Englishman.—"England is no doubt the finest country in the world. You know the people there are so enormous rich, they can do as they please." "Ah, indeed," said I, "have you travelled much in Germany?" "O yes! I've been all over Germany. I come up the Rhine every year," said he. "It's all very pretty when you've never seen it before, but it's nothing to me now." "Have you been to Berlin?" asked I. "O yes," said he. "Shouldn't want to live there. Your Prussians are so confounded arrogant. They think they're the greatest people in the world." "How did you like Dresden?" said I. "Stupid hole," said he. "Leipsic?" "Dull town." "Stuttgardt?" "Quite pretty." "Kissingen?" "'Orrible place, nothing but fanatics; every other day a Saint's day, and the shops shut up." "Wiesbaden?" "Very fine place." "Ems?" "Never been to Hems." "Mainz?" "Nasty hole." "Cologne?" "Stinking place." "Munich?" "Dreadful unhealthy. They have fevers there, typhus, etc. I call 'em fevers." "How do you like the Rhine wines?" "Don't like them at all. It's very seldom a man gets to drink a decent glass of wine here. I don't drink 'em at all. I like a glass of port." "Beer?" "O, the German beer isn't fit to drink. The English beer is the best in the world. German beer is 'orrible bad stuff. Nothing but slops,—slops!" Here I burst out laughing, for his flattering descriptions were too much for me. He gave me a quizzical look and said, "Well, I'm glad I made you laugh. You're from America, aren't you?" "Yes," said I. "Very unhealthy place, I'm told." "Indeed? I never heard so," said I. "O yes, very!" said he. Then he went off, and after a long while he returned. "I've been asleep," said he, "I've slept two hours and a half, all through the fine scenery." "What!" said I, "don't you enjoy it?" "No, I don't enjoy it at all." Then he told me he lived in Rotterdam, and that I must come to Holland. He was very complaisant over the Dutch, whom he said were "nice, decent people, like the English. There's nothing of the German in them," said he, "they're quite another people—not so en-thusi-astic,"—with a contemptuous air. We got out at Cologne, and he went on to his dear Rotterdam. So I saw him no more.
Oh! isn't the Cologne Cathedral magnificent? It quite took my breath away as I entered it. The priests were just having vespers as we went in, and there was scarcely a person in the cathedral beside. It was so solemn and so touching to see them all by themselves intoning the prayers, their voices swelling and falling in that vast place. And when the superb organ struck up, and they began to sing a hymn, so wildly sweet, with an interlude most beautifully worked up at the end of each line by the organist—as we sat there under those great arches which soar up to such an immense height, I felt as if I were in Heaven.
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ANDERNACH, July 16, 1871.
I believe I left off in my last with our arrival at Cologne, of which I saw very little, as I was extremely tired, and remained at the hotel. The Cathedral was, of course, the main point of interest, and that I saw thoroughly, as I went to it twice, and spent a number of hours each time. I was entirely carried away by its beauty and grandeur, as everybody must be. The descriptions I had heard and the photographs I had seen of it didn't prepare me at all. The height of the great pile is one of the most astounding things, I think. The three and four story houses about it look like huts beside it. Beside the Cathedral I only saw the church where the eleven thousand virgins are buried, but that was more curious than beautiful.—I was much taken down by the shops in Cologne, which I think much finer than the Berlin ones, and saw no end of things in the windows I should like to have bought. The cravats alone quite turned my head!
We only spent two days in Cologne, and then sailed for Bonn, which is but a very short distance. Here we were in a hotel directly upon the river, and I had a sweet little room quite to myself. The view up and down the river was superb, and we could see the Seven Mountains most beautifully. Bonn is the most quiet, sleepy little town you can imagine, and just the place to study, I should think. We saw the house where Beethoven was born, a little yellow, two-story house, and then we visited the Minster, which is nine hundred years old. We saw there a tomb devoted to the memory of the first architect of the Cologne Cathedral, with his statue lying upon it. He had a severely beautiful face, and I could very well imagine him capable of such a great conception. We had great difficulty in getting a dinner at Bonn, as, being a university town, the students gobble up everything. Finally, we found a little restaurant where they got us up one, consisting of steak and potatoes. After dinner I went to walk with Mr. S. and we ate cherries all the way, and finally sat down on a bench by the river's side, where we had an enchanting view. Then we went back to the hotel, and I went directly to bed. It was delicious to lie there and hear the little waves washing up outside my window. It is just the place for a honey-moon—so out of the world as it seems, and with none of the activity and bustle of other cities.
At six o'clock the next morning we took the boat, and in about half an hour we landed at a little town on the side of the river opposite to Bonn, and began our pedestrian tour through the Seven Mountains, of which we ascended and descended four. They were all very steep and difficult to climb, and it reminded me of my trip to Mount Mansfield, years ago, only then we had horses. We spent the night on one of them, the Löwenberg (Lion-mountain). This was a funny experience, as all we five ladies had to sleep in one room, and in one great bed of straw made up on the floor. The fleas bit us all night, so we did not sleep too much. I mentioned the little fact to the servant next day, to which she replied, "Yes, when you aren't used to fleas and bed-bugs, it is hard to sleep!" I agreed with her perfectly!—Our walk was enchanting in spite of the difficulty of the ascent, and of the fact that all of us had satchels slung over our shoulders, and a shawl and umbrella to carry, which made locomotion rather difficult. We were in the sylvan shades, following delicious footpaths scented with flowers, and with the birds singing and trilling as loud as they could over our heads.
It was heavenly on the Löwenberg, for the view was glorious on every side, and it seemed as if we were on the highest peak in the universe. I sat for hours looking over the lovely country and following the meanderings of the Rhine. The atmospheric effects produced by the sunset were wonderful, and when it got to be nine o'clock we saw the lights twinkle up one by one from the distant villages below like little earth-stars—reflections of the heavenly ones above. The last mountain we ascended was the Drachenfels (Dragon-rock), and a fearful pull it was. The three others had been so easy, comparatively, that we none of us knew what we were in for. Soon found out, though! It was like trying to go up a wall, it was so steep. But when we got up we were rewarded, for the view was superb, and there was an interesting old Roman ruin up there. We wandered all about, and got an excellent dinner, and then came down late in the afternoon, took a row boat and rowed across the Rhine to Rolandseck—a fashionable watering place, and as charming as German towns have a way of being.
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GOTHA, July 27, 1871.