Heine's Pictures 
 of Travel 
 
 The World's Great Books 
 
 Committee of Selection 
 
 Thomas B. Reed 
 
 Speaker of the House 
 of Representatives 
 
 Edward Everett Hale 
 
 Author of The Man 
 Without a Country 
 
 William R. Harper 
 
 President of the 
 University of Chicago 
 
 Ainsworth R. Spofford 
 
 Of the Congressional 
 Library 
 
 Rossiter Johnson 
 
 Editor of Little Classics and Editor-in-Chief of this Series 
 
 Aldine Edition 
 
HEINE. 
 
 Photogravure from the portrait painted from life by P. Schick. 
 
Pictures of Travel 
 
 Heinrich Heine 
 
 Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland 
 
 With a Critical and Biographical Introduction 
 by Charles Harvey Genung 
 
 Illustrated 
 
 New York 
 
 Aftf OF CONQ) 
 
 D. Appleton and Company 
 1898 
 
 APR 27 
 
 "Wer f 
 
 2nd COPY, 
 1898, 
 
 30PU 
 

 
 6151 
 
 Copyright, 1898, 
 
 Ey d. appleton and company. 
 
FAMOUS AND UNIQUE MANUSCRIPT AND 
 BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 A series of fac-similes, showing the development of manuscript and 
 book illustrating during 4000 years. 
 
 EMBARKING FOR THE CRUSADES. 
 
 After a miniature in a manuscript of the XlVth Century in the 
 museum of the Louvre. 
 
HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 IT is difficult, even after the lapse of more than forty years 
 since Heine's death, to assign to the poet his true place 
 and to the man his moral value. Heine's nature was 
 complex, and it was a complexity of unresolved discords, of 
 unreconciled contrasts. Never have critical judgments been 
 more widely divergent than those which have been passed 
 upon the life and works of Heine. That he is the greatest 
 literary force in Germany since Goethe is now a clearly estab- 
 lished fact, but how this can be, in view of his moral and 
 temperamental defects, is a question which continues to stim- 
 ulate and baffle the student. Goethe's life and works form 
 an harmonious whole ; Heine's life and Heine's lyrics are 
 often strangely at variance. The reader is never sure of 
 fair treatment from Heine. Moved to tears by the exquisite 
 pathos, beauty, and lilt of his verse, we are suddenly con- 
 fronted by the pale face of the poet distorted into a cynical 
 grin. While we gaze delighted upon a beautiful picture, it 
 is converted before our very eyes, by a final stroke of the 
 capricious artist's brush, into a ridiculous caricature. We sit 
 in a solemn temple listening to music, sublime and sweet, 
 but, as it dies away, we hear from without the strains of 
 mocking antiphonies. It is this trait which increases the 
 difficulty of judging Heine aright. Loftiness of moral char- 
 acter has come justly to be regarded as an essential condition 
 to all literary work of the highest order. "The greatness 
 of the great poets, the power of their criticism of life, is that 
 their virtue is sustained." This condition is not fulfilled in 
 the case of Heine ; indeed, he himself takes pains to remind 
 us that it is not. His virtue came in moments; it was not 
 sustained, and when it came, too often he turned it into ridi- 
 cule. And yet he was a poet who displayed divine inspi- 
 
IV HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 ration in his wonderful lyrics and the highest brilliancy of 
 wit and style in his prose, while his character, his outward 
 life, his cynicism, his coarseness, his mockery, made painful 
 dissonances with the glorious chords that his higher nature 
 struck. But when Tyndall said that if an object should dis- 
 obey the law of gravitation, we were not to go forth and 
 proclaim a miracle, but quietly to seek to ascertain the cause 
 of the phenomenon, he uttered a truth which may be applied to 
 literary criticism as well as to physics. The conflicting traits 
 of Heine's character present a difficulty, but they do not 
 warrant a pedantic denial of the beauty and sincerity of the 
 poet's best work, or of the genuineness of his inspiration. The 
 pearls, to paraphrase his own figure, are not less fair and pure 
 because the ocean in whose calm depths they lie has its heaving 
 tides and tempests. 
 
 Carlyle, writing at a time when Heine's importance in 
 literature had not yet become clear, disregarded his advent 
 and laid all stress upon the elder Romantic poets as continu- 
 ators of Goethe. Matthew Arnold, while fully recognizing 
 that the wreath with which posterity has crowned Heine is of 
 laurel, not of oak, seeks a solution of the character problem 
 by laying emphasis upon Heine's function as a brave soldier 
 fighting in the vanguard for the liberation of humanity. But 
 that is only half a solution ; it would still leave unexplained 
 how the poet could turn the tenderest emotions to ridicule 
 and the loftiest conceptions to caricature. Moreover, to have 
 been a brave soldier in such a fight would seem to demand a 
 tougher moral fiber than Heine had. George Eliot saw his 
 faults, but, although her essay was written just before the 
 poet died, and in the midst of the conflict that was waged 
 around him, she proclaimed him the first great wit, the second 
 great lyricist, and the greatest prose writer of German litera- 
 ture. And in this view of him, with various modifications, 
 the opinions of men are now united. Robert Louis Steven- 
 son has called him the " most perfect of poets." Hans 
 Christian Andersen, who in his youth had felt the influence 
 of Heine and had known him personally in later life, wrote 
 his mature opinion of him in 1865: "Heine is a glittering 
 firework ; it goes out, and dark night surrounds us. He is a 
 witty babbler, impious and frivolous, and yet a true poet. 
 
HEINRICH HEINE V 
 
 His books are elfin girls in gauze and silk which swarm with 
 vermin, so that one cannot let them move freely about the 
 rooms of respectably dressed people." There is the puzzling 
 contradiction again : a true poet, but a witty, impious, frivo- 
 lous babbler ! It is Matthew Arnold, the poet, and not Mat- 
 thew Arnold, the critic, who has caught the clearest vision of 
 Heine's tricksy and elusive nature : — 
 
 " The Spirit of the world, 
 Beholding the absurdity of men — 
 Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile, 
 For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. 
 That smile was Heine!" 
 
 That is a complete characterization of Heine ; poetry sees 
 and the truth of the vision is at once recognized ; there is no 
 need of an explanation. But we may, perhaps, arrive at a 
 more prosaic understanding of the tortuous intricacies of 
 Heine's character, by a rapid review of those circumstances 
 of his life which most affected his development. Harry 
 Heine was born at Düsseldorf on the Rhine, on December 
 x 3> I 797- He was a Jew. This fact in the social organi- 
 zation of that time was a degradation that entailed upon him 
 manifold humiliations and sufferings ; these made life-lasting 
 scars. He gloried in the great achievements of his ancient 
 race, but he was obliged formally to renounce his allegiance 
 to it and was repeatedly subjected to indignities because of 
 it. His proud and sensitive nature made these trials doubly 
 bitter. It has been said of him that he was born without 
 a skin. " He had a sensibility so quivering," writes the emi- 
 nent French critic, Emile Faguet, " that his sighs were cries, 
 and, thanks to his imagination, cries as infinitely poetic as they 
 were pitiful." In his Jewish origin lies the chief cause of 
 the incongruities of his character. The Jews hated him as a 
 renegade and mocker ; the Christians despised him as a Jew 
 and iconoclast. His sparkling and incisive wit was the 
 armor in which he wrapped his sensitive soul, for defense 
 against the inclemency of his environment, for offense 
 against his enemies. It was both his salvation and his curse ; 
 he became its slave, and matters of much solemn moment to 
 him with this regard lost their solemnity and became the ob- 
 
Vi HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 jects of his ribald mockery. With his fine elegiac power and 
 poetic sentiment he united an instinct for raillery and even 
 buffoonery. To his incompatible double position as Jew and 
 German is, it would seem, directly attributable that unfortu- 
 nate, though often amusing, dissonance between the prompt- 
 ings of his better nature and the jocose distortions which 
 marred their utterance. More than once, however, the cry 
 of real agony was wrung from him in all its unmixed pathos, 
 and tragic accents are heard behind the mask of comedy. 
 
 " To be born with diverse souls," writes Edward Dowden, 
 " is embarrassing, but it was Heine's distinction. It signi- 
 fies that life is to be no steadfast progress, directed by some 
 guiding light, but a wavering advance through a countless 
 series of attractions passing into repulsions, and of repul- 
 sions transformed into attractions." This is descriptive of 
 Heine's experience, but had he been a Teuton born in Ger- 
 many or a Jew born elsewhere, this diversity might have 
 been less marked. His early education was unfavorable. 
 His father, Samson Heine, was an amiable and accomplished 
 man of little force ; from him the son derived his artistic tem- 
 perament. His mother, Elizabeth von Geldern, the daughter 
 of a well-to-do Jewish physician of Düsseldorf, was a deist of 
 the school of Voltaire with a highly intellectual contempt for 
 poetry. She forbade her son all imaginative literature. It 
 was at the house of his uncle, Simon von Geldern, that young 
 Heine came under the thrall of such formative works as 
 " Don Quixote," the " Sentimental Journey," and " Gulliver's 
 Travels." The influence of the first two books is evident in 
 his own writings. No religious influence was ever brought 
 to bear upon him ; it was only the poetry of religion that 
 appealed to him, and the pride he took in Hebrew traditions 
 had no admixture of religious feeling. It was, indeed, a bit- 
 ter trial to him when in 1825, in accordance with the Prussian 
 law and in order to enter the legal profession, he had himself 
 baptized in the Lutheran faith. It was then that his original 
 name of Harry was changed to Heinrich. The act was purely 
 one of convenience and had no religious meaning, but he felt 
 that he had forsworn his people and humbled his exultant 
 pride of birth. It brought his innermost soul into conflict with 
 his surroundings ; it rendered the harmonious development 
 
HEINRICH HEINE Vli 
 
 of the man impossible. Heine's intellectual development 
 was from subjectivity to objectivity, from within outwards; 
 but, while the heat within expanded, the cold reality without 
 contracted, and his soul, warped and cracked, could no longer 
 ring true. 
 
 Another grief which exercised a lifelong and embittering 
 influence upon the poet was his attachment to his cousin, 
 Amalie Heine. In 1816 Heine had been sent to Hamburg 
 to work as a clerk in the counting-house of his wealthy uncle, 
 Salomon Heine. He fell in love with his uncle's daughter ; 
 it proved to be the one great passion of his life, but his love 
 was unrequited. He was at best but a poor relative in a 
 family in which commercial considerations were paramount. 
 The shadow of this sorrow was never raised from his life ; 
 beneath it he wrote some exquisite love lyrics, but many also 
 that were cynical, unworthy, and coarse. The feeling was 
 genuine, but the duality of his nature exhibited that feeling 
 in contrasted phases, with the grief of Faust and the leer of 
 Mephisto. The knowledge of this early disappointment is 
 another help towards an understanding of a " true " poet 
 who could vent his sorrow in beautiful songs and at the 
 same time conceal his sobs behind ribald laughter. If the 
 latter jars upon us, perhaps it gave him relief, and at all 
 events it is a small price that posterity has to pay in order to 
 possess some of the most simple and pathetic songs that ever 
 a rejected lover sang. 
 
 A business career was, of course, wholly uncongenial to 
 Heine's finely organized spirit. With much reluctance his 
 uncle finally granted him a small annual stipend, and in 18 19 
 Heine went to Bonn to study law. There he came under the 
 direct personal influence of Schlegel and entered at once upon 
 the whole inheritance of medieval Germanic tradition which 
 the Romantic School had restored to the German race. Of 
 this school Heine was destined to be the last representative ; 
 he wrote its history and sang in " Atta Troll " its mocking 
 dirge. From Bonn he went to Göttingen, which he after- 
 wards so mercilessly satirized in the " Travel Pictures." 
 Thence in a period of enforced rustication he went to 
 Berlin, then the center of intellectual activity. He was re- 
 ceived into the intimate circle of many of the most distin- 
 
Vlll HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 guished men of the time and found a home in the salon of 
 Rahel von Varnhagen. Rahel's husband secured an opening 
 for the young poet in the columns of the " Gesellschafter," 
 and his poems were so well received that the publisher of 
 the magazine brought out a volume of them. These were 
 the "Junge Leiden" (Youthful Sorrows) which now consti- 
 tute the first part of the famous " Book of Songs." Two 
 tragedies which followed, " Almansor " and " Ratcliff," the 
 latter written under the then fashionable influence of Scott, 
 were unnoticed failures, but the Lyric Intermezzo which 
 accompanied their publication in book form exhibits Heine's 
 best qualities. His poems of later years contain higher 
 imaginative flights, but the "astonishing Intermezzo," as his 
 French biographer, Jules Legras, calls it, reveals Heine him- 
 self with all his elegiac tenderness, his folk-song simplicity, 
 his inimitable drollery, and his flashing wit. Heine found 
 himself suddenly famous. 
 
 But meanwhile the poet's vogue brought small pecuniary 
 return. The law was as uncongenial to him as business had 
 been. The stipend from his uncle, however, was granted 
 upon the condition that he should take his degree and prac- 
 tise law in Hamburg. His health was bad, and his uncle 
 grudgingly allowed him to go to Cuxhaven, where he began 
 the series of " North Sea " poems, and to Norderney, which 
 gave its name to a section of the "Travel Pictures." A 
 visit to Hamburg inspired him to write the sorrowful songs 
 of the "Heimkehr" (Home-coming), which became a part 
 of the "Book of Songs." At Hamburg he again saw 
 Amalie, now a wife and a mother; he left the house, feel- 
 ing that the whole "world smelt of withered violets." The 
 sense of dependence upon his uncle was irksome to him ; 
 he knew that he was regarded as a good-for-nothing; in- 
 deed, his uncle called him "my stupid nephew." It was 
 characteristic of Heine that upon a subsequent occasion 
 he said : " My dear uncle, did you really expect not to 
 have to pay for the honor of bearing my name ? " But in 
 this one can see the bravado of wit concealing the bitterness 
 of unwilling dependence. He returned to Göttingen to carry 
 out his contract. In a flying visit to Berlin he enjoyed 
 the exhilaration of fame. He was greeted as the German 
 
HEINRICH HEINE ix 
 
 Byron, and laughed at the incongruity. But a few months 
 later when the news of Byron's death reached Germany, 
 he wrote: "Byron was the only man to whom I felt my- 
 self related, and we may have Lad a good deal of resem- 
 blance in many things." In that summer of 1824 Heine 
 strapped his knapsack on his back and took the now famous 
 tramp through the Harz Mountains. This trip he has im- 
 mortalized in that sprightliest product of his pen, "The 
 Harz Journey." It is the most generally appreciated of all 
 his prose works, perhaps the most important section of the 
 " Travel Pictures," and certainly, despite the flavor of Sterne, 
 a new thing in literature. In the following year Heine was 
 baptized and with some difficulty succeeded in taking his 
 degree. 
 
