The Prince of Darkness took it into his head, once on a time, to turn parson, and to preach from a chair or pulpit, still called by the name of that right reverend divine. His audience became more numerous than enlightened, when an angel, from quite a different quarter, pitched his tent on a neighbouring peak, and held forth in opposition to the man in black. The eloquence of the new preacher drew away great numbers from the old. Satan, in hopes of disturbing the congregation of his rival, vented his rage in some caverns in the rock, and in growls and groans that resembled thunder. But still the audience of the new preacher multiplied. This was more than any preacher, human or divine, could bear; and the old gentleman forthwith built himself a mill, the noise of which, together with the diabolical hootings, yells, and howlings of the miller and his men, he hoped would distract the audience of the orthodox ecclesiastic. Even this would not do, and his reverence of the cloven foot and long tail betook himself from words to things. He hurled masses of rock across the valley against the successful candidate for popular applause, with as much ease as a man would pitch quoits. This was “too bad;” and therefore a bolt from Heaven was directed against this teacher of impieties which demolished the mill, and prostrated the miller and his crew amongst the ruins! The disturber of the peace fell with such force among the rocks that the print of his body remains evident to the present hour.
The tale may be false, or the tale may be true,
As I heard it myself, I relate it to you.
The legend concludes with one piece of intelligence, to the truth of which most people will assent: namely, that after the above event, the arch enemy has seldom ventured to hold forth from the pulpit, in propria persona, but has employed a great number of emissaries in human shape, who disseminate among mankind, and some of them ex cathedra, too, those “false doctrines, heresies, and schisms,” which scandalize the church and cause dissensions among the people.
With the exception of a few miles, the whole route from Baden-Baden to Nuenburg, is a series of steep mountains and narrow valleys, presenting the greatest variety of scenery, from the picturesque and beautiful, up to the romantic, wild, and savage character. A thunder-storm, with heavy rain the preceding night—and now a beautiful day, with brilliant sun, gave us every advantage; while the mountain air, with active and passive exercise in alternation, produced, at once, sensations of health and hunger, so little felt in the close and deep valley of dissipation which we had left behind us at Baden.
SCHWEIN-GENERAL.
It was on the summit of a lofty mountain between Laffenau and Herrenalb, that we fell in with one of those generals, or, I should rather say, field-marshals, (immortalized by the “Old Man of the Brunnens”) who, with three or four aid-de-camps, was marching and manœuvering a “swinish multitude” of raw recruits among these alpine heights. They were evidently less a fighting than a foraging party, levying contributions on every thing edible in these sombre pineries. It was also manifest that, whether from the morning air or the supperless night, they were by no means over nice, either in their olfactory or gustatory senses; for nothing seemed to come amiss to them, or to prove unsavoury or indigestible. But although provender turned up at almost every step, they were a grumbling and grunting, as well as an awkward squad, and so prone to predatory excursions, that the schwein-general and his staff were constantly flogging them into the regular ranks. Their long legs and lank sides shewed that their fare was not of the most fattening nature—or, that they had little else than predatory rations to live upon. They had been called out early that morning, by bugle and horn, from their various bivouacs in Laffenau, with more appetite than order, for their mountain drill. The general (or field-marshal) with his aid-de-camps, and some vigilant videttes, of the canine species, had no small difficulty in compelling their guerilla corps of maurauders to keep “close order;” for they were constantly deploying to the right and to the left—shooting a-head—or straggling in the rear, despite the proclamations of the general, the stripes of the subalterns, and the biting rebuffs of the quadrupeds, who, ever and anon, lugged back into the ranks some long-faced and bleeding deserter, amid the grunts and groans of his sympathising companions, on whom, however, these summary sentences of a drum-head, or rather mountain-head, court-martial appeared to make but a transient impression.
On taking leave of General Swein, I could not help making some “odious comparisons” between him and some other generals, “melioris notæ,” in various parts, and at various epochs of this world. He did not, like too many of his order, lay villages in ashes, and massacre the inhabitants when rushing from the flames—or deliver their wives and daughters to the tender mercies of an enfuriate soldiery—he did not murder his prisoners in cool blood, by nailing them to trees, as marks for an undisciplined rabble of fanatic banditti to exercise their muskets—he did not drag citizens of a free state from their homes, and consign them to the mines and wilds of Hyperborean regions—he did not mock the forms of Heavenly justice, and slaughter the victims of his ambition or revenge in the fosse or on the glacis—he did not turn the fertile district into a frightful desert, as the effectual means of ensuring peace—(“ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem vocant”)—he did not perform these or any similar exploits, and, therefore, he has had no pious advocate to justify his crimes, or impartial historian to record his virtues!
Descending by a long and zig-zag road from the Swine-General’s camp, we arrive at Herrenalb, situated in a romantic glen, enclosed by lofty mountains. Here we lunched, and rested our horses, who certainly had better fare than their masters. Black bread, bad butter, hard eggs, and chopped hay for tea, were devoured without grumbling, in consequence of the canine appetite acquired on the alpine heights. On leaving Herrenalb, we pass on our left, one of the most singular and fantastic groups of basaltic rocks which I have anywhere seen. They appear like a gigantic fortress, with buttresses and embrasures. A traveller has remarked of these productions of subterranean fire, that—“on croirait qu’une imagination fantastique a presidé a leur formation.” They probably issued from a deep-seated volcano, in the form of molten lava, at the time when Staffa and the Giant’s Causeway rose from the bowels of the earth, and congealed in pillars on the shores of Antrim and Argyll.
“Firm on its rocky base each pillar stands—