A quarter of a century has nearly elapsed since I chanced to be crossing from the island of Salamis to Athens, with a young Athenian of rank, who was also, in his way, “affianced.” We spent, I remember, the night together in an open boat, and certainly never did I before or since witness the aching of a lad’s heart produce effects so closely resembling the aching of his stomach. My friend lay at the bottom of the trabacolo absolutely groaning with love; his moans were piteous beyond description, and nothing seemed to afford his affliction any relief but the following stanza, which over and over again he continued most romantically singing to the moon:—
“Quando la notte viene,
Non ho riposo, o Nice;
Son misero e infelice
Esser lontan da te!”
On his arrival at Athens he earnestly entreated me to call for him on the object of his affection, for he himself, by the custom of his country, was not allowed to see her, precisely from the same reason which permitted the young German couple to stroll together through the lonely, lovely forest of the Niederwald, namely—because they were “verlobt.”
The bridal party now separated themselves from my guide, his mule, and myself, they, waving their handkerchiefs to us, descending a path on the right; we continuing the old track, which led us at last to Rudesheim.
As soon as the horses could be put to my carriage, it being quite late, I set out, by moonlight, to return. Vineyards, orchards, and harvest were now veiled from my view, but the castle of Prince Metternich—the solitary tower of Scharfenstein, and the dark range of the Taunus mountains had assumed a strange, obscure, and supernatural appearance, magnificently contrasted with the long bright, serpentine course of the Rhine, which, shining from Ringen to Mainz, glided joyfully along, as if it knew it had attracted to itself the light which the landscape had lost.
On leaving the great chaussée, which runs along the banks of the river, like the towing-path of a canal, we ascended the cross road, down which we had trundled so merrily in the morning, and without meeting cows, carts, toothless old women, or any other obstruction, I reached about midnight the Bad-Haus of Schlangenbad. On ascending the staircase, I found that the two little lamps in the passage had expired; however, the key of my apartments was in my pocket, the moon was shining through the window upon my table, and so before one short hour had elapsed, Rudesheim—the niggardly Bishop of Mainz, with his tower and rats—the bridal party—the enchanted cave—the lofty Rossel, and the magnificent range of the Niederwald, were all tumbling head over heels in my mind, while I lay as it were quietly beneath them—asleep.
[WIESBADEN.]
The day at last arrived for my departure from the green, happy little valley of Schlangenbad. Whether or not its viper baths really possess the effect ascribed to them, of tranquillizing the nerves, I will not presume to declare; but that the loneliness and loveliness of the place can fascinate, as well as tranquillize, the mind, I believe as firmly, as I know that the Schlangenbad water rubs from the body the red rust of Langen-Schwalbach.
Those who, on the tiny surface of this little world, please themselves with playing what they call “the great game of life,” would of course abhor a spot in which they could neither be envied nor admired; but to any grovelling-minded person, who thinks himself happy when he is quiet and clean, I can humbly recommend this valley, as a retreat exquisitely suited to his taste.