 It was on his way to the Harz that Heine had his cele- 
 brated meeting with Goethe, of which the younger poet has 
 furnished so amusing a description. He was awed by the 
 German Jupiter and was about to speak Greek to him, but, 
 finding that he understood German, Heine remarked that 
 the Saxon plums were very good. For many winter nights 
 Heine had been thinking what he should say to Goethe if 
 he ever met him. This was what he said, and " Goethe 
 smiled." It is also related that in response to Goethe's 
 inquiry : "What is your business in Weimar?" Heine replied 
 that he was writing a Faust. " Have you any other business 
 in Weimar ? " asked Goethe. It is certain that whatever 
 the truth about the interview was, Heine felt himself injured 
 in his self-esteem. Goethe doubtless treated the young man 
 with condescension, and for several years thereafter Heine 
 characteristically transformed the admiration that he really 
 felt for Goethe into ridicule of "the great man in a silk coat." 
 But after Goethe's death, Heine made a frank confession : 
 " It is difficult," he wrote, " to guess the particular motive 
 that may have impelled individuals to give public expression 
 to their anti-Goethean convictions. In the case of only one 
 person I know that motive perfectly well, and since I am 
 myself that person I will honestly confess it : it was envy ! " 
 And of Goethe's songs he said : " The harmonious lines 
 twine around your heart like a tender lover; the word em- 
 braces you while the thought gives you a kiss." But when 
 
X HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 Heine wrote these words he had himself become almost 
 Goethe's peer as a lyric poet. Heine's peculiar piquant 
 flavor is his own, but the folk-song simplicity of his verse had 
 been made possible for him by the work of Herder and 
 Goethe. Their influence was directly transmitted to him 
 through the poets of the Romantic School, and chiefly through 
 Wilhelm Müller and "The Boy's Wonder Horn" of Brentano 
 and Arnim. To Müller Heine wrote in 1826: "It was in 
 your songs that I found what I looked for, — the pure tone 
 and the true simplicity. What I yearn to tell you is that, 
 with the exception of Goethe, there is no lyric poet whom I 
 love so much as you." 
 
 In the " Travel Pictures," although they are filled with the 
 music of Heine's verse, "prose receives him in her wide 
 arms." From 1826 to 1831 these volumes of mingled prose 
 and verse were the author's chief care and the public's chief 
 delight or annoyance. In 1826 Heine wrote to Immermann : 
 "The 'Travel Pictures' are just now the place where I set 
 before the public whatever I will." And in the same year, 
 writing to Müller, he said : " In the next volume of my ' Travel 
 Pictures,' you will find in prose much that is mad, bitter, offen- 
 sive, angry, and very polemical. Times are really too bad 
 and whoever has strength, freedom, and boldness has also the 
 duty seriously to begin the fight against all that is bad and 
 puffed up, against all that is mediocre, and yet spreads itself 
 out so broad, so intolerably broad." It was in that year also 
 that Julius Campe, who was Heine's publisher from that time 
 forth, brought out the first volume of "Travel Pictures." It 
 contained " The Harz Journey," which had already appeared 
 in the "Gesellschafter"; but Heine had taken his degree 
 since then, and the delicious satire on Göttingen with which 
 the book opens was added. The poems of the sad "Home- 
 coming," five legends, and the first section of the " North 
 Sea " poems made up the rest of the volume. In April, 1827, 
 appeared the second volume, upon the very day of Heine's 
 departure for London. This comprised the delightful " Book 
 Le Grand " and the second and third cycles of the " North 
 Sea," of which the last cycle is in prose and now bears the 
 title, taken from the French edition, of " Norderney." Some 
 of the sections which formed parts of this original edition 
 
HEINRICH HEINE xi 
 
 have been omitted and the order of the others changed in 
 the later editions of Heine's collected works. This volume 
 made a still greater sensation than the first. The tiger be- 
 gan to show his claws. Napoleonic enthusiasm and anti-Hano- 
 verian tirades appear in " Norderney." " Book Le Grand " 
 is also strongly pro-Napoleonic and contains the well-known 
 diatribe against England, at which Heine himself had to laugh 
 in later years. His hatred of England at that time was due to 
 the fact that of all European states the island kingdom alone 
 had never shown hospitality to the imperial conqueror. Heine's 
 dislike of the pious mechanical British Philistine was growing 
 out of his personal experience at the very time that " Book 
 Le Grand " was electrifying Germany. The figure of Napo- 
 leon had completely dominated Heine's youthful fancy ; at 
 the age of sixteen he wrote the "Two Grenadiers." The 
 Rhinelands where he was born were under French rule, and 
 Le Grand, who gave his name to the book, was a drum 
 major in the French army; he was quartered upon the Heine 
 household in Düsseldorf, as nearly half a century earlier the 
 king's lieutenant was established in the house of Goethe's 
 father during the French occupation of Frankfort. Both 
 poets responded to the influence of this foreign and martial 
 element. The lieutenant and the drum major have passed 
 forever into the history of German literature. The sensation 
 caused by " Book Le Grand " on the political side cannot 
 now be understood when the passions of those days have 
 passed into the calm of history. The book was prohibited 
 everywhere within the sphere of Prussian influence. This 
 greatly increased its vogue, and Heine was elated. 
 
 By this time it was evident that Heine would never prac- 
 tise law. Nevertheless his uncle continued to pay him a 
 grudging pension. Places on the staff of two of Cotta's 
 literary enterprises in Munich were offered him, and he gladly 
 accepted. In the columns of the " General Political Annals " 
 appeared his " English Fragments," which afterwards formed 
 the fourth volume of the "Travel Pictures." But this jour- 
 nalistic enterprise failed ; the air of Munich was unhealthful, 
 and Heine seized the opportunity and in July, 1828, went to 
 Italy. Out of this experience grew the third volume of the 
 "Travel Pictures." "This third series," Heine wrote to 
 
XU HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 Moser, " shall be a man of war far more fearfully equipped ; 
 the cannon shall be of greater caliber, and I have discovered 
 quite a new powder for them. Neither shall it carry so 
 much ballast as its predecessor." The volume contained in 
 all editions the "Journey from Munich to Genoa" and the 
 " Baths of Lucca." This Italian section, although it added 
 to his fame and increased the fear in which he was held, did 
 him more harm than good and lost him many friends. The 
 new powder which he had discovered had a fierce rebound. 
 The book displays a fine enthusiasm and is a daring asser- 
 tion of rights, but it did the author permanent harm in many 
 quarters. Heine could not keep his friends ; his wit was too 
 uncontrolled and it was impossible to love him. Ten years 
 before Heine visited the baths of Lucca, Shelley had so- 
 journed there and sung, but, as William Sharp points out, 
 with what different feelings we regard the works and per- 
 sonalities of these two men ! It is this consideration that 
 gives point to Goethe's comment that Heine was deficient in 
 love. Arnold, quoting this comment, adds that the real defi- 
 ciency was " in self-respect, in true dignity of character," and 
 insists that the center of gravity in Heine's moral make-up 
 was his love of freedom : that he was " a brilliant, a most ef- 
 fective soldier in the Liberation War of humanity." But this 
 is to be understood only partly in a political sense ; it was the 
 war which Goethe waged all his life long to free mankind from 
 the shackles of outworn conventions. In this war Heine 
 was, indeed, a vigorous, if undisciplined, soldier. He was 
 never a leader. Reformers are cast in a sterner mold than 
 this Ariel of fancy. But in 1822 he wrote to Immermann: 
 " War against established wrong, prevailing folly, and the 
 bad ! If you will be my comrade at arms in this holy war, I 
 offer you joyfully my hand. Poetry is after all only a beau- 
 tiful accessory." But it was as a poet that Heine accom- 
 plished his work in the world, and his enduring fame is a 
 poet's fame. In the last years of his life he felt this : " I 
 will not abandon myself to hypocritical humility, and under- 
 value this noble name of a poet. One who is a poet is much, 
 and especially if one is a great lyric poet of Germany, the 
 poet of a people which in two things, philosophy and lyric 
 verse, has surpassed all other nations. I will not with that 
 
HEINRICH HEINE xiii 
 
 false modesty discovered by beggar knaves renounce my 
 glory." 
 
 Heine had now to experience the truth of Goethe's bitter 
 exclamation: "A German poet, a German martyr!" The 
 Italian section of the "Travel Pictures" had raised up a host 
 of enemies. The professorship which he had hoped to obtain 
 at Munich was definitely refused. He was warned that resi- 
 dence in Prussia was unsafe. And before he could get back 
 from Italy, his father died. A baptized Jew, disappointed in 
 love, dependent, without home encouragement or sympathy 
 in his literary strivings, and dissatisfied with the political con- 
 ditions under which he was living and which even threatened 
 his personal liberty, Heine, when he heard of the revolution 
 of 1830, felt all his old love for France revive. He had been 
 studying the literature of the French Revolution, and in the 
 spring of 183 1 his plans were ripe. He crossed the bound- 
 aries of his foster-land, and on the third of May arrived 
 in Paris. At first he was intoxicated with delight, but 
 "honeymoons pass so swiftly." The roseate colors in which 
 he painted this new act in the liberation of mankind faded 
 into the disillusionment of the gray reality. But for a quarter 
 of a century Paris remained his home, until his emaciated 
 body was taken away to be buried on Montmartre. In some 
 respects this sojourn in Paris was a misfortune. He never 
 became a part of French life and letters as Turgenef did. 
 He knew little of France, writes Emile Faguet, — "four salons, 
 five or six cafes, and Mathilde." Heine was not a patriot in 
 the narrower sense ; he hated the conventional patriot, but 
 he was a poet, and a poet never forgets to love the soil of his 
 native land. In spite of the ridicule which he heaped upon 
 the Philistinism of Germany, he always felt himself a Ger- 
 man and an exile on the streets of Paris. Jules Legras has 
 admirably set forth how deep was his attachment to the land 
 of his birth, although thence came to him the bitterest abuse, 
 and there the censor cruelly mutilated the works with which 
 he was enriching and enlivening German literature. But 
 Germany was his mother's home, and in Heine's character 
 there was no finer trait than appears in his devotion to the 
 dear old woman at the Dammthor in Hamburg. Nor is there 
 in all his verse anything more touching than the two sonnets 
 
xiv HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 addressed to her. When the evil days came, and disease 
 was slowly consuming him, he continued to send her cheerful 
 letters. She never read the papers and never learned of his 
 condition ; the fact that his letters were dictated he explained 
 by reference to his weak eyes. " Take good care of my poor 
 old mother ; she is, indeed, the pearl of women," he wrote to 
 his sister, and again in a whimsical strain : "I embrace my 
 dear little mother five and twenty times and love her better 
 than all the cats in the world." Upon the darker side of 
 Heine's life in Paris it is not necessary to dwell. Against it 
 shine out his filial love and the affectionate gratitude that he 
 always felt for his commonplace, but light-hearted and devoted 
 wife. 
 
 The great task which Heine set out to accomplish in Paris 
 was that of bringing about a better understanding between 
 the intelligent minds of France and Germany. Towards 
 this end he strove with energy and success. The wits of 
 Paris might well inquire concerning Heine, as once before 
 concerning one of his countrymen: "Who is this German 
 that permits himself to have more esprit than we ourselves ? " 
 And under cover of this wit, as brilliant and incisive as that 
 of the cleverest Frenchman, Heine interpreted to France the 
 German spirit, and to Germany he endeavored to give an 
 understanding of the complexity of French life, of the stage, 
 of painting, of music, and of politics, in which still rumbled 
 the echoes of '89. These articles appeared in the German 
 papers ; they bear the collective title of " French Conditions." 
 To Frenchmen he addressed his work, written in French, " De 
 l'Allemagne," adopting the title of Madame de StaeTs book 
 which had first opened the eyes of her countrymen to the spir- 
 itual qualities of their neighbors beyond the Rhine. Heine's 
 work is in two parts : the " History of Religion and Philoso- 
 phy in Germany " and the " Romantic School." Together these 
 treatises form a seriously conceived but whimsically painted 
 picture of the intellectual life of Germany. The philosophi- 
 cal cast of the first book is a St. Simonian pantheism ; the 
 author shows himself to be "the grandson of both Goethe 
 and Voltaire," but the work, although Heine's Mephistophe- 
 lian nature holds his better impulses in check, is nevertheless 
 a well-constructed history of German philosophic thought 
 
HEINRICH HEINE XV 
 
 from Luther to Hegel. It is in the " Romantic School," how- 
 ever, that Heine discovers his highest critical capacity. It is 
 a perfect garden of witty sayings and epigrammatic character- 
 izations. No work could have been more happily conceived 
 or more skilfully executed for the purpose of conveying to 
 the French intelligence an idea of the profundity and beauty 
 of German literature; even the critical and historical state- 
 ments are instinct with the very spirit of romantic Germany. 
 Besides these works of more lasting importance, Heine pub- 
 lished the brilliant and fantastic " Florentine Nights," an 
 outgrowth of the Italian journey which was then left and 
 still remains a fragment, the perfunctory commercial under- 
 taking entitled " Shakespeare's Maids and Matrons," the 
 fragmentary " Memoirs of Herr von Schnabelewopski," often 
 irreverent and vulgar, but always witty, and finally, on a loftier 
 plain, the " Rabbi von Bacharach," which, like the " Floren- 
 tine Nights," was written much earlier and now published as 
 a fragment : it is a worthy and dignified utterance of the woe 
 of Israel. These works, with the regrettable book on Ludwig 
 Börne, represent the decade from 183 1 to 1841, which may be 
 called Heine's prose period. 
 
 In 1 84 1 the poetic impulse returned in all its former vigor. 
 It was in other respects a notable year in Heine's life. On 
 the eve of the duel which grew out of his unpardonable per- 
 sonalities in the Börne book, he legalized his relations with 
 Mathilde Mirat. The story of the quarrel with Börne is unre- 
 freshing. Börne was an earnest reformer, devoid of imagina- 
 tion, and the volatile spirit of his poet-comrade gave him the 
 impression of insincerity and lack of seriousness ; he attacked 
 Heine bitterly, and Heine remained silent ; three years after 
 Börne's death, however, he took a terrible revenge, descend- 
 ing to scurrilous personalities, one of which led to the chal- 
 lenge. He made a spontaneous apology to the lady involved, 
 but his conduct was entirely inexcusable ; it was an instance 
 of that same lack of taste which he displayed in his unworthy 
 attack upon Count Platen in the third volume of the "Travel 
 Pictures." In the excitements of that time Heine turned 
 again to the muse and began the composition of "Atta 
 Troll." This is his longest poem, vivacious, amusing, satiri- 
 cal, but possessing to-day an importance rather historical than 
 
XVI HEINRICH HEINE 
 
 poetic. He wrote to his publisher that it was " calculated to 
 give a death-blow to the prosaic, bombastic tendency-poetry." 
 In none of his works has Heine shown more of that Byronic 
 power to blend satire, criticism, and unbridled imagination 
 with poetic elements and impassioned expression. And then 
 the lyric poet awoke again, and from the unrhymed trochaics 
 of " Atta Troll " he passed once more to his old tuneful meas- 
 ures in a volume of " New Poems." Here, too, with many 
 that are frivolous and coarse are found some poems that have 
 endeared themselves to all lovers of song. In 1842, when the 
 enmity against Heine was at its height, he paid a visit to his 
 mother. The fruit of this journey was his beautiful poem 
 " Germany, A Winter's Tale." After all the years he had 
 spent in Paris the old German spirit was still strong within 
 him, and this poem, though a satire, won back many friends 
 whom the third volume of the " Travel Pictures " had 
 alienated. 
 
