THIS beautiful and wonderful river, the cause of much contention and many songs, was less than one half-hour’s ride. Who has not talked and lectured with stereopticon views on the Rhine the past winter? Every woman’s club has at least from two to five to give guide-book descriptions, and expects their fair listeners to believe that in the few hours passing down this stream in a “schnell Dampfschiffahrt” they are able to tell all its history. We were near enough to this noble stream to enjoy it many times, but there was one of our trips more notable than others. We had taken rate tickets to Coblenz to see its grand monument and other points of interest. Those who are able to travel up-stream, as it was our good fortune many times to do, perhaps had a better opportunity to enjoy the varied and romantic scenery which comes into view at every turn in the river. We had gone to Coblenz for the day, but the trip was perverted and twisted to mean anything by a busybody who could not lay aside her gossip long enough to enjoy the few hours she was fortunate enough to be on this noble stream. In after years what a loss to her when she misplaces her guide-book, and her little mind fails to remember one thing she saw! Rhenish castles lost their charm as she devoured two people who happened to be on the same boat because they had a right to be there, and could afford to enjoy this privilege. But the Rhine! We have all seen pictures of it and read its legends. You know that the Rhenish province is the richest in Germany, and it is to Germany what the Nile was to the Egyptians—a real delight and a theme of song and story. They say over there, “Our Rhine is like your Hudson.” Don’t think so. I am living near the banks of the latter and have gone its length many times, but it reminded me often of the canyons of Colorado in this way: it winds among the craggy hills of splendid form, turning so abruptly as to leave you often shut in, with no visible outlet from the wall of rock and vineyards. The castles were gazed upon, with their ruins, some with feudal towers and battlements still perfect, and hanging on the crags, or standing sharp against the sky, or nestling by the stream. The most beautiful one to me is Burg Rheinstein. I don’t know whether it is admired because of its claim that Cæsar crossed here or a couple of miles upstream, or that it was the birthplace of some feudal baron; it is probably better known for the fine brand of wine made there. Whether its vine-clad hills resemble a crazy-quilt or not, with its many shades of green fastened together with stone-wall terraces one way, and joined together with sticks like bean-poles another way, it is satisfying, and you’ve seen the Rhine, and you can lord it over some by saying, “When we were on the Rhine.” In some respects it resembles our own New York. The mercenary wretches you encounter at every point sort of make one forget about its legendary reputation.
Like all Continental Europe a mercenary atmosphere is omnipresent. You have to buy all your views. The national monument at Rhüdesheim-on-the-Rhine is one of its most interesting spots, just opposite Bingen-on-the-Rhine. This grand monument commands a view of about ninety miles on a clear day in this part of Germany. There is an inclined railway to it from the village below; but we took a carriage, driving up its steep hillside, with the vineyards stretching away in rows for miles on either side. The little houses clinging to the hillsides are quaint and queer. As we wended our way through the little village, they seemed jammed into the crevices between the steep hills. The streets are all cobble-stoned, and, as we clattered up them, above the clatter of the horses’ feet we could hear the bells ring loudly for matins, the sound reverberating in the narrow way, and following us with its benediction when we were far up the hillside. A splendid forest of trees covered the hilltop, not trimmed and cut into allées of arches, as we too frequently see on this side of the Atlantic.
Sometimes one feels that the castles come so thick that our appreciation would have been greater if they had been fewer. A shifting panorama of vine-clad hills or mountains, with here and there an old feudal tower. About the only variation is in the English people you are meeting at every turn. The variety seems almost infinite, but they all impress you as a people with no nonsense and very strong individuality, and whatever information they give you you can rely upon it, “don cher know!” The American impatience is manifested everywhere—first on boats and trains and first off. You can bet on them every time. The New York “step lively” gait.
What shall we do? This was the question as we sat in a most delicious place in “Kur” Garden in one of those cozy nooks overlooking extensive grounds under grand old trees (no mosquitoes), listening to the band playing in its gilded bower, and surrounded by the choicest art, which for the time being paled the moon which was rising in the same regal splendor that characterizes her on the western hemisphere. Shall we continue our daily walks through winding ways up terraced hills, flanked by splendid masonry and hidden in trees, and palaces as a rich façade for a background? Here the field sports were being indulged in by great numbers. Shall we sit here and dream in floods of golden sunlight, or shall we proceed to Munich by way of Nürnberg?
