint old buildings, watch-towers, statues, the Elector’s palace, and a variety of other fine buildings.
Grand Hotel du Rhin, Wiesbaden, Germany, July 30th, 1888.—I believe Wiesbaden is more attractive than Baden. At any rate, nothing could have charmed me more than the appearance of this town—the name of which means ‘Meadow bath’—in the lovely drive we have just had through its pretty streets, bordered with fine trees and magnificent residences. Hotels are crowded, as we are here in the season for fashionable recreation and rest, and perhaps I may add, fashionable dissipation. People bathe in and drink the unsavory waters, and think they are made as good as new. The springs are a curiosity, and as the water bubbles up to the surface it emits clouds of vapor, and sends out an odor suggestive of having washed out Hades. We were fortunate in meeting, in our drive, Louise, Princess of Nassau, in a very ordinary-looking turnout, and not prepossessing-looking herself, but our driver informed us that she is charitable and well-beloved by all. We, later, visited the palace of the Duke of Nassau. There is a pretty English church here, and a very beautiful Greek chapel, built by one of the Nassau dukes in memory of his Russian wife. A figure of the sleeping Duchess, in white marble, is lovely. These Greek chapels have always a gilded dome. The natural beauties of Wiesbaden are numerous and unusual. It is said Kaiser William loved the place.
This evening we went to the Cursaal, a handsome edifice, in which are ball-rooms, concert rooms, and so forth. There are beautiful grounds, beautifully laid out, around the building, with parterres of flowers, miniature lakes, fountains, rustic arbors and seats, and everything to make the place attractive. The Cursaal, the gardens, and the colonnades were all brilliantly illuminated, and a fine band playing in front of the piazza on which we sat. The seats and gardens were thronged with people,—sitting or walking about, chatting, drinking wine or beer, listening to the fine music, and having a good time generally. Before the suppression of gambling in 1872, it was here carried on to about as great an extent as at Baden. While sitting taking in the brilliant scene, a lady sitting next me, who could speak a little English, addressed me. It was quite evident that her tongue must move constantly in some language. She was ‘cute’ and discerning, and after looking us well over, ventured to ask, as if know she must, ‘American or English?’ ‘American,’ I replied. ‘I thought so; and you never saw a sight like this before, did you?’ Many of the intelligent people over here seem to think that there is nothing ornamental or beautiful in America, and it gives me great pleasure to undeceive and surprise them. Many seem to have an idea that we are as crude as savages.
These watering-places have some advantages over our own Saratoga and the Springs of Virginia, in the way of natural scenery, drives, and foliage, but the hotels at this place do not equal our own, the equipages are far less elegant, and one can see more handsome women and more tasteful costumes in one day at Newport than in a whole season here. This hotel we have not liked as well as the one in which we stayed at Baden. Our meals have been served in a sort of rustic arbor on a large scale, gorgeously gotten up, with vines, evergreens, running water, and flowers; but I must say I had rather eat in the house, where there are no suggestions of bugs or worms; but the Germans love to eat and drink out of doors. My candle is growing short, therefore I must make this letter so, with loving thoughts of you all. Good-night.
Tuesday, July 31st, 1888.—The sun shone brightly in answer to our prayers this morning, and we are thankful, for we did want a clear sky for our canopy while on the Rhine. At seven A.M. we left our hotel, and were driven a distance of three miles, over a fine road, to the river, where we found a boat ready for us. The steamers that ply on the Rhine look very different from our own craft. They are long, narrow, and low. We made our way on board, with hands full of maps and descriptive books, with the rest of the crowd, picked up our stools as we went along, and seated ourselves for a day’s trip on the Rhine, filled with ‘unspeakable emotions’ and a poor breakfast.
At first we see but little of interest,—small villages, gardens, vineyards, and inns, near the water, and excursionists sitting on their porticos eating and drinking. Occasionally a cross or a statue on the hillside varies the scene. We are disappointed in the vineyards: the vines run up on sticks, and look like stunted pole-bean vines growing, and our expectations of graceful green-clothed arches and arbors vanish. ‘How muddy the water looks, too!’ said I, ‘and when or where do we get to the delightful part of the Rhine?’ A young German gentleman sat near us, who evidently did not like that question, as if it could be for once thought that any part of the romantic river could be anything but beautiful. I will tell you more of this gentleman later. At Bingen we made our first stop, and thought, as everybody does, of Mrs. Norton’s poem. And I thought of the little boy I so earnestly once trained to recite her touching lines:—
‘O friend, I fear the lightest heart
Makes sometimes heaviest mourning.’