 The publication of these works fell in the early forties. 
 In the spring of 1846 Heine was an invalid, and he bade fare- 
 well to the world of beauty before the Lady of Milo. The 
 ravages of his terrible disease were rapid and appalling, but 
 death was slow in coming, " an inverted immortality." Heine 
 clung heroically to life, determined to taste experience to the 
 dregs. During those ten years of misery his keen intellect 
 with all its wit remained clear to the last. Oh his death-bed 
 he wrote the poems of the brilliant " Romancero." In it he 
 touches some solemn chords, as in the " Hebrew Melodies." 
 Several minor productions followed. Between 1852 and 
 1854 he dictated his " Confessions" and composed his " Last 
 Poems." Among the finest of all his poems is one, pub- 
 lished posthumously, called "Bimini." It describes the search 
 for the land of eternal youth ; it is found at last in the land 
 of death : " For this land is the real Bimini." Heine died 
 on February 17, 1856. 
 
 In Heine's character the startling contrasts and contradic- 
 tions are what always first strike the student ; every one 
 who has written about him counts off a series of antitheses. 
 The source of these lay in the lack of correspondence between 
 ideals, clearly perceived, and the hindering but unalterable 
 circumstances of his birth and youthful experiences. Above 
 
HEINRICH HEINE xvii 
 
 this lack of correspondence he had not the strength of will 
 to rise, as Goethe did, into the higher region of renuncia- 
 tion and reconciliation. The zest of life and the demand 
 for happiness were strong upon him. Byron, Leopardi, 
 Musset, Slowacki, Heine, all represent that poetry of world- 
 sorrow which began in the sentimentalism of Rousseau's 
 " Nouvelle Heloi'se " and Goethe's " Werther," and was nour- 
 ished by the disappointments of the French Revolution. In 
 this poetry human life was refracted rather than reflected. 
 But Heine actually led the refracted life, and the very dis- 
 cords of his writings serve to complete, not a distorted, but 
 a faithful, picture of himself. He was born for paradox and 
 not the least astounding paradox is this : that a man of such 
 a character should now hold and deserve an almost undis- 
 puted place among the greatest lyric poets of all time. 
 
 When, therefore, we apply to Heine the supreme test of 
 all greatness : was he great as a man ? doubts of his endur- 
 ing glory must arise; when we turn to the best that he pro- 
 duced, the doubts vanish. We can continue to delight in the 
 beauty of the face, even though we know that, like fair Dame 
 World in the medieval legend, the back is covered with rep- 
 tiles and scorpions. The best that he did was "a cry of 
 Ajax," wrung from him by pain; his unworthy work was 
 often an effort to forget in folly the suffering of a soul that 
 had never made peace with itself. Here, as in the case of 
 Villon, a moral nature wholly unworthy of its high mission 
 in this world was inscrutably chosen as the medium of expres- 
 sion to mankind of the tenderness, the gaiety, the pained 
 humor, of the human heart. 
 
 Charles Harvey Genung. 
 
FAMOUS AND UNIQUE MANUSCRIPT AND 
 BOOK ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 A series of fac-similes, showing the development of manuscript and 
 book illustrating during 4000 years. 
 
 "THE ART OF DYING." 
 
 The demand for religious books was one of the causes which led to the 
 invention of printing. Only the rich and noble could command the work of the 
 famous writers at any time, but about the beginning of the 15th century so 
 many began to ask for books of any kind that even penmen and miniature 
 painters of the second and third classes found their services in great demand at 
 large prices. The printers of the first books thought it necessary to keep up 
 the traditions of illustration created by the miniature painters of the manu- 
 scripts, and the specimen shown in the plate is a sample of the illustrations used 
 in one of the earliest books printed in Holland, called "The Art of Dying." The 
 sinner is shown on his death bed, surrounded by his family, and attended by two 
 demons, who, to give him no time nor opportunity to think of his soul and the 
 hereafter, are whispering in his ear, " Think of your riches," and " Distribute 
 your goods among your friends," to the end that he might enter eternity with 
 only worldly thoughts in his mind. 
 
 In many of the books of this class the illustrations are not always chosen to 
 illustrate the text so much as to increase the bulk of the volume. Those who 
 owned manuscript books were accustomed to bulky volumes, and the printers 
 sought to make up for the condensation due to the use of types by the insertion 
 of such illustrations as the one shown, which were in some cases used over and 
 over again under different titles. In a volume printed from wooden types they 
 were not not so out of place as in the volumes where metal type was used. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE HARZ JOURNEY I 
 
 THE NORTH SEA, Part I. 
 
 Twilight . . . 62 
 
 Sunset 62 
 
 Night on the Seashore 64 
 
 Poseidon 66 
 
 Homage 67 
 
 Explanation 68 
 
 Night in the Cabin 69 
 
 Storm 71 
 
 Calm at Sea 72 
 
 A Sea Phantom 73 
 
 Purification 75 
 
 Peace 76 
 
 THE NORTH SEA, Part II. 
 
 Sea Greeting . 78 
 
 Storm 79 
 
 The Shipwrecked 80 
 
 Sunset .81 
 
 The Song of the Oceanides 83 
 
 The Gods of Greece 85 
 
 Questioning 88 
 
 The Phenix 88 
 
 Echo . . 89 
 
 Seasickness 89 
 
 In Port . .'"',. -91 
 
 Epilogue 93 
 
 xix 
 
xx PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE NORTH SEA, Part III. 
 
 Written on the Island Norderney 94 
 
 IDEAS. Book Le Grand 121 
 
 A NEW SPRING 179 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 Journey from Munich to Genoa 196 
 
 The Baths of Lucca 267 
 
 The City of Lucca 339 
 
 Postscript ..,._.-. 387 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Heinrich Heine Frontispiece 
 
 Photogravure from a painting by Schick 
 
 Embarking for the Crusades ii 
 
 Illuminated miniature from a fourteenth-century manuscript 
 
 The Art of Dying xviii 
 
 Wood engraving from one of the first books printed in Holland 
 
 Napoleon on the Bellerophon . . . . . .148 
 
 Photogravure from a painting by Orchardson 
 
 Innsbruck 210 
 
 Photogravure from a photograph 
 
 View in Tyrol 220 - 
 
 Photogravure from a photograph 
 
 Amphitheatre at Verona 242 
 
 Photogravure from a photograph 
 
 xxi 
 
PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 THE HARZ JOURNEY 
 
 " Nothing is permanent but change, nothing constant but death. Every pul- 
 sation of the heart inflicts a wound, and life would be an endless bleeding, were 
 it not for Poetry. She secures to us what Nature would deny, — a golden age 
 without rust, a spring which never fades, cloudless prosperity and eternal vouth " 
 — Börne. 3 
 
 B 
 
 LACK dress coats and silken stockings, 
 Snowy ruffles frilled with art, 
 Gentle speeches and embraces — 
 Oh, if they but held a heart ! 
 
 Held a heart within their bosom, 
 Warmed by love which truly glows ; 
 
 Ah, — I'm wearied with their chanting 
 Of imagined lover's woes ! 
 
 I will climb upon the mountains 
 Where the quiet cabin stands, 
 
 Where the wind blows freely o'er us, 
 W T here the heart at ease expands. 
 
 I will climb upon the mountains 
 Where the dark green fir-trees grow ; 
 
 Brooks are rustling — birds are singing, 
 And the wild clouds headlong go. 
 
 Then farewell, ye polished ladies, 
 Polished men, and polished hall ! 
 
 I will climb upon the mountain, 
 Smiling down upon you all. 
 
2 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 The town of Göttingen, celebrated for its sausages and 
 University, belongs to the King of Hanover, and contains 
 nine hundred and ninety-nine dwellings, divers churches, a 
 lying-in asylum, an observatory, a prison, a library, and a 
 "council-cellar," where the beer is excellent. The stream 
 which flows by the town is termed the Leine, and is used in 
 summer for bathing, its waters being very cold, and in more 
 than one place so broad, that Luder was obliged to take 
 quite a run ere he could leap across. The town itself is 
 beautiful, and pleases most when looked at — backwards. It 
 must be very ancient, for I well remember that five years 
 ago, when I was there matriculated (and shortly after " sum- 
 moned "), it had already the same gray, old-fashioned, wise 
 look, and was fully furnished with beggars, beadles, dis- 
 sipations, tea-parties with a little dancing, washerwomen, 
 compendiums, roasted pigeons, Guelfic orders, professors 
 ordinary and extraordinary, pipe heads, court-counselors, and 
 law-counselors. Many even assert that at the time of the 
 great migration of races, every German tribe left a badly 
 corrected proof of its existence in the town, in the person of 
 one of its members, and that from these descended all the 
 Vandals, Frisians, Suabians, Teutons, Saxons, Thuringians, 
 and others who at the present day abound in Göttingen, 
 where, separately distinguished by the color of their caps and 
 pipe tassels, they may be seen straying singly or in hordes 
 along the Weender Street. They still fight their battles on 
 the bloody arena of the Rasenmill, Ritschenkrug, and Bovden, 
 still preserve the mode of life peculiar to their savage ances- 
 tors, and are still governed partly by their Duces, whom they 
 call "chief cocks," and partly by their primevally ancient law- 
 book, known as the "Comment," which fully deserves a place 
 among the legibus barbarorum. 
 
 The inhabitants of Göttingen are generally and socially 
 divided into Students, Professors, Philistines, and Cattle, the 
 points of difference between these castes being by no means 
 strictly defined. The cattle class is the most important. I 
 might be accused of prolixity should I here enumerate the 
 names of all the students and of all the regular and irregular 
 professors; besides, I do not just at present distinctly remem- 
 ber the appellations of all the former gentlemen, while among 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 3 
 
 the professors are many who as yet have no name at all. 
 The number of the Göttingen Philistines must be as numer- 
 ous as the sands (or more correctly speaking, as the mud) of 
 the sea ; indeed, when I beheld them of a morning, with their 
 dirty faces and clean bills, planted before the gate of the col- 
 legiate court of justice, I wondered greatly that such an innu- 
 merable pack of rascals should ever have been created. 
 
 More accurate information of the town of Göttingen may 
 be very conveniently obtained from its " Topography," by 
 K. F. H. Marx. Though entertaining the most sacred regard 
 for its author, who was my physician, and manifested for me 
 much esteem, still I cannot pass by his work with altogether 
 unconditional praise, inasmuch as he has not with sufficient 
 zeal combated the erroneous opinions that the ladies of Göt- 
 tingen have not enormous feet. On this point I speak author- 
 itatively, having for many years been earnestly occupied with 
 a refutation of this opinion. To confirm my views I have not 
 only studied comparative anatomy and made copious extracts 
 from the rarest works in the library, but have also watched 
 for hours, in the Weender Street, the feet of the ladies as they 
 walked by. In the fundamentally erudite treatise which 
 forms the result of these studies, I speak firstly, of feet in 
 general ; secondly, of the feet of antiquity ; thirdly, of ele- 
 phants' feet ; fourthly, of the feet of the Göttingen ladies ; 
 fifthly, I collect all that was ever said in Ulrich's " Garden " 
 on the subject of female feet. Sixthly, I regard feet in their 
 connection with each other, availing myself of the opportu- 
 nity to extend my observation to ankles, calves, knees, etc., 
 and finally and seventhly, if I can manage to hunt up sheets 
 of paper of sufficient size, I will present my readers with 
 some copperplate facsimiles of the feet of the fair dames 
 of Göttingen. 
 
 It was as yet very early in the morning when I left Göt- 
 tingen, and the learned beyond doubt still lay in bed, 
 
 dreaming that he wandered in a fair garden, amid the beds of 
 which grew innumerable white papers written over with cita- 
 tions. On these the sun shone cheerily, and he plucked 
 them and planted them in new beds while the sweetest songs 
 of the nightingales rejoiced his old heart. 
 
 Before the Weender Gate, I met two native and diminutive 
 
4 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 schoolboys, one of whom was saying to the other, " I don't 
 intend to keep company any more with Theodore, he is a low 
 little blackguard, for yesterday he didn't even know the geni- 
 tive of 'mensa.'" Insignificant as these words may appear, I 
 still regard them as entitled to record — nay, I would even 
 write them as town motto on the gate of Göttingen, for the 
 young birds pipe as the old ones sing, and the expression 
 accurately indicates the narrow-minded academic pride so 
 characteristic of the highly learned Georgia Augusta. 
 
 Fresh morning air blew over the road, the birds sang cheer- 
 ily, and little by little, with the breeze and the birds, my mind 
 also became fresh and cheerful. Such a refreshment was 
 needed for one who had long been imprisoned in a stall of 
 legal lore. Roman casuists had covered my soul with gray 
 cobwebs, my heart was cemented firmly between the iron 
 paragraphs of selfish systems of jurisprudence, there was an 
 endless ringing in my ears of such sounds as " Tribonian, Jus- 
 tinian, Hermogenian, and Blockheadian," and a sentimental 
 brace of lovers seated under a tree appeared to me like an 
 edition of the " Corpus Juris " with closed clasps. The road 
 began to wear a more lively appearance. Milkmaids occasion- 
 ally passed, as did also donkey drivers with their gray pupils. 
 Beyond Weender, I met the Shepherd and Doris. This is 
 not the idyllic pair sung by Gessner, but the well-matched 
 University beadles, whose duty it is to keep watch and ward, 
 so that no students fight duels in Bovden, and above all that no 
 new ideas (such as are generally obliged to maintain a decen- 
 nial quarantine before Göttingen) are smuggled in by specu- 
 lative private teachers. Shepherd greeted me very collegially 
 and congenially, for he too is an author, who has frequently 
 mentioned my name in his semiannual writings. In addition 
 to this, I may mention that when, as was frequently the case, 
 he came to summon me before the University court and found 
 me not at home, he was always kind enough to write the cita- 
 tion with chalk upon my chamber door. Occasionally a one- 
 horse vehicle rolled along, well packed with students, who 
 traveled away for the vacation — or forever. In such a univer- 
 sity town, there is an endless coming and going. Every 
 three years beholds a new student generation, forming an 
 incessant human tide, where one vacation wave washes along 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 5 
 
 its predecessor, and only the old professors remain upright in 
 the general flood, immovable as the Pyramids of Egypt. 
 Unlike their oriental contemporaries, no tradition declares 
 that in them treasures of wisdom are buried. 
 
 From amid the myrtle leaves, by Rauschenwasser, I saw 
 two hopeful youths appear. A female, who there carried on 
 her business, accompanied them as far as the highway, 
 clapped with a practised hand the meager legs of the horses, 
 laughed aloud, as one of the cavaliers, inspired with a very 
 peculiar spirit of gallantry, gave her a cut behind with his 
 whip, and traveled off for Bovden. The youths, however, 
 rattled along towards Nörten, trilling in a highly intelligent 
 manner, and singing the Rossinian lay of " Drink beer, pretty, 
 pretty Liza ! " These sounds I continued to hear when far in 
 the distance, and after I had long lost sight of the amiable 
 vocalists, as their horses, which appeared to be gifted with 
 characters of extreme German deliberation, were spurred and 
 lashed in a most excruciating style. In no place is the skin- 
 ning alive of horses carried to such an extent as in Göttingen ; 
 and often, when I beheld some lame and sweating hack, who, 
 to earn the scraps of fodder which maintained his wretched 
 life, was obliged to endure the torment of some roaring blade, 
 or draw a whole wagon-load of students — I reflected : " Unfor- 
 tunate beast, — most certainly thy first ancestors, in some 
 horse paradise, did eat of forbidden oats." 
 