CHAPTER VI
WE are on our way to Nürnberg next morning—one of the pleasant railroad rides of our tour—ever-changing pictures, from undulating stretches to rugged mountains; we had but to look pleasantly at the conductor and accompany the billet with a mark—that meant that we could probably have the entire carriage to ourselves for the long ride. Thus it proved. Amid cushions and books we spent another delightful day, so that we were ready and in earnest after our delightful rest at Wiesbaden for sight-seeing. The advantage a trip has with neither laid-out plans nor places to make within a limited number of days or hours, was clearly shown to us. We never knew where we were going, and seldom went where we set forth. Nürnberg is such an exceedingly interesting town that most tourists you meet say, “Don’t miss Nürnberg.” Why it is such a city was the question. All we could find out that they did there to make it such a busy centre, was the manufacture of toys and fancy articles.
Nürnberg is characteristically South German, and the quaintest town in the Empire. In order to preserve that unity of mediæval aspect for which it is remarkable, the municipal surveyors insist on all new erections being designed in keeping with the older structures. Through the centre of the town flows the many-bridged Pegnitz. Here are old bridges, obelisks, and memorials of triumphal entries of conquerors and princes. Around the older district runs a well-preserved wall, with nearly fourscore towers. We visited the old castle standing on the hill overlooking the old town, and saw the “Deutsche Mädchen” drop the water in the deep, deep well that takes six seconds to reach the bottom, by actual count. Here soldiers had to come a half-mile underground for their drinking-water. We gazed on the house in which Albrecht Dürer lived; this still possesses many interesting relics of that great German artist. We noticed the “Rathaus,” whose interior contains a considerable quantity of mediæval German work, including specimens of Dürer. A relief facing “Rathaus” is considered the finest of Krafft’s works; the interior contains some painted glass by Hirschvogel, and Peter Vischer’s masterpiece, the Sebaldus tomb. One more thing—St. Lorenzkirche—a beautiful Gothic, dating back to the thirteenth century; the most striking points of the exterior are the western façade and its porch, with a splendid rose window above it. It contains magnificent stained-glass works of art, from the fifteenth to the sixteenth centuries, including the so-called pyramid, designed and executed by Adam Krafft, the most exquisite thing I ever saw; and a candelabra by Peter Vischer. I insisted upon lingering in this artistic atmosphere of the fifteenth century, but my constant companion balked, saying, “It might be an artistic atmosphere to some, but it was a nasty, musty old one to him.”
These old Gothic builders let their fancy riot in grotesque figures of animals, saints, and imps. Saints and angels and monkeys climb over one portal of the Cathedral. From the ground to the top is one mass of rich stonework, the creation of genius that hundreds of years ago knew no other way to write its poems than with the chisel. This city is a “has-beener,” no “is-er.” It lives upon the memory of what it has been, and trades upon relics of its former fame. What it ever would have been without Albrecht Dürer, and Adam Krafft the stone mason, and Peter Vischer the bronze-worker, and Viet Stoss the wood-carver, and Hans Sachs the shoemaker and poet-minstrel it is difficult to say. Truly their works live after them, their statues are set up in the streets, their works in almost every church and city building. Pictures and groups in stone and wood and all sorts of carving are reproduced in all shop windows for sale. The city is full of their memories, and the business of the city, aside from its manufactory of endless toys, seems to consist in reproducing them and their endless works to sell to strangers. Nürnberg lives in the past, and (like some people we know) traffics on its ancient reputation. At the fish market we see odd old women with Rembrandt colors in faces and costumes. During our drive through crooked, narrow streets, with houses overhanging and thrusting out gables, we saw many with quaint carvings and odd little windows above, with panes of glass—hexagons—resembling sections of honeycomb; with stairs on the outside, and stone floors in the upper passages; others with dozens of dormer windows, hanging balconies of stone (carved and figure-beset) and no end of queer rooms.