From childhood we have read of the Rhine and its romantic legends, and now to us it seems as if every spot must be inhabited by princes and princesses, dragons, warriors, knights and syrens. The tower, called the Mouse Tower, which is in the middle of the river, was built in order to collect taxes from every boat that passed. The legend runs that an archbishop, at the time of a famine, took what grain there was from the poor, for his own wants. The starving throng begged him for bread, and he said to them, ‘You shall have it; go into that empty barn and I will give you warm bread!’ The people rushed into the barn, when he closed the doors, and set it on fire, and when they all cried out in terror he coolly said, ‘Listen to the pipings of the mice.’ From the ashes of the people armies of mice came to devour him; he rushed to the tower for safety; but the mice, undaunted, followed him, and ate his flesh to the bone, and his skeleton was found in the Rhine. You will recall now these words of the poem—
‘They whetted their teeth against the stones,
And then they picked the bishop’s bones.’
Fragments of poetry come to one’s mind constantly here, for nearly every spot has been sung of by some one.
Near by is the great ruin of the Castle Ehrenfels, where the Archbishop of Mayence, or Mainz, as the Germans say, used to flee for safety in times of agitation. Opposite is the Castle of Rheinstein (Rhine Stone), which has been restored, and is owned and often occupied by the royal family of Germany, and looks indeed very inviting. The legend connected with this castle is a pretty tale, because the end gives Gerda, the lovely daughter of Count Siegfried, to Kuno, the man she loved, notwithstanding the treachery of his bachelor cousin Kurt, who endeavored to win her for himself, but as a meet punishment fell from his horse while following her and was killed. Kuno inherited his estates, and he, with Gerda, ever after ‘lived in peace.’
We saw the Siebenjungfrauen, ‘Seven Virgins,’ now seven cold rocks, once beautiful maidens. The Lurlei, a river nymph, turned them into stone for flirting too much with the susceptible youth of the Rhine. Near by are the huge rocks of the Lurlei, where dwelt the syren, whose sweet voice lured all who heard it, and whose greatest delight was to charm these admirers on to their own destruction. It is said that even now, at the uncanny hour of midnight, the phantom of a boat can be seen, with the shadowy figure of a man with outstretched arms standing in the centre, gazing toward the cliff, where he had once seen and been entranced by the lovely maid and her sweet voice.
“To the Rhine, to the Rhine, go not to the Rhine,
My son, I counsel thee well:
For there life is too sweet and too fine,
And every breath is a spell.
The Nixie calls to thee out of the flood;
And if thou her smiles shouldst see,
And the Lorelei, with her beautiful lips,
Then ’tis all over with thee;
For bewitched and delighted
Yet seized with fear,
Thy home is forgotten,
And mourners weep here.”
I become so absorbed in all these old traditions, that I feel like telling you the stories as if they were new, but you know them all, and I must stop or weary you, for you are in practical Boston, and I on this historic, romantic stream. Near us, on the boat, sat a distinguished-looking party of Germans, one of whom was the young gentleman I previously alluded to, and who had watched us, we felt, with considerable interest, for the citizens of one nation are always interested in travellers from far-off lands, taking notes of their own. Hearing me ask of F. a question in regard to one of the old ruins, which information she was unable to give me, he kindly volunteered the desired explanation, apologizing at the same time for addressing us. He was every inch a gentleman, and spoke English a little. His knowledge of everything in the vicinity, his kind attentions, and the use of his superior glasses, added greatly to the pleasure of our trip. I think he looked at my companion, but he talked with me, and was charming. ‘Have you reached “the delightful part of the Rhine”?’ he asked, and I felt that I had. The only really beautiful portion is from Bingen to Bonn. It is between these cities that the river turns and winds from one mountain side to the other, on whose heights stand the picturesque old ruins—castles, convents, and crags. Of course the Drachenfels, or Dragon’s Rock, with the castle ruins, brought to us many memories of the ‘Niebelungen Lay,’ for it was here, on this romantic ground, that young Siegfried showed his wonderful strength, which has been told and sung of ever since. If only he had dipped his entire body in the dragon’s blood, and not left the one spot exposed! But, ah me! I fear we all have the one vulnerable spot somewhere, for we are all human! In and near this vicinity the finest grapes grow, and the vineyards are extensive and receive constant care.
We made a short stop at Bonn, long enough to see the fine statue of Beethoven, who was born here, and who was descended from a family of wonderful musicians. Saw the university buildings also, where a young gallant, once ours, studied, and then we pushed on down the river, the banks now flat and of little interest, until Cologne came in sight.
Yes, we have greatly enjoyed the Rhine, but taking it entire, I am a little disappointed, and as these are honest letters, telling you of sights just as I am impressed by them, I must say, that with the exception of that portion of the river I have spoken of to you, which is bordered by the mountains, castle-tipped, I think our own Hudson, with its lovely banks and its shadowy Catskills, the more beautiful. I am thinking now of the time, one year ago, when I sat on the deck of the Mary Powell running up past the grand palisades and dear, lovely, old West Point. Well, I shall be homesick if I dwell upon that trip. Our attentive German escort, whose card has told us that he is the son of Baron von H., and a student at Bonn, now taking his vacation, requested my consent to accompany us to our hotel, as he was to stop at the same one, hoping to be able to be of service to us, which very kind offer we declined, and stepped into a droschky, which soon safely landed us at the Hotel Disch.