 In the tavern at Nörten I again met my two vocalists. 
 One devoured a herring salad, and the other amused himself 
 with the leathern-complexioned waiting-maid, Fusia Canina, 
 also known as Stepping-bird. 1 He passed from compliments 
 to caresses, until they became finally hand in glove together. 
 To lighten my knapsack, I extracted from it a pair of blue 
 pantaloons, which were somewhat remarkable in a historical 
 point of view, and presented them to the little waiter, whom 
 we called Humming-bird. The old landlady, Bussenia, 
 brought me bread and butter, and greatly lamented that I so 
 seldom visited her, for she loved me dearly. 
 
 Beyond Nörten the sun flashed high in heaven. He evi- 
 dently wished to treat me honorably, and warmed my heart 
 
 1 Trittvogel, or " Step-bird, 11 signifies, in German student slang, one who 
 demands money ; a Manichean, or creditor, etc. 
 
6 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 until all the unripe thoughts which it contained came to full 
 growth. The admirable " Sun " tavern, in Nörten, should 
 not be passed over in silence, for it was there that I break- 
 fasted. All the dishes were excellent, and suited me far 
 better than the wearisome, academical courses of saltless, 
 leathery dried fish and cabbage rechauffee, which character- 
 ized both our physical and mental pabulum at Göttingen. 
 After I had somewhat appeased my appetite, I remarked in 
 the same room of the tavern, a gentleman and two ladies, 
 who appeared about to depart on their journey. The cavalier 
 was clad entirely in green, even to his eyes, over which a pair 
 of green spectacles cast in turn a verdigris glow upon his 
 copper-red nose. The gentleman's general appearance was 
 that which we may presume King Nebuchadnezzar tq have, 
 presented after having passed a few years out at grass J The 
 Green One requested me to recommend him to a Hotel in 
 Göttingen, and I advised him when there to inquire of the 
 first convenient student for the Hotel de Brübach. One lady 
 was evidently his wife : an altogether extensively constructed 
 dame, gifted with a mile-square countenance, with dimples in 
 her cheeks which looked like hide-and-go-seek holes for 
 well-grown cupids. A copious double chin appeared below, 
 like an imperfect continuation of the face, while her high- 
 piled bosom, which was defended by stiff points of lace, and 
 a many-cornered collar, as if by turrets and bastions, reminded 
 one of a fortress. Still it is by no means certain that this 
 fortress would have resisted an ass laden with gold, any more 
 than did that of which Philip of Macedon spoke. The other 
 lady, her sister, seemed her extreme antitype. If the one 
 were descended from Pharaoh's fat kine, the other was as 
 certainly derived from the lean. Her face was but a mouth 
 between two ears ; her breast was as inconsolably comfortless 
 and dreary as the Lüneburger heath ; while her altogether 
 dried-up figure reminded one of a charity table for poor 
 students of theology. Both ladies asked me, in a breath, if 
 respectable people lodged in the Hotel de Brübach ? I 
 assented to this question with certainty, and a clear con- 
 science, and as the charming trio drove away, I waved my 
 hand to them many times from the window. The landlord 
 of the " Sun " laughed, however, in his sleeve, being probably 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 7 
 
 aware that the Hotel de Brübach was a name bestowed by 
 the students of Göttingen upon their University prison. 
 
 Beyond Nordheim mountain ridges begin to appear, and 
 the traveler occasionally meets with a picturesque eminence. 
 The wayfarers whom I encountered were principally pedlers, 
 traveling to the Brunswick fair, and among them were swarms 
 of women, every one of whom bore on her back an incredibly 
 large pack, covered with linen. In these packs were cages, 
 containing every variety of singing birds, which continually 
 chirped and sung, while their bearers merrily hopped along 
 and sang together. A queer fancy came into my head, that 
 I beheld one bird carrying others to market. 
 
 The night was dark as pitch as I entered Osterode. I had 
 no appetite for supper, and at once went to bed. I was as 
 tired as a dog and slept like a god. In my dreams I returned 
 to Göttingen, even to its very library. I stood in a corner of 
 the Hall of Jurisprudence, turning over old dissertations, lost 
 myself in reading, and when I finally looked up, remarked to 
 my astonishment that it was night, and that the Hall was 
 illuminated by innumerable overhanging crystal chandeliers. 
 The bell of the neighboring church struck twelve, the hall 
 doors slowly opened, and there entered a superb colossal 
 female form, reverentially accompanied by the members and 
 hangers-on of the legal faculty. The giantess though 
 advanced in years retained in her countenance traces of 
 extreme beauty, and her every glance indicated the sublime 
 Titaness, the mighty Themis. The sword and balance were 
 carelessly grasped in her right hand, while with the left she 
 held a roll of parchment. Two young Doctores Juris bore 
 the train of her faded gray robe ; by her right side the lean 
 Court Counselor Rusticus, the Lycurgus of Hanover, flut- 
 tered here and there like a zephyr, declaiming extracts from 
 his last legal essay, while by her left, her cavaliere servante, 
 the privy legal counselor Cajacius, hobbled gaily and gal- 
 lantly along, constantly cracking legal jokes, laughing him- 
 self so heartily at his own wit, that even the serious goddess 
 often smiled and bent over him, exclaiming as she tapped 
 him on the shoulder with the great parchment roll, " Thou 
 little scamp who cuttest down the tree from the top ! " All 
 of the gentlemen who formed her escort now drew nigh in 
 
8 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 turn, each having something to remark or jest over, either a 
 freshly worked up system, or a miserable little hypothesis, or 
 some similar abortion of their own brains. Through the open 
 door of the hall now entered many strange gentlemen, who 
 announced themselves as the remaining magnates of the illus- 
 trious order ; mostly angular suspicious-looking fellows, who 
 with extreme complacency blazed away with their definitions 
 and hair-splittings, disputing over every scrap of a title to the 
 title of a pandect. And other forms continually flocked in, 
 the forms of those who were learned in law in the olden 
 time, — men in antiquated costume, with long counselors' 
 wigs and forgotten faces, who expressed themselves greatly 
 astonished that they, the widely famed of the previous cen- 
 tury, should not meet with especial consideration ; and these, 
 after their manner, joined in the general chattering and 
 screaming, which like ocean breakers became louder and 
 madder around the mighty Goddess, until she, bursting from 
 impatience, suddenly cried, in a tone of the most agonized 
 Titanic pain, " Silence ! silence ! I hear the voice of the 
 loved Prometheus, — mocking cunning and brute force are 
 chaining the innocent One to the rock of martyrdom, and all 
 your prattling and quarreling will not allay his wounds or 
 break his fetters ! " So cried the Goddess, and rivulets of 
 tears sprang from her eyes, the entire assembly howled as if 
 in the agonies of death, the ceiling of the hall burst asunder, 
 the books tumbled madly from their shelves, and in vain the 
 portrait of old Munchausen called out "order" from his 
 frame, for all crashed and raged more wildly around. I 
 sought refuge from this Bedlam broke loose, in the Hall of 
 History, near that gracious spot where the holy images of 
 the Apollo Belvedere and the Venus de Medici stand near 
 together, and I knelt at the feet of the Goddess of Beauty ; in 
 her glance I forgot all the wearisome barren labor which I 
 had passed, my eyes drank in with intoxication the symmetry 
 and immortal loveliness of her infinitely blessed form ; Hel- 
 lenic calm swept through my soul, while above my head, 
 Phoebus Apollo poured forth like heavenly blessings, the 
 sweetest tones of his lyre. 
 
 Awaking, I continued to hear a pleasant musical ringing. 
 The flocks were on their way to pasture, and their bells were 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 9 
 
 tinkling. The blessed golden sunlight shone through the 
 window, illuminating the pictures on the walls of my room. 
 They were sketches from the war of Independence, and 
 among them were placed representations of the execution of 
 JLouis XVI. on the guillotine, and other decapitations which 
 no one could behold without thanking God that he lay quietly 
 in bed, drinking excellent coffee, and with his head comfort- 
 ably adjusted upon neck and shoulders. 
 
 After I had drunk my coffee, dressed myself, read the 
 inscriptions upon the window-panes and set everything straight 
 in the inn, I left Osterode. 
 
 This town contains a certain quantity of houses and a given 
 number of inhabitants, among whom are divers and sundry 
 souls, as may be ascertained in detail from Gottschalk's 
 "Pocket Book for Harz Travelers." Ere I struck into the 
 highway I ascended the ruins of the very ancient Osteroder 
 Burg. They consisted of merely the half of a great, thick- 
 walled tower, which appeared to be fairly honeycombed by 
 time. The road to Clausthal led me again up-hill, and from 
 one of the first eminences I looked back into the dale where 
 Osterode, with its red roofs, peeps out from among the green 
 fir woods, like a moss-rose from amid its leaves. The pleas- 
 ant sunlight inspired gentle, childlike feelings. From this 
 spot the imposing rear of the remaining portion of the tower 
 may be seen to advantage. 
 
 After proceeding a little distance, I overtook and went 
 along with a traveling journeyman, who came from Bruns- 
 wick, and related to me, that it was generally believed in that 
 city, that their young duke had been taken prisoner by the 
 Turks during his tour in the Holy Land, and could only be 
 ransomed by an enormous sum. The extensive travels of the 
 duke probably originated this tale. The people at large still 
 preserve that traditional fable-loving train of ideas, which is 
 so pleasantly shone in their " Duke Ernst." The narrator of 
 this news was a tailor, a neat little youth, but so thin that the 
 stars might have shone through him as through Ossian's 
 ghosts. Altogether, he formed a vulgar mixture of affectation, 
 whim and melancholy. This was peculiarly expressed in the 
 droll and affecting manner in which he sang that extraordinary 
 popular ballad, " A beetle sat upon the hedge, summ, summ ! " 
 
IO PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 That is a pleasant peculiarity of us Germans. No one is so 
 crazy but that he may find a crazier comrade, who will under- 
 stand him. Only a German can appreciate that song, and in 
 the same breath laugh and cry himself to death over it. On 
 this occasion, I also remarked the depth to which the words 
 of Goethe have penetrated into the national life. My lean 
 comrade trilled occasionally as he went along. " Joyful and 
 sorrowful, thoughts are free ! " Such a corruption of a text is 
 usual among the multitude. He also sang a song in which 
 Lottie by the grave of Werther wept. The tailor ran over 
 with sentimentalism in the words, " Sadly by the rose beds 
 now I weep, where the late moon found us oft alone ! Moan- 
 ing where the silver fountains sleep, which rippled once delight 
 in every tone." But he soon became capricious and petulant, 
 remarking, that " We have a Prussian in the tavern at Cassel, 
 who makes exactly such songs, himself. He can't sew a 
 single decent stitch ; when he has a penny in his pocket he 
 always has twopence worth of thirst with it, and when he has 
 a drop in his eye, he takes heaven to be a blue jacket, weeps 
 like a roof spout, and sings a song with double poetry." I 
 desired an explanation of this last expression, but my tailoring 
 friend hopped about on his walking-cane legs and cried 
 incessantly, " Double poetry is double poetry, and nothing 
 else." Finally, I ascertained that he meant doubly rhymed 
 poems, or stanzas. Meanwhile, owing to his extra exertion, 
 and an adverse wind, the knight of the needle became sadly 
 weary. It is true that he still made a great pretense of 
 advancing, and blustered, " Now I will take the road between 
 my legs." But he, immediately after, explained that his feet 
 were blistered, and that the world was by far too extensive, 
 and finally sinking down at the foot of a tree, he moved his 
 delicate little head like the tail of a troubled lamb, and wofully 
 smiling, murmured, " Here am I, poor vagabond, already 
 again weary ! " 
 
 The hills here became steeper, the fir woods waved below 
 like a green sea, and white clouds above sailed along over 
 the blue sky. The wildness of the region was, however, tamed 
 by its uniformity and the simplicity of its elements. Nature, 
 like a true poet, abhors abrupt transitions. Clouds — however 
 fantastically formed they may at times appear — still have a 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY II 
 
 white, or at least a subdued, hue, harmoniously corresponding 
 with the blue heaven and the green earth; so that all the 
 colors of a landscape blend into each other like soft music, 
 and every glance at such a natural picture tranquilizes and 
 reassures the soul. The late Hoffman would have painted 
 the clouds spotted and checkered. And like a great poet, 
 Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the 
 most limited means. There she has only a sun, trees and 
 flowers, water and love. Of course, if the latter be lacking in 
 the heart of the observer, the whole will, in all probability, 
 present but a poor appearance, the sun will be so and so many 
 miles in diameter, the trees are for fire-wood, the flowers are 
 classified according to their stamens, and the water is wet. 
 
 A little boy who was gathering brushwood in the forest for 
 his sick uncle, pointed out to me the village of Lerrbach, 
 whose little huts with gray roofs scatter along for two miles 
 through the valley. "There," said he, "live idiots with 
 goiters, and white negroes." By white negroes the people 
 mean albinos. * The little fellow lived on terms of peculiar 
 understanding with the trees, addressing them like old 
 acquaintances, while they in turn seemed by their waving and 
 rustling to return his salutations. He chirped like a thistle- 
 finch, many birds around answered his call, and, ere I was 
 aware, he had disappeared with his little bare feet and his 
 bundle of brush, amid the thickets. " Children," thought I, 
 "are younger than we, they can perhaps remember when 
 they were once trees or birds, and are, consequently, still able 
 to understand them. We of larger growth are, alas, too old 
 for that, and carry about in our heads too much legal lore, and 
 too many sorrows and bad verses." But the time when it was 
 otherwise, recurred vividly to me as I entered Clausthal. In 
 this pretty little mountain town, which the traveler does not 
 behold until he stands directly before it, I arrived just as the 
 clock was striking twelve and the children came tumbling 
 merrily out of school. The little rogues — nearly all red- 
 cheeked, blue-eyed, flaxen-haired — sprang and shouted, and 
 awoke in me melancholy and cheerful memories, how I once 
 myself, as a little boy, sat all the forenoon long in a gloomy 
 Catholic cloister school in Düsseldorf, without so much as 
 daring to stand up, enduring meanwhile such a terrible amount 
 
12 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 of Latin, whipping and geography, and how I, too, hurrahed 
 and rejoiced beyond all measure when the old Franciscan 
 clock at last struck twelve. The children saw by my knap- 
 sack that I was a stranger, and greeted me in the most 
 hospitable manner. One of the boys told me that they had 
 just had a lesson in religion, and showed me the Royal 
 Hanoverian Catechism, from which they were questioned on 
 Christianity. This little book was very badly printed, so that 
 I greatly feared that the doctrines of faith made thereby but 
 an unpleasant blotting-paper sort of impression upon the 
 children's minds. I was also shocked at observing that the 
 multiplication table contrasted with the Holy Trinity on the 
 last page of the catechism, as it at once occurred to me that 
 by this means the minds of the children might, even in their 
 earliest years, be led to the most sinful skepticism. We 
 Prussians are more intelligent, and in our zeal for converting 
 those heathens who are familiar with arithmetic, take good 
 care not to print the multiplication table behind the cate- 
 chism. 
 
