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It was early in the June of 184-. I had been sitting in a German railroad-car since early morning, vainly trying to amuse myself in discovering a degree of singularity in some one of the many passengers that were picked up at the different stations between Kehl and Heidelberg. I had taken a seat in the third class car, expecting there to find a miscellaneous mingling of the busy classes of Germans; but, alas, for my entertainment! it was one class too high—I should have taken the fourth. After I had chosen a seat as near comfortable as the wooden benches would admit of, I perceived, to my disappointment, that I was surrounded by that class of people, neither high enough nor low enough to be interesting; every one seemed completely wrapped up in himself. There was scarcely any conversation, and each face soon settled in the repose of quiet German thoughtfulness. Meerschaums ere long made their appearance out of the depths of profound side-pockets; and, as far as dependence on my fellow-passengers was concerned, there was none, to beguile the tedium of a long journey. A long, heart-felt pull, a quiet wink of satisfaction thereat, a somewhat varied fingering of the pipe-bowl to press the ashes—that was all. Diagonally across the car and nearly facing me, sat a very pretty girl whom, from the timid wandering of her deep-blue eyes, I judged to be unmarried. I watched her some time to observe where she recognized a protector, but her eye rested nowhere particularly; it seemed uneasy, searching, and I concluded she was going but a short distance, and alone. Just as the train was moving, a handsome young man stepped in the door, looked around the car, was recognized by a calming of the uneasy eyes, and took his seat before them, in the middle row, turning his back toward me. As he bent toward her and whispered, she did not smile, her face seemed too thoughtful; she only gazed in his eyes and spoke not a word. Ha! thought I, I see how it is, and settled myself to enjoy a morsel of sentimentality. My gentleman soon finished his first course, and then leaned back in his seat to chew the cud at his leisure. I thought he relished it very much, for it was full twenty minutes before he made another motion; during all which time the young lady did little but gaze at him, it appeared to me, with perfect satisfaction. After a time the gaze of satisfaction changed to a look of concern, and finally of marked uneasiness. She leaned forward, spoke to him, yet he heeded her not. She arose suddenly, and I was so absorbed in anxiety that I almost arose with her. He started as from a lethargy, and darted to the vacated corner, whilst she quietly took his seat and I saw her face no more. I still saw the same blue eyes in the corner, “yet I saw them but a moment,” for the lids soon closed over them, and I knew that the kind sister had given up her corner for the lazy brother to sleep in. “Corn-cobs twist his hair,” said I, for I was doubly provoked, first, at his deception, and then, I saw the pretty face no more. I did not indulge in romance again, but turned my eyes and my thoughts to the outer world. The monotony of the company made me stupid; the prolonged, premeditated winks over the smoking bowls made me drowsy, and the flitting lights and shadows of the varied scenery seemed to beckon me to dreamy lands of wine and song and ghosts and chivalry. Beyond the green slopes to the eastward, the Black Forest stretched afar to an immeasurable distance; mysterious outlines swelled and dwindled in the darkness; a huge head peered over the tree-tops; another and another; the ghouls stared at us, it seemed to me, “more in sorrow than in anger.” I could not tell why, but their malignity seemed forgotten in fear and wonder. There was a scream, a terrific scream—of the locomotive—and pell-mell, helter-skelter, heels up, head down, away they darted like a squad of frogs before a bouncing poodle. I was fully awakened to the surprising loveliness of the landscape around me, but I had little time to enjoy it—another scream, a rumble, a series of jerks, and we were at the—terminus, in Heidelberg.
I was soon in the good care of mine host of the Hoff, who certainly possesses one of the most desirable locations and establishments for entertainment in the world. Close by the railroad depot, it is about a mile from the town, and a beautiful avenue leading all the way, is lined with elms and lindens on either side. On the ascent of a steep hill which rises abruptly from the town, and about mid-way to the summit, is the celebrated ruined castle of Heidelberg, whose lords once swayed the feudal sceptre over all the surrounding country. The gay conversation at the table d’hôte was in strong contrast with the, not moodiness but apathy, of the railroad car. A large musical-box, upon the plan of our pocket toy of that name, but as large as a good-sized wardrobe—discoursed sweet music the while. The company which I found introduction to, was sufficiently entertaining to withhold me from my contemplated walk toward the ruins that evening, and the beautiful promenades in front of the hotel were quite gay. Early next morning with an agreeable English party I set out for the castle. As we neared it along the straight avenue, we advanced farther and farther from a flank view. The front came slowly out with its red towers and crumbling battlements, and the vast structure grew in the majesty of its ruins. As we approached the foot of the mount, a road crossed the avenue, leading toward the river to the left, to the right leading up the mountain. We ascended a considerable time after having lost sight of the castle, and as yet, so early was the hour, we had seen no one astir. No habitation of any kind was along this road, which, before us, appeared to descend from the solitude of the hills. We clambered up, up, up, until at last, said one:
“We surely are as high as the castle, and I do believe we ought to have taken this left-hand road just below us.”
“No, no!” said another, “let us go on and trust to fortune; for in so beautiful and romantic a place we cannot go amiss—maybe that we shall make some grand discovery, too, and then we will jointly write a book to put it before the world.”
The conversation was cut short by a noise up the road; we looked, and there stood a man leaning against a tree by the road-side, waiting for his oxen and cart which were moving slowly down the road above him. He called to his cattle in a loud voice, and hummed an air as he leaned back against the tree again. Just at that moment the piping cry of a lark rang through the wood, and ere it died away he peeled forth in boisterous answer—
“Ho! for the deep where the sea-bird sings!
Ho! for the bowers where his merry voice rings!”
Here, as he perceived us, he halted in his strain and walked demurely by his cart. In a few words it was determined among us that we should inquire of him the road to the castle; but as each one declined the honor of gaining the information, upon the plea that perhaps his style of German might be unintelligible to the unpolite ears of the rustic, I volunteered the undertaking.
“Good morning, my friend?” I hailed him. “Be so good as to tell us the way to the castle.”