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."