 I dined in the " Crown," at Clausthal. My repast consisted 
 of spring green, parsley soup, violet-blue cabbage, a pile of 
 roast veal which resembled Chimborazo in miniature, and a 
 sort of smoked herrings, called " Buckings," from their in- 
 ventor, William Bucking, who died in 1447, and who on account 
 of the invention was so greatly honored by Charles V. that 
 the great monarch in 1556 made a journey from Middleburg 
 to Bievlied in Zealand, for the express purpose of visiting the 
 grave of the great fish drier. How exquisitely such dishes taste 
 when we are familiar with their historical associations ! Un- 
 fortunately, my after-dinner coffee was spoiled by a youth, 
 who in conversing with me ran on in such an outrageous 
 strain of noise and vanity that the milk was soured. He was a 
 young counter jumper, wearing twenty-five variegated waist- 
 coats, and as many gold seals, rings, breastpins, etc. He 
 seemed like a monkey who having put on a red coat had 
 resolved within himself that clothes make the man. This 
 gentleman had got by heart a vast amount of charades and 
 anecdotes, which he continually repeated in the most inappro- 
 priate places. He asked for the news in Göttingen, and I 
 informed him that a decree had been recently published there 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 1 3 
 
 by the Academical Senate, forbidding any one, under penalty 
 of three dollars, to dock puppies' tails, — because during the 
 dog-days, mad dogs invariably ran with their tails between 
 their legs, thus giving a warning indication of the existence 
 of hydrophobia, which could not be perceived were the caudal 
 appendage absent. After dinner I went forth to visit the 
 mines, the mint, and the silver refineries. 
 
 In the silver refinery, as has frequently been my luck in 
 life, I could get no glimpse of the precious metal. In the 
 mint I succeeded better, and saw how money was made. 
 Beyond this I have never been able to advance. On such 
 occasions, mine has invariably been the spectator's part, and 
 I verily believe, that if it should rain dollars from Heaven, the 
 coins would only knock holes in my head, while the children 
 of Israel would merrily gather up the silver manna. With 
 feelings in which comic reverence was blended with emotion, 
 I beheld the new-born shining dollars, took one as it came 
 fresh from the stamp, in my hand, and said to it : " Young 
 Dollar ! what a destiny awaits thee ! what a cause wilt thou 
 be of good and of evil ! How thou wilt protect vice and patch 
 up virtue, how thou wilt be beloved and accursed ! how thou 
 wilt aid in debauchery, pandering, lying, and murdering ! how 
 thou wilt restlessly roll along through clean and dirty hands 
 for centuries, until finally laden with trespasses, and weary 
 with sin, thou wilt be gathered again unto thine own, in the 
 bosom of an Abraham, who will melt thee down and purify 
 thee, and form thee into a new and better being ! " 
 
 I will narrate in detail my visit to Dorothea and Caroline, 
 the two principal Clausthaler mines, having found them very 
 interesting. 
 
 Half a German mile from the town are situated two large, 
 dingy buildings. Here the traveler is transferred to the care 
 of the miners. These men wear dark, and generally steel- 
 blue colored, jackets, of ample girth, descending to the hips, 
 with pantaloons of a similar hue, a leather apron bound on 
 behind, and a rimless green felt hat, which resembles a de- 
 capitated ninepin. In such a garb, with the exception of the 
 back leather, the visitor is also clad, and a miner, his leader, 
 after lighting his mine lamp, conducts him to a gloomy en- 
 trance, resembling a chimney hole, descends as far as the 
 
14 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 breast, gives him a few directions relative to grasping the 
 ladder, and carelessly requests him to follow.j-The affair is 
 entirely devoid of danger, though it at first appears quite 
 otherwise to those unacquainted with the mysteries of mining. 
 Even the putting on of the dark convict dress awakens very 
 peculiar sensations. Then one must clamber down on all 
 fours, the dark hole is so very dark, and Lord only knows 
 how long the ladder may be ! But we soon remark that this 
 is not the only ladder in the black eternity around, for there 
 are many of from fifteen to twenty rounds apiece, each stand- 
 ing upon a board capable of supporting a man, and from 
 which a new hole leads in turn to a new ladder. I first 
 entered the Caroline, the dirtiest and most disagreeable of 
 that name with whom I ever had the pleasure of becoming 
 acquainted. The rounds of the ladders were covered with 
 wet mud. And from one ladder we descended to another, 
 with the guide ever in advance, continually assuring us that 
 there is no danger so long as we hold firmly to the rounds 
 and do not look at our feet, and that we must not for our 
 lives tread on the side plank, where the buzzing barrel rope 
 runs, and where two weeks ago a careless man was knocked 
 down, unfortunately breaking his neck by the fall. Far below 
 is a confused rustling and humming, and we continually bump 
 against beams and ropes which are in motion, winding up 
 and raising barrels of broken ore or of water. Occasionally 
 we pass galleries hewn in the rock, called " stulms," where 
 the ore may be seen growing, and where some solitary miner 
 sits the livelong day, wearily hammering pieces from the 
 walls. I did not descend to those deepest depths, where it 
 is reported that the people on the other side of the world, in 
 America, may be heard crying, " Hurrah for Lafayette ! " 
 Where I went seemed to me, however, deep enough in all 
 conscience ; amid an endless roaring and rattling, the mys- 
 terious sounds of machinery, the rush of subterranean streams, 
 the sickening clouds of ore dust continually rising, water drip- 
 ping on all sides, and the miner's lamp gradually growing 
 dimmer and dimmer. The effect was really benumbing, I 
 breathed with difficulty, and held with trouble to the slippery 
 rounds. It was not fright which overpowered me, but oddly 
 enough, down there in the depths, I remembered that a year 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY I 5 
 
 before, about the same time, I had been in a storm on the 
 North Sea, and I now felt that it would be an agreeable 
 change could I feel the rocking of the ship, hear the wind 
 with its thunder-trumpet tones, while amid its lulls sounded 
 the hearty cry of the sailors, and all above was freshly swept 
 by God's own free air. Yes, Air ! — Panting for air, I rapidly 
 climbed several dozens of ladders, and my guide led me through 
 a narrow and very long gallery toward the Dorothea mine. 
 Here it is airier and fresher, and the ladders are cleaner, 
 though at the same time longer than in the Caroline. I felt 
 revived and more cheerful, particularly as I observed indica- 
 tions of human beings. Far below I saw wandering, waver- 
 ing lights, miners with their lamps came one by one upwards, 
 with the greeting, " Good luck to you ! " and receiving the 
 same salutation from us, went onwards and upwards. Some- 
 thing like a friendly and quiet, yet at the same time terrific 
 and enigmatical, recollection flitted across my mind as I met 
 the deep glances and earnest, pale faces of these men, mys- 
 teriously illuminated by their lanterns, and thought how they 
 had worked all day in lonely and secret places in the mines, 
 and how they now longed for the blessed light of day, and 
 for the glances of wives and children. 
 
 My guide himself was a thoroughly honest, honorable, 
 blundering German being. With inward joy he pointed out 
 to me the stulm where the Duke of Cambridge, when he 
 visited the mines, dined with all his train, and where the long 
 wooden table yet stands, with the accompanying great chair, 
 made of ore, in which the Duke sat. " This is to remain as 
 an eternal memorial," said the good miner, and he related 
 with enthusiasm how many festivities had then taken place, 
 how the entire stulm had been adorned with lamps, flowers, 
 and decorations of leaves ; how a miner boy had played on 
 the cither and sung; how the dear, delighted fat Duke had 
 drained many healths, and what a number of miners (himself 
 especially) would cheerfully die for the dear, fat Duke, and 
 for the whole house of Hanover. I am moved to my 
 very heart when I see loyalty thus manifested in all its 
 natural simplicity. It is such a beautiful sentiment! And 
 such a purely German sentiment ! Other people may be 
 more intelligent and wittier, and more agreeable, but none 
 
1 6 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 are so faithful as the real German race. Did I not know 
 that fidelity is as old as the world, I would believe that a 
 German had invented it. German fidelity is no modern 
 "yours very truly," or, "I remain your humble servant." In 
 your courts, ye German princes, ye should cause to be sung, 
 and sung again, the old ballad of " The trusty Eckhart and 
 the base Burgund," who slew Eckhart's seven children, and 
 still found him faithful. Ye have the truest people in the 
 world, and ye err when ye deem that the old, intelligent, 
 trusty hound has suddenly gone mad, and snaps at your 
 sacred calves ! 
 
 And like German fidelity, the little mine lamp has guided 
 us quietly and securely, without much flickering or flaring, 
 through the labyrinths of shafts and stulms. We jump from 
 the gloomy mountain night — sunlight flashes around, " Luck 
 to you ! " 
 
 Most of the miners dwell in Clausthal, and in the adjoining 
 small town of Zellerfeld. I visited several of these brave 
 fellows, observed their little household arrangements, heard 
 many of their songs, which they skilfully accompany with 
 their favorite instrument, the cither, and listened to old 
 mining legends, and to their prayers, which they are accus- 
 tomed to offer daily in company ere they descend the gloomy 
 shaft. And many a good prayer did I offer up with them. 
 One old climber even thought that I ought to remain among 
 them, and become a man of the mines, and as I, after all, 
 departed, he gave me a message to his brother, who dwelt 
 near Goslar, and many kisses for his darling niece. 
 
 Immovably tranquil as the life of these men may appear, it 
 is, notwithstanding, a real and vivid life. That ancient, 
 trembling crone who sits before the great clothes-press and 
 behind the stove, may have been there for a quarter of a cen- 
 tury, and all her thinking and feeling is, beyond a doubt, 
 intimately blended with every corner of the stove and the 
 carvings of the press. And the clothes-press and stove live, 
 — for a human being hath breathed into them a portion of 
 its soul. 
 
 Only a life of this deep looking into phenomena and its 
 " immediateness " could originate the German popular tale 
 whose peculiarity consists in this, — that in it, not only ani- 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 1 7 
 
 mals and plants, but also objects apparently inanimate, speak 
 and act. To thinking, harmless beings who dwelt in the 
 quiet home-ness of their lowly mountain cabins or forest huts, 
 the inner life of these objects was gradually revealed, they 
 acquired a necessary and consequential character, a sweet 
 blending of fantasy and pure human reflection. This is the 
 reason why, in such fables, we find the extreme of singularity 
 allied to a spirit of perfect self-intelligence, as when the pin 
 and the needle wander forth from the tailor's home and are 
 bewildered in the dark ; when the straw and the coal seek to 
 cross the brook and are destroyed ; when the dust-pan and 
 broom quarrel and fight on the stairs ; when the interrogated 
 mirror of Snowdrop shows the image of the fairest lady, and 
 when even drops of blood begin to utter dark words of the 
 deepest compassion. And this is the reason why our life in 
 childhood is so infinitely significant, for then all things are of 
 the same importance, nothing escapes our attention, there is 
 equality in every impression ; while, when more advanced in 
 years, we must act with design, busy ourselves more exclu- 
 sively with particulars, carefully exchange the pure gold of 
 observation for the paper currency of book definitions, and 
 win in the breadth of life what we have lost in depth. Now, 
 we are grown-up, respectable people, we often inhabit new 
 dwellings, the housemaid daily cleans them, and changes at 
 her will the position of the furniture which interests us but 
 little, as it is either new, or may belong to-day to Jack, to- 
 morrow to Isaac. Even our very clothes are strange to us, 
 we hardly know how many buttons there are on the coat we 
 wear, — for we change our garments as often as possible, and 
 none of them remain deeply identified with our external or 
 inner history. We scarce dare to think how that brown vest 
 once looked, which attracted so much laughter, and yet on 
 the broad stripes of which the dear hand of the loved one so 
 gently rested ! 
 
 The old dame who sat before the clothes-press and behind 
 the stove, wore a flowered dress of some old-fashioned mate- 
 rial, which had been the bridal robe of her long-buried mother. 
 Her great-grandson, a flashing-eyed blond boy, clad in a 
 miner's dress, knelt at her feet, and counted the flowers on 
 her dress. It may be that she has narrated to him many a 
 3 
 
1 8 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 story connected with that dress : serious or pretty stories, 
 which the boy will not readily forget, which will often recur 
 to him when he, a grown-up man, works alone in the midnight 
 galleries of the Caroline, and which he in turn will narrate 
 when the dear grandmother has long been dead ; and he him- 
 self, a silver-haired, tranquil old man, sits amid the circle of 
 his grandchildren before the great clothes-press and behind 
 the oven. 
 
 I lodged that night in the " Crown," where I had the pleas- 
 ure of meeting and paying my respects to the old Court Coun- 
 selor B , of Göttingen. Having inscribed my name in the 
 
 book of arrivals, I found therein the honored autograph of 
 Adalbert von Chamisso, the biographer of the immortal 
 " Schlemihl." The landlord remarked of Chamisso, that the 
 gentleman had arrived during one terrible storm, and departed 
 in another. 
 
 Finding the next morning that I must lighten my knapsack, 
 I threw overboard the pair of boots, and arose and went forth 
 unto Goslar. There I arrived without knowing how. This 
 much alone do I remember, that I sauntered up and down 
 hill, gazing upon many a lovely meadow vale. Silver waters 
 rippled and rustled, sweet wood birds sang, the bells of the 
 flocks tinkled, the many-shaded green trees were gilded by 
 the sun, and over all the blue silk canopy of Heaven was so 
 transparent that I could look through the depths even to the 
 Holy of Holies, where angels sat at the feet of God, studying 
 sublime thorough-bass in the features of the eternal counte- 
 nance. But I was all the time lost in a dream of the previous 
 night, which I could not banish. / It was an echo of the 
 old legend, how a knight descended into a deep fountain, 
 beneath which the fairest princess of the world lay buried in 
 a deathlike magic slumber. I myself was the knight, and 
 the dark mine of Clausthal was the fountain. Suddenly, 
 innumerable lights gleamed around me, wakeful dwarfs leapt 
 from every cranny in the rocks, grimacing angrily, cutting at 
 me with their short swords, blowing terribly on horns, which 
 ever summoned more and more of their comrades, and fran- 
 tically nodding their great heads. But as I hewed them down 
 with my sword, and the blood flowed, I for the first time re- 
 marked that they were not really dwarfs, but the red-blooming 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 19 
 
 long-bearded thistle tops, which I had the day before hewed 
 down on the highway with my stick. At last they all vanished 
 and I came to a splendid lighted hall, in the midst of which 
 stood my heart's loved one, veiled in white and immovable as 
 a statue. I kissed her mouth, and then — oh Heavens ! — I 
 felt the blessed breath of her soul and the sweet tremor of 
 her lovely lips. It seemed that I heard the divine command, 
 " Let there be light ! " and a dazzling flash of eternal light 
 shot down, but at the same instant it was again night, and all 
 ran chaotically together into a wild desolate sea ! A wild 
 desolate sea ! over whose foaming waves the ghosts of the 
 departed madly chased each other, the white shrouds floating 
 on the wind, while behind all, goading them on with cracking 
 whip, ran a many-colored harlequin, — and I was the harlequin. 
 Suddenly from the black waves the sea-monsters raised their 
 misshapen heads, and yawned towards me with extended jaws, 
 and I awoke in terror. 
 
 Alas ! how the finest dreams may be spoiled! The knight, 
 in fact, when he has found the lady, ought to cut a piece from 
 her priceless veil, and after she has recovered from her magic 
 sleep and sits again in glory in her hall, he should approach 
 her and say, " My fairest princess, dost thou not know me ? " 
 Then she will answer, " My bravest knight, I know thee not ! " 
 And then he shows her the piece cut from her veil, exactly 
 fitting the deficiency, and she knows that he is her deliverer, 
 and both tenderly embrace, and the trumpets sound, and the 
 marriage is celebrated ! 
 
 It is really a very peculiar misfortune that my love dreams 
 so seldom have so fine a conclusion. 
 
 The name of Goslar rings so pleasantly, and there are so 
 many very ancient and imperial associations connected there- 
 with, that I had hoped to find an imposing and stately town. 
 But it is always the same old story when we examine celeb- 
 rities too closely ! I found a nest of houses, drilled in every 
 direction with narrow streets of labyrinthine crookedness, 
 and amid them a miserable stream, probably the Goslar, winds 
 its flat and melancholy way. The pavement of the town is as 
 ragged as Berlin hexameters. Only the antiquities which are 
 embedded in the frame, or mounting, of the city ; that is to 
 say, its remnants of walls, towers, and battlements give the 
 
20 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 place a piquant look. One of these towers, known as the 
 Zwinger, or donjon keep, has walls of such extraordinary 
 thickness, that entire rooms are excavated therein. The 
 open place before the town, where the world-renowned shoot- 
 ing-matches are held, is a beautiful large plain surrounded by 
 high mountains. The market is small, and in its midst is a 
 spring fountain, the water from which pours into a great 
 metallic basin. When an alarm of fire is raised, they strike 
 strongly on this cup-formed basin, which gives out a very loud 
 vibration. Nothing is known of the origin of this work. 
 Some say that the devil placed it once during the night on 
 the spot where it stands. In those days people were as yet 
 fools, nor was the devil any wiser, and they mutually ex- 
 changed gifts. 
 
 The town hall of Goslar is a whitewashed police station. 
 The Guildhall, hard by, has a somewhat better appearance. 
 In this building, equidistant from roof and ceiling, stand the 
 statues of the German emperors. Partly gilded, and altogether 
 of a smoke-black hue, they look, with their scepters and globes 
 of empire, like roasted college beadles. One of the emperors 
 holds a sword, instead of a scepter. I cannot imagine the 
 reason of this variation from the established order, though it 
 has doubtless some occult signification, as Germans have the 
 remarkable peculiarity of meaning something in whatever 
 they do. 
 
 In Gottschalk's " Handbook," I had read much of the very 
 ancient Dom, or Cathedral, and of the far-famed imperial 
 throne at Goslar. But when I wished to see these curiosities, 
 I was informed that the church had been torn down, and that 
 the throne had been carried to Berlin. We live in deeply 
 significant times, when millennial churches are shattered to 
 fragments, and imperial thrones are tumbled into the lumber- 
 room. 
 
 A few memorials of the late cathedral of happy memory 
 are still preserved in the church of St. Stephen. These con- 
 sist of stained-glass pictures of great beauty, a few indifferent 
 paintings, including a Lucas Cranach, a wooden Christ cruci- 
 fied, and a heathen altar of some unknown metal. This latter 
 resembles a long square box, and is supported by four cary- 
 atids, which in a bowed position hold their hands over their 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 21 
 
 heads, and make the most hideous grimaces. But far more 
 hideous is the adjacent wooden crucifix of which I have just 
 spoken. This head of Christ, with its real hair and thorns 
 and blood-stained countenance, represents, in the most mas- 
 terly manner, the death of a man, — but not of a divinely 
 born Savior. Nothing but physical suffering is portrayed in 
 this image, — not the sublime poetry of pain. Such a work 
 would be more appropriately placed in a hall of anatomy than 
 in a house of the Lord. 
 
 I lodged in a tavern, near the market, where I should have 
 enjoyed my dinner much better, if the landlord with his long, 
 superfluous face, and his still longer questions, had not planted 
 himself opposite to me. Fortunately I was soon relieved by 
 the arrival of another stranger, who was obliged to run in 
 turn the gantlet oiquis? quid? tibi? quibus auxiliis ? cur? 
 quomodo ? qitando ? This stranger was an old, weary, worn- 
 out man, who, as it appeared from his conversation, had been 
 all over the world, had resided very long in Batavia, had made 
 much money, and lost it all, and who now after thirty years' 
 absence was returning to Quedlinburg, his native city, — "for," 
 said he, " our family has there its hereditary tomb." The 
 landlord here made the highly intelligent remark that it was 
 all the same thing to the soul, where the body was buried. 
 
 " Have you scriptural authority for that ? " retorted the 
 stranger, while mysterious and crafty wrinkles circled around 
 his pinched lips and faded eyes. " But," he added, as if ner- 
 vously desirous of conciliating, — "I mean no harm against 
 graves in foreign lands, — oh, no ! — the Turks bury their 
 dead more beautifully than we ours ; their churchyards are 
 perfect gardens, and there they sit by their white turbaned 
 gravestones under cypress trees, and stroke their grave 
 beards, and calmly smoke their Turkish tobacco from their 
 long Turkish pipes ; and then among the Chinese, it is a real 
 pleasure to see how genteelly they walk around, and pray, 
 and drink tea among the graves of their ancestors and how 
 beautifully they bedeck the beloved tombs with all sorts of 
 gilt lacquered work, porcelain images, bits of colored silk, 
 fresh flowers and variegated lanterns — all very fine indeed — 
 how far is it yet to Quedlinberg ? " 
 
 The churchyard at Goslar did not appeal very strongly to 
 
22 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 my feelings. But a certain very pretty blond ringleted 
 head which peeped smilingly from a parterre window did. 
 After dinner I again took an observation of this fascinating 
 window, but instead of a maiden, I beheld a vase containing 
 white bellflowers. I clambered up, stole the flowers, put 
 them neatly in my cap, and descended, unheeding the gaping 
 mouths, petrified noses, and goggle eyes with which the street 
 population, and especially the old women, regarded this quali- 
 fied theft. As I, an hour later, passed by the same house, the 
 beauty stood by the window, and as she saw the flowers in 
 my cap, she blushed like a ruby, and started back. This 
 time I had seen the beautiful face to better advantage ; it was 
 a sweet transparent incarnation of summer evening air, moon- 
 shine, nightingale notes and rose perfume. >' Later — in the 
 twilight hour, she was standing at the door. I came — I drew 
 near — she slowly retreated into the dark entry — I followed, 
 and seizing her hand, said, "lama lover of beautiful flowers 
 and of kisses, and when they are not given to me, I steal 
 them." Here I quickly snatched a kiss, and as she was 
 about to fly, I whispered apologetically, " To-morrow I leave 
 this town and never return again." Then I perceived a faint 
 pressure of the lovely lips and of the little hand, and I — 
 went smiling away. Yes, I must smile when I reflect that 
 this was precisely the magic formula by which our red-and- 
 blue-coated cavaliers more frequently win female hearts, than 
 by their mustachioed attractiveness. "To-morrow I leave, 
 and never return again ! " 
 
 My chamber commanded a fine view toward Rammelsberg. 
 It was a lovely evening. Night was out hunting on her black 
 steed, and the long cloud mane fluttered on the wind. I stood 
 at my window watching the moon. Is there really a " man in 
 the moon " ? The Slavonians assert that there is such a being 
 named Clotar, and he causes the moon to grow by watering 
 it. When I was little they told me that the moon was a fruit, 
 and that when it was ripe, it was picked and laid away, amid 
 a vast collection of old full moons, in a great bureau, which 
 stood at the end of the world, where it is nailed up with 
 boards. As I grew older, I remarked that the world was not 
 by any means so limited as I had supposed it to be, and that 
 human intelligence had broken up the wooden bureau, and 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 23 
 
 with a terrible Hand of Glory had opened all the seven 
 heavens. Immortality — dazzling idea! who first imagined 
 thee ! Was it some jolly burgher of Nuremburg, who with 
 nightcap on his head, and white clay pipe in mouth, sat on 
 some pleasant summer evening before his door, and reflected 
 in all his comfort, that it would be right pleasant, if, with 
 unextinguishable pipe, and endless breath, he could thus 
 vegetate onwards for a blessed eternity ? Or was it a lover, 
 who in the arms of his loved one thought the immortality 
 thought, and that because he could think and feel naught 
 beside! — Love ! Immortality ! It speedily became so hot in 
 my breast, that I thought the geographers had misplaced the 
 equator, and that it now ran directly through my heart. And 
 from my heart poured out the feeling of love ; — it poured 
 forth with wild longing into the broad night. The flowers in 
 the garden beneath my window breathed a stronger perfume. 
 Perfumes are the feelings of flowers, and as the human heart 
 feels most powerful emotions in the night, when it believes 
 itself to be alone and unperceived, so also do the flowers, 
 soft-minded, yet ashamed, appear to await for concealing 
 darkness, that they may give themselves wholly up to their 
 feelings, and breathe them out in sweet odorsX Pour forth, 
 ye perfumes of my heart, and seek beyond yon blue moun- 
 tain for the loved one of my dreams ! Now she lies in slum- 
 ber, at her feet kneel angels, and if she smiles in sleep it is a 
 prayer which angels repeat ; in her breast is heaven with all 
 its raptures, and as she breathes, my heart, though afar, 
 throbs responsively. Behind the silken lids of her eyes the 
 sun has gone down, and when they are raised, the sun rises, 
 and birds sing, and the bells of the flock tinkle, and I strap 
 on my knapsack and depart. 
 
 During the night which I passed at Goslar, a remarkably curi- 
 ous occurrence befell me. Even now, I cannot think of it with- 
 out terror. I am not by nature cowardly, but I fear ghosts almost 
 as much as the " Austrian Observer." What is fear ? Does it 
 come from the understanding or from the natural disposition ? 
 This was a point which I frequently disputed with Doctor Saul 
 Ascher, when we accidentally met in the Cafe Royal, in Berlin, 
 where I for a long time dined. The doctor invariably main- 
 tained, that we feared anything, because we recognized it as 
 
24 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 fearful, owing to certain determinate conclusions of the reason. 
 Only the reason was an active power, — not the disposition. 
 While I ate and drank to my heart's content, the doctor demon- 
 strated to me the advantages of reason. Towards the end of 
 his dissertation, he was accustomed to look at his watch and 
 remark conclusively, " Reason is the highest principle ! " — 
 Reason ! Never do I hear this word without recalling Doctor 
 Saul Ascher, with his abstract legs, his tight-fitting transcen- 
 dental gray long coat, and his immovably icy face, which re- 
 sembled a confused amalgam of geometrical problems. This 
 man, deep in the fifties, was a personified straight line. In 
 his striving for the positive, the poor man had philosophized 
 everything beautiful out of existence, and with it everything 
 like sunshine, religion and flowers, so that there remained 
 nothing for him but a cold positive grave. The Apollo Bel- 
 vedere and Christianity were the two especial objects of his 
 malice, and he had even published a pamphlet against the latter, 
 in which he had demonstrated its unreasonableness and unten- 
 ableness. In addition to this, he had, however, written a great 
 number of books, in all of which Reason shone forth in all 
 its peculiar excellence, and as the poor doctor meant what he 
 said in all seriousness, they were, so far, deserving of respect. 
 But the great joke consisted precisely in this, that the doctor 
 invariably cut such a seriously absurd figure in not compre- 
 hending that which every child comprehends, simply because 
 it is a child. I visited the doctor several times in his own 
 house, where I found him in company with very pretty girls, 
 for Reason, it seems, however abstract, does not prohibit the 
 enjoyment of the things of this world. Once, however, when 
 I called, his servant told me that the Herr Doctor had just 
 died. I experienced as much emotion on this occasion, as if 
 I had been told that the Herr Doctor had just stepped out. 
 
 To return to Goslar. " The highest principle is Reason," 
 said I consolingly to myself as I slid into bed. But it availed 
 me nothing. I had just been reading in Varnhagen von Ense's 
 " German Narrations," which I had brought with me from 
 Clausthal, that terrible tale of a son, who, when about to mur- 
 der his father, was warned in the night by the ghost of his 
 mother. The wonderful truthfulness with which this story is 
 depicted, caused while reading it a shudder of horror in all 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 25 
 
 my veins. Ghost stories invariably thrill us with additional 
 horror when read during a journey, and by night in a town, in 
 a house, and in a chamber where we have never before been. 
 Y We involuntarily reflect, " How many horrors may have been 
 perpetrated on this very spot where I now lie ? " Meanwhile, 
 the moon shone into my room in a doubtful, suspicious man- 
 ner ; all kinds of uncalled-for shapes quivered on the walls, and 
 as I laid me down and glanced fearfully around, I beheld — 
 
 There is nothing so uncanny as when a man sees his own 
 face by moonlight in a mirror. At the same instant there 
 struck a deep booming, yawning bell, and that so slowly and 
 wearily that I firmly believed that it had been full twelve hours 
 striking, and that it was now time to begin over again. Be- 
 tween the last and next to the last tones, there struck in very 
 abruptly, as if irritated and scolding, another bell, who was 
 apparently out of patience with the slowness of her friend. 
 As the two iron tongues were silenced, and the stillness of 
 death sank over the whole house, I suddenly seemed to hear, 
 in the corridor before my chamber, something halting and 
 waddling along, like the unsteady steps of a man. At last 
 t1*e door slowly opened, and there entered deliberately the late 
 departed Doctor Saul Ascher. A cold fever drizzled through 
 marrow and vein — I trembled like an ivy leaf, and scarcely 
 dared I gaze upon the ghost. He appeared as usual, with the 
 same transcendental gray long coat, the same abstract legs, 
 and the same mathematical face ; only this latter was a little 
 yellower than usual, and the mouth, which formerly described 
 two angles of 22 \ degrees, was pinched together, and the 
 circles around the eyes had a somewhat greater radius. Tot- 
 tering, and supporting himself as usual upon his Malacca cane, 
 he approached me, and said, in his usual drawling dialect, but 
 in a friendly manner : " Do not be afraid, nor believe that I 
 am a ghost. It is a deception of your imagination, if you 
 believe that you see me as a ghost. What is a ghost ? De- 
 fine one. Deduce for me the conditions of the possibility of 
 a ghost. In what reasonable connection does such an appa- 
 rition coincide with reason itself ? Reason, I say, reason ! " 
 Here the ghost proceeded to analyze reason, cited from 
 Kant's " Critique of Pure Reason," part 2, ist section, chap. 3, 
 the distinction between phenomena and noumena, then pro- 
 
20 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 ceeded to construct a hypothetical system of ghosts, piled 
 one syllogism on another, and concluded with the logical 
 proof that there are absolutely no ghosts. Meanwhile the 
 cold sweat beaded over me, my teeth clattered like castanets, 
 and from very agony of soul I nodded an unconditional as- 
 sent to every assertion which the phantom Doctor alleged 
 against the absurdity of being afraid of ghosts, and which 
 he demonstrated with such zeal, that finally, in a moment of 
 abstraction, instead of his gold watch, he drew a handful of 
 grave worms from his vest pocket, and remarking his error, 
 replaced them with a ridiculous but terrified haste. "The 
 reason is the highest — " Here the clock struck one, and 
 the ghost vanished. 
 
 I wandered forth from Goslar the next morning, half at 
 random, and half intending to visit the brother of the Claus- 
 thaler miner. I climbed hill and mount, saw how the sun 
 strove to drive afar the mists, and wandered merrily through 
 the trembling woods, while around my dreaming head rang 
 the bellflowers of Goslar. The mountains stood in their 
 white night-robes, the fir-trees were shaking sleep out of 
 their branching limbs, the fresh morning wind curled their 
 down-drooping green locks, the birds were at morning prayers, 
 the meadow vale flashed like a golden surface sprinkled with 
 diamonds, and the shepherd passed over it with his bleating 
 flock. I had gone astray. Men are ever striking out short 
 cuts and by-paths, hoping to abridge their journey/' It is in 
 life as in the Harz. However, there are good souls every- 
 where to bring us again to the right way. This they do right 
 willingly, appearing to take a particular satisfaction, to judge 
 from their self-gratified air and benevolent tones, in pointing 
 out to us the great wanderings which we have made from 
 the right road, the abysses and morasses into which we might 
 have sunk, and, finally, what a piece of good luck it was for 
 us to encounter, betimes, people who knew the road as well 
 as themselves. Such a guide-post I found not far from the 
 Harzburg, in the person of a well-fed citizen of Goslar — a 
 man of shining, double-chinned, slow cunning countenance, 
 who looked as if he had discovered the murrain. We went 
 along for some distance together, and he narrated many 
 ghost stories, which would have all been well enough if they 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 2J 
 
 had not all concluded with an explanation that there was no 
 real ghost in the case, but that the specter in white was a 
 poacher, that the wailing sound was caused by the new-born 
 farrow of a wild sow, and that the rapping and scraping on 
 the roof was caused by cats. " Only when a man is sick," 
 observed my guide, "does he ever believe that he sees 
 ghosts " ; and to this he added the remark, that as for his 
 own humble self, he was but seldom sick, — only at times a 
 little wrong about the head, and that he invariably relieved 
 this by dieting. He then called my attention to the appro- 
 priateness and use of all things in nature. Trees are green, 
 because green is good for the eyes. I assented to this, add- 
 ing that the Lord had made cattle because beef soup strength- 
 ened man, that jackasses were created for the purpose of 
 serving as comparisons, and that man existed that he might 
 eat beef soup, and realize that he was no jackass. My com- 
 panion was delighted to meet with one of sympathetic views, 
 his face glowed with a greater joy, and on parting from me 
 he appeared to be sensibly moved. 
 
 As long as he was with me Nature seemed benumbed, but 
 when he departed the trees began again to speak, the sun- 
 rays flashed, the meadow flowers danced once more, and the 
 blue heavens embraced the green earth. Yes — I know 
 better. God hath created man that he may admire the 
 beauty and the glory of the world. Every author, be he ever 
 so great, desires that his work may be praised. And in the 
 Bible, that great memoir of God, it is distinctly written that 
 he hath made man for his own honor and praise. 
 
 After long wandering, here and there, I came to the dwell- 
 ing of the brother of my Clausthaler friend. Here I stayed 
 all night, and experienced the following beautiful poem : — 
 
 On yon rock the hut is standing, 
 
 Of the ancient mountaineer. 
 There the dark green fir-trees rustle, 
 
 And the moon is shining clear. 
 
 In the hut there stands an armchair 
 
 Which quaint carvings beautify ; 
 He who sits therein is happy, 
 
 And that happy man am I. 
 
28 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 On the footstool sits a maiden, 
 On my lap her arms repose : — 
 
 With her eyes like blue stars beaming, 
 And her mouth a new-born rose. 
 
 And the dear blue stars shine on me, 
 Full as heaven is their gaze ; 
 
 And her little lily finger 
 Archly on the rose she lays. 
 
 "Nay — thy mother cannot see us, 
 For she spins the whole day long ; 
 
 And thy father plays the cither 
 As he sings a good old song." 
 
 And the maiden softly whispers, 
 So that none around may hear : 
 
 Many a solemn little secret 
 
 Hath she murmured in my ear. 
 
 " Since I lost my aunt who loved me, 
 Now we never more repair 
 
 To the shooting-ground at Goslar, 
 And it is so pleasant there ! 
 
 And up here it is so lonely 
 
 On the rocks where cold winds blow ; 
 
 And in winter, we are ever 
 Deeply buried in the snow. 
 
 And I'm such a timid creature, 
 And I'm frightened like a child; 
 
 At the evil mountain spirits, 
 Who by night are raging wild." 
 
 At the thought the maid was silent, 
 As if terror thrilled her breast ; 
 
 And the small hands, white and dimpled 
 To her sweet blue eyes she pressed. 
 
 Loud, without, the fir-trees rustle, 
 Loud the spinning-wheel still rings : 
 
 And the cither sounds above them, 
 While the father softly sings. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 29 
 
 " Dearest child : — no evil spirits 
 
 Should have power to cause thee dread ; 
 
 For good angels still are watching 
 Night and day around thy head." 
 
 Fir-tree with his dark green fingers 
 Taps upon the window low ; 
 
 And the moon, a yellow listener, 
 Casts within her sweetest glow. 
 
 Father, mother, both are sleeping, 
 Near at hand their rest they take; 
 
 But we two in pleasant gossip, 
 Keep each other long awake. 
 
 " That thou prayest much too often, 
 Seems unlikely I declare ; 
 
 On thy lips there's a contraction 
 Which was never born of prayer. 
 
 Ah, that heartless, cold expression ! 
 
 Terrifies me as I gaze ; 
 Though a solemn sorrow darkens 
 
 In thine eyes, their gentle rays. 
 
 And I doubt if thou believest 
 What is held for truth by most ; 
 
 Hast thou faith in God the Father 
 In the Son and Holy Ghost? " 
 
 " Ah, my darling ; when, an infant, 
 By my mother's knee I stood, 
 
 I believed in God the Father, 
 He who ruleth great and good. 
 
 He who made the world so lovely, 
 Gave man beauty, gave him force ; 
 
 And to sun and moon and planets, 
 Preappointed each their course. 
 
 As I older grew, my darling, 
 And my way in wisdom won ; 
 
 I, in reason comprehended, 
 And believe now in the Son. 
 
30 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 In the well-loved Son, who loving, 
 Oped the gates of Love so wide ; 
 
 And for thanks, — as is the custom, — 
 By the world was crucified. 
 
 Now, at man's estate arriving, 
 
 Full experience I boast ; 
 And with heart expanded, truly 
 
 I believe in the Holy Ghost, 
 
 Who hath worked the greatest wonders, 
 Greater still he'll work again ; 
 
 He hath broken tyrant's strongholds 
 And he breaks the vassal's chain. 
 
 Ancient deadly wounds he healeth, 
 He renews man's ancient right ; 
 
 All to him, born free and equal, 
 Are as nobles in his sight. 
 
 Clouds of evil flee before him, 
 And those cobwebs of the brain, 
 
 Which forbade us love and pleasure, 
 Scowling grimly on our pain. 
 
 And a thousand knights well weaponed 
 Hath he chosen, and required 
 
 To fulfil his holy bidding, 
 
 All with noblest zeal inspired. 
 
 Lo ! their precious swords are gleaming, 
 And their banners wave in fight ! 
 
 What ! thou fain wouldst see, my darling, 
 Such a proud and noble knight ? 
 
 Well, then gaze upon me, dearest, 
 
 I am of that lordly host. 
 Kiss me ! I am an elected 
 
 True knight of the Holy Ghost ! " 
 
 Silently the moon goes hiding 
 
 Down behind the dark green trees ; 
 
 And the lamp which lights our chamber 
 Flickers in the evening breeze. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 3 I 
 
 But the star-blue eyes are beaming 
 
 Softly o'er the dimpled cheeks, 
 And the purple rose is gleaming, 
 
 While the gentle maiden speaks. 
 
 " Little people — fairy goblins — 
 
 Steal away our meat and bread ; 
 In the chest it lies at evening, 
 
 In the morning it has fled. 
 
 From our milk, the little people 
 
 Steal the cream and all the best ; 
 Then they leave the dish uncovered, 
 
 And our cat drinks up the rest. 
 
 And the cat's a witch, I'm certain, 
 
 For by night when storms arise ; 
 Oft she glides to yonder Ghost-Rock, 
 
 Where the fallen tower lies. 
 
 There was once a splendid castle, 
 
 Home of joy and weapons bright ; 
 Where there swept in stately torch dance, 
 
 Lady, page, and armed knight. 
 
 But a sorceress charmed the castle, 
 
 With its lords and ladies fair; 
 Now it is a lonely ruin, 
 
 And the owls are nestling there. 
 
 But my aunt hath often told me, 
 
 Could I speak the proper word, 
 In the proper place up yonder, 
 
 When the proper hour occurred, 
 
 Then the walls would change by magic 
 
 To a castle gleaming bright ; 
 And I'd see in stately dances, 
 
 Dame and page and gallant knight. 
 
 He who speaks the word of power 
 
 Wins the castle for his own ; 
 And the knights with drum and trumpet, 
 
 Loud will hail him lord alone." 
 
32 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Thus, sweet legendary pictures 
 
 From the little rose-mouth bloom ; 
 
 And the gentle eyes are shedding 
 Star-blue luster through the gloom. 
 
 Round my hand the little maiden 
 Winds her gold locks as she will, 
 
 Gives a name to every finger, 
 
 Kisses, — smiles, and then is still. 
 
 All things in the silent chamber 
 Seem at once familiar grown, 
 
 As if e'en the chairs and clothes-press, 
 Well, of old, to me were known. 
 
 Now the clock talks kindly, gravely, 
 And the cither, as 'twould seem, 
 
 Of itself is faintly chiming, 
 And I sit as in a dream. 
 
 Now the proper hour is o'er us, 
 
 Here's the place where't should be heard ; 
 
 Child — how thou wouldst be astonished, 
 Should I speak the magic word ! 
 
 If I spoke that word, then fading 
 Night would thrill in fearful strife ; 
 
 Trees and streams would roar together 
 As the castle woke to life. 
 
 Ringing lutes and goblin ditties 
 
 From the clefted rock would sound ; 
 
 Like a mad and merry spring-tide 
 Flowers grow forest-high around. 
 
 Flowers — startling, wondrous flowers, 
 Leaves of vast and fabled form, 
 
 Strangely perfumed, — wildly quivering, 
 As if thrilled with passion's storm. 
 
 Roses, wild as crimson flashes, 
 
 O'er the busy tumult rise ; 
 Giant lilies, white as crystal, 
 
 Shoot like columns to the skies. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 33 
 
 Great as suns the stars above us 
 
 Gaze adown with burning glow ; 
 In the lilies, giant calyx 
 
 All their floods of flashes flow. 
 
 We ourselves, my little maiden, 
 
 Would be changed more than all ; 
 Torchlight gleams, o'er gold and satin 
 
 Round us merrily would fall. 
 
 Thou thyself wouldst be the princess, 
 
 And this hut thy castle high ; 
 Ladies, lords, and graceful pages, 
 
 Would be dancing, singing by. 
 
 I, however, I have conquered 
 
 Thee, and all things, with the word : — 
 
 Serfs and castle : — lo ! with trumpet 
 Loud they hail me as their lord ! 
 
 The sun rose. Clouds flitted away like phantoms at the 
 third crow of the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down 
 dale, while overhead swept the fair sun, ever lighting up new 
 scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the Mountain evidently fa- 
 vored me, well knowing that a poetical character has it in his 
 power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning 
 he let me see his Harz, as it is not, most assuredly, seen by 
 every one. But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, 
 and there were as costly pearls on my eyelashes, as on the 
 grass of the valley. The morning dew of love wetted my 
 cheeks, the rustling pines understood me, their parting twigs 
 waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would 
 express their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar, 
 I heard beautiful and mysterious chimes, like the bell tones of 
 some long-lost forest church. People say that these sounds 
 are caused by the cattle bells, which in the Harz ring with 
 remarkable clearness and purity. 
 
 It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I 
 chanced upon such a flock; and its herd, a friendly, light- 
 haired young fellow, told me that the great hill at whose base 
 I stood, was the old world-renowned Brocken. For many 
 leagues around there is no house, and I was glad enough 
 4 
 
34 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat 
 down to a dejeuner dinatoire, consisting of bread and cheese. 
 The sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty shining 
 heifers jumped around, ringing their bells roguishly, and 
 laughing at us with great merry eyes. We made a royal 
 meal, my host appearing to me altogether a king ; and as he is 
 the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing him 
 right royally. 
 
 The shepherd is a monarch, 
 A hillock is his throne, 
 
 The sun above him shining, 
 Is his heavy golden crown. 
 
 Sheep at his feet are lying, 
 
 Soft flatterers, crossed with red, 
 1'he calves are cavalieros, 
 
 Who strut with haughty head. 
 
 Court players are the he goats, 
 
 And the wild bird and the cow, 
 With their piping and their herd bell, 
 
 Are the king's musicians now. 
 
 They ring and sing so sweetly, 
 
 And so sweetly chime around, 
 The waterfall and fir-trees, 
 
 While the monarch slumbers sound. 
 
 And as he sleeps, his sheep-dog, 
 
 As minister must reign ; 
 His snarling and his barking, 
 
 Reecho o'er the plain. 
 
 Dozing, the monarch murmurs 
 
 " Such work was never seen 
 As reigning — I were happier 
 
 At home beside my queen ! 
 
 " My royal head when weary, 
 
 In my queen's arms softly lies, 
 And my endless broad dominion, 
 
 In her deep and gentle eyes. 5 ' 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 35 
 
 We took leave of each other in a friendly manner, and with 
 a light heart I began to ascend the mountain. I was soon 
 welcomed by a grove of stately firs, for whom I, in every 
 respect, entertain the most reverential regard. For these 
 trees, of which I speak, have not found growing to be such 
 an easy business, and during the days of their youth it fared 
 hard with them. The mountain is here sprinkled with a great 
 number of blocks of granite, and most of the trees are obliged 
 either to twine their roots over the stones, or split them in two, 
 that they may thus with trouble get at a little earth to nourish 
 them. Here and there stones lie, on each other, forming as 
 it were a gate, and over all grow the trees, their naked roots 
 twining down over the wild portals, and first reaching the 
 ground at its base, so that they appear to be growing in the 
 air. And yet they have forced their way up to that startling 
 height, and grown into one with the rocks, they stand more 
 securely than their easy comrades, who are rooted in the tame 
 forest soil of the level country. So it is in life with those 
 great men who have strengthened and established themselves 
 by resolutely subduing the obstacles which oppressed their 
 youth. Squirrels climbed amid the fir twigs, while beneath, 
 yellow-brown deer were quietly grazing. I cannot compre- 
 hend, when I see such a noble animal, how educated and 
 refined people can take pleasure in its chase or death. Such 
 a creature was once more merciful than man, and suckled the 
 longing Schmerzenreich of the Holy Genofeva. 1 
 
 Most beautiful were the golden sun-rays shooting through 
 the dark green of the firs. The roots of the trees formed a 
 natural stairway, and everywhere my feet encountered swell- 
 ing beds of moss, for the stones are here covered foot-deep, 
 as if with light-green velvet cushions. Everywhere a pleasant 
 freshness and the dreamy murmur of streams. Here and 
 there we see water rippling silver-clear amid the rocks, wash- 
 ing the bare roots and fibers of trees. Bend down to the 
 current and listen, and you may hear at the same time the 
 mysterious history of the growth of the plants, and the quiet 
 pulsations of the heart of the mountain. In many places 
 
 1 According to the Legend of Genofeva, when the fair saint and her 
 little son, Schmerzenreich (abounding in sorrows), were starving in the 
 wilderness, they were suckled by a doe. 
 
36 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the water jets strongly up, amid rocks and roots, forming 
 little cascades. It is pleasant to sit in such places. All mur- 
 murs and rustles so sweetly and strangely, the birds carol 
 broken strains of love-longing, the trees whisper like a thou- 
 sand girls, odd flowers peep up like a thousand maidens' eyes, 
 stretching out to us their curious, broad, droll-pointed leaves, 
 the sun-rays flash here and there in sport, the soft-souled 
 herds are telling their green legends, all seems enchanted, 
 and becomes more secret and confidential, an old, old dream 
 is realized, the loved one appears, — alas that all so quickly 
 vanishes ! 
 
 The higher we ascend, so much the shorter and more 
 dwarf -like do the fir-trees become, shrinking up as it were 
 within themselves, until finally only whortleberries, bilberries, 
 and mountain herbs remain. It is also sensibly colder. Here, 
 for the first time, the granite boulders, which are frequently 
 of enormous size, become fully visible. These may well have 
 been the play-balls which evil spirits cast at each other on the 
 Walpurgis night, when the witches came riding hither on 
 brooms and pitchforks, when the mad, unhallowed revelry 
 begins, as our believing nurses have told us, and as we may 
 see it represented in the beautiful Faust-pictures of Master 
 Retsch. Yes, a young poet who in journeying from Berlin 
 to Göttingen, on the first evening in May, passed the Brocken, 
 remarked how certain belles-lettered ladies held their esthetic 
 tea circle in a rocky corner, how they comfortably read the 
 evening journal, how they praised as an universal genius 
 their pet billy-goat, who, bleating, hopped around their table, 
 and how they passed a final judgment on all the manifesta- 
 tions of German literature. But when they at last fell upon 
 "Ratcliff" and "Almansor," utterly denying to the author 
 aught like piety or Christianity, the hair of the youth rose 
 on end, terror seized him — I spurred my steed and rode 
 onwards ! 
 
 In fact, when we ascend the upper half of the Brocken, 
 no one can well help thinking of the attractive legends of the 
 Blocksberg, and especially of the great mystical German 
 national tragedy of Doctor Faust. It ever seemed to me that 
 I could hear the cloven foot scrambling along behind, and that 
 some one inhaled an atmosphere of humor. And I verily 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY: 37 
 
 believe that Mephisto himself must breathe with difficulty 
 when he climbs his favorite mountain, for it is a road which 
 is to the last degree exhausting, and I was glad enough when 
 I at last beheld the long-desired Brocken-house. 
 
 This house — as every one knows, from numerous pictures 
 
 — consists of a single story, and was erected in the year 1800 
 by Count Stollberg Wernigerode, for whose profit it is man- 
 aged as a tavern. On account of the wind and cold in winter, 
 its walls are incredibly thick. The roof is low. From its 
 midst rises a tower-like observatory, and near the house lie 
 two little outbuildings, one of which, in earlier times, served 
 as shelter to the Brocken visitors. 
 
 On entering the Brocken-house, I experienced a somewhat 
 unusual and legend-like sensation. After a long, solitary 
 journey, amid rocks and pines, the traveler suddenly finds 
 himself in a house amid the clouds. Far below lie cities, hills 
 and forests, while above he encounters a curiously blended 
 circle of strangers, by whom he is received as is usual in such 
 assemblies, almost like an expected companion — half inquisi- 
 tively and half indifferently. I found the house full of guests, 
 and, as becomes a wise man, I first reflected on the night, and 
 the discomfort of sleeping on straw. My part was at once 
 determined on. With the voice of one dying I called for tea, 
 and the Brocken landlord was reasonable enough to perceive 
 that the sick gentleman must be provided with a decent bed. 
 This he gave me, in a narrow room, where a young merchant 
 
 — a long emetic in a brown overcoat — had already estab- 
 lished himself. 
 
 In the public room I found a full tide of bustle and anima- 
 tion. There were students from different universities. Some 
 of the newly arrived were taking refreshments. Others, pre- 
 paring for departure, buckled on their knapsacks, wrote their 
 names in the album, and received bouquets from the house- 
 maid. There was jesting, singing, springing, trilling, some 
 questioning, some answering, fine weather, foot-path, prosit ! 
 
 — luck be with you ! Adieu ! Some of those leaving were 
 also partly drunk, and these derived a twofold pleasure from 
 the beautiful scenery, for a tipsy man sees double. 
 
 After recruiting myself, I ascended the observatory, and 
 there found a little gentleman, with two ladies, one of whom 
 
33 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 was young and the other elderly. The young lady was very 
 beautiful. A superb figure, flowing locks, surmounted by a 
 helm-like black satin chapeau, amid whose white plumes the 
 wind played ; fine limbs, so closely enwrapped by a black 
 silk mantle that their exquisite form was made manifest, and 
 great free eyes, calmly looking down into the great free 
 world. 
 
 When as yet a boy I thought of naught save tales of magic 
 and wonder, and every fair lady who had ostrich feathers on 
 her head I regarded as an elfin queen. If I observed that 
 the train of her dress was wet, I believed at once that she 
 must be a water fairy. 1 Now I know better, having learned 
 from Natural History that those symbolical feathers are found 
 on the most stupid of birds, and that the skirt of a lady's dress 
 may be wetted in a very natural way. But if I had, with 
 those boyish eyes, seen the aforesaid young lady, in the afore- 
 said position on the Brocken, I would most assuredly have 
 thought "That is the fairy of the mountain and she has just 
 uttered the charm which has caused all down there to appear 
 so wonderful." Yes, at the first glance from the Brocken, 
 everything appears in a high degree marvelous, — new im- 
 pressions throng in on every side, and these, varied and often 
 contradictory, unite in our soul to an overpowering and con- 
 fusing sensation. If we succeed in grasping the idea of this 
 sensation, we shall comprehend the character of the mountain. 
 This character is entirely German as regards not only its 
 advantages, but also its defects. The Brocken is a German. 
 With German thoroughness he points out to us — sharply and 
 accurately defined as in a panorama — the hundreds of cities, 
 towns, and villages which are principally situated to the north, 
 and all the mountains, forests, rivers, and plains which lie infi- 
 nitely far around. But for this very cause everything appears 
 like an accurately designed and perfectly colored map, and 
 nowhere is the eye gratified by really beautiful landscapes, 
 — just as we German compilers, owing to the honorable exact- 
 ness with which we attempt to give all and everything, never 
 
 1 It is an accepted tradition in fairy mythology that undines, water- 
 nixies, and other aqueous spirits, however they may disguise themselves, 
 can always be detected by the fact that a portion of their dress invariably 
 appears to be wet. *? 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 39 
 
 appear to think of giving integral parts in a beautiful man- 
 ner. The mountain in consequence has a certain calm-Ger- 
 man, intelligent, tolerant character, simply because he can 
 see things so distant, yet so distinctly. And when such a 
 mountain opens his giant eyes, it may be that he sees some- 
 what more than we dwarfs, who with our weak eyes climb 
 over him. Many, indeed, assert that the Blocksberg is very 
 Philistine-like, and Claudius once sang "The Blocksberg is 
 the lengthy Sir Philistine." But that was an error. On 
 account of his bald head, which he occasionally covers with 
 a cloud cap, the Blocksberg has indeed something of a Philis- 
 tine-like aspect, but this with him, as with many other great 
 Germans, is the result of pure irony. For it is notorious that 
 he has his wild-student and fantastic times, as for instance 
 on the first night of May. Then he casts his cloud cap up- 
 roariously and merrily on high, and becomes like the rest of 
 us, real German romantic mad. 
 
 I soon sought to entrap the beauty into a conversation, for 
 we only begin to fully enjoy the beauties of nature when we 
 talk about them on the spot. She was not spirituelle, but 
 attentively intelligent. Both were perfect models of gentility. 
 I do not mean that commonplace, stiff, negative respectability, 
 which knows exactly what must not be done or said, but that 
 rarer, independent positive gentility, which inspires an accu- 
 rate knowledge of what we may venture on, and which amid 
 all our ease and abandon inspires the utmost social confidence. 
 I developed to my own amazement much geographical knowl- 
 edge, detailed to the curious beauty the names of all the towns 
 which lay before us, and sought them out for her on the map, 
 which with all the solemnity of a teacher I had spread out 
 on the stone table which stands in the center of the tower. 
 I could not find many of the towns, possibly because I sought 
 them more with my fingers than with my eyes, which latter 
 were scanning the face of the fair lady, and discovering in it 
 fairer regions than those of Schierke and Elend. 1 This coun- 
 tenance was one of those which never excite, and seldom 
 enrapture, but which always please. I love such faces, for 
 they smile my evilly agitated heart to rest. 
 
 1 Schierke (Scflurke), " rascal," and Elend or u misery," are the names of 
 two*0jaces near the Brocken. 
 
1 
 
 40 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 I could not divine the relation in which the little gentleman 
 stood to the ladies whom he accompanied. He was a spare 
 and remarkable figure. A head sprinkled with gray hair, 
 which fell over his low forehead down to his dragon-fly eyes, 
 and a round, broad nose which projected boldly forwards, 
 while his mouth and chin seemed retreating in terror back to 
 his ears. His face looked as. if formed of the soft yellowish 
 clay with which sculptors mold their first models, and when 
 the thin lips pinched together, thousands of semicircular and 
 faint wrinkles appeared on his cheeks. The little man never 
 spoke a word, only at times when the elder lady whispered 
 something friendly in his ear, he smiled like a lap-dog which 
 has taken cold. 
 
 The elder lady was the mother of the younger, and she too 
 was gifted with an air of extreme respectability and refine- 
 ment. Her eyes betrayed a sickly, dreamy depth of thought, 
 and about her mouth there was an expression of confirmed 
 piety, yet withal it seemed to me that she had once been 
 very beautiful, and often smiled, and taken and given many 
 a kiss. Her countenance resembled a codex palimpsestus^ in 
 which, from beneath the recent black monkish writing of 
 some text of a Church Father, there peeped out the half- 
 obliterated verse of an old Greek love poet. Both ladies had 
 been that year with their companion in Italy, and told me 
 many things of the beauties of Rome, Florence, and Venice. 
 The mother had much to say of the pictures of Raphael in St. 
 Peter's ; the daughter spoke more of the opera in La Fenice. 
 
 While we conversed, the sun sank lower and lower, the air 
 grew colder, twilight stole over us, and the tower platform 
 was filled with students, traveling mechanics, and a few 
 honest citizens with their spouses and daughters, all of whom 
 were desirous of witnessing the sunset. That is truly a 
 sublime spectacle, which elevates the soul to prayer. For a 
 full quarter of an hour all stood in solemn silence, gazing on 
 the beautiful fire-ball as it sank in the west ; faces were rosy 
 in the evening red ; hands were involuntarily folded ; it 
 seemed as if we, a silent congregation, stood in the nave of 
 a giant church, that the priest raised the body of the Lord, 
 and that Palestrina's everlasting choral song poured forth 
 from the organ. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 4 1 
 
 As I stood thus lost in piety, I heard some one near me 
 exclaim, " Ah !' how beautiful Nature is, as a general thing ! " 
 These words came from the full heart of my roommate, the 
 young shopman. This brought me back to my week-day 
 state of mind, and I found myself in tune to say a few neat 
 things to the ladies about the sunset, and to accompany 
 them, as calmly as if nothing had happened, to their room. 
 They permitted me to converse an hour longer with them. 
 Our conversation, like the earth's course, was about the sun. 
 The mother declared that the sun as it sank in the snowy 
 clouds seemed like a red glowing rose, which the gallant 
 heaven had thrown upon the white and spreading bridal veil 
 of his loved earth. The daughter smiled, and thought that a 
 frequent observation of such phenomena weakened their im- 
 pression. The mother corrected this error by a quotation 
 from Goethe's " Letters of Travel," and asked me if I had 
 read Werther. I believe that we also spoke of Angora cats, 
 Etruscan vases, Turkish shawls, macaroni, and Lord Byron, 
 from whose poems the elder lady, while daintily lisping and 
 sighing, recited several sunset quotations. To the younger 
 lady, who did not understand English, and who wished to 
 become familiar with those poems, I recommended the trans- 
 lation of my fair and gifted countrywoman, the Baroness 
 Elise von Hohenhausen. On this occasion, as is my custom 
 when talking with young ladies, I did not neglect to speak 
 of Byron's impiety, heartlessness, cheerlessness, and heaven 
 knows what beside. 
 
 After this business I took a walk on, the Brocken, for there 
 it is never quite dark. The mist was not heavy, and I could 
 see the outlines of the two hills, known as the Witch's Altar 
 and the Devil's Pulpit. I fired my pistol, but there was 
 no echo. But suddenly I heard familiar voices, and found 
 myself embraced and kissed. The newcomers were fellow 
 students, from my own part of Germany, and had left 
 Göttingen four days later than I. Great was their astonish- 
 ment at finding me alone on the Blocksberg. Then came a 
 flood-tide of narrative, of astonishment, and of appointment 
 making, — of laughing and of recollection, — and in the spirit 
 we found ourselves again in our learned Siberia, where refine- 
 ment is carried to such an extent that bears are " bound by 
 
42 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 many ties " in the taverns, and sables wish the hunter good 
 evening. 1 
 
 In the great room we had supper. There was a long 
 table, with two rows of hungry students. At first we had 
 only the usual subject of University conversation — duels, 
 duels, and once again duels. The company consisted prin- 
 cipally of Halle students, and Halle formed in consequence 
 the nucleus of their discourse. The window-panes of Court 
 Counselor Schutz were exegetically lighted up. Then it was 
 mentioned that the king of Cyprus's last levee had been very 
 brilliant, that the monarch had appointed a natural son, that 
 he had married — over the left — a princess of the house of 
 Lichtenstein, that the state mistress had been forced to resign, 
 and that the entire ministry, greatly moved, had wept accord- 
 ing to rule. I need hardly explain that this all referred to cer- 
 tain beer dignitaries in Halle. Then the two Chinese, who two 
 years before had been exhibited in Berlin, and who were now 
 appointed professors of Chinese esthetics in Halle, were dis- 
 cussed. Some one supposed a case in which a live German 
 might be exhibited for money in China. Placards would be 
 pasted up, in which the Mandarins Tsching-Tschang-Tschung 
 and Hi-Ha-Ho certified that the man was a genuine Teuton, 
 including a list of his accomplishments, which consisted prin- 
 cipally of philosophizing, smoking, and endless patience. As 
 a finale, visitors might be prohibited from bringing any dogs 
 with them at twelve o'clock (the hour for feeding the cap- 
 tive), as these animals would be sure to snap from the poor 
 German all his titbits. 
 
 A young Burschenschafter, who had recently passed his 
 
 1 According to that dignified and erudite work, the " Burschikoses Wör- 
 terbuch," or Student-Slang Dictionary, " to bind a bear," signifies to contract 
 a debt. The term is most frequently applied to tavern scores. In "the 
 Landlord's Twelve Commandments," a sheet frequently pasted up in Ger- 
 man beer-houses, I have observed — "Thou shalt not bind any bears in 
 this my house." The definition of a sable (Zobel), as given in the diction- 
 ary above cited, are : I, a finely furred animal ; 2, a young lady anxious to 
 please ; 3, " a broom " (i.e. housemaid, or female in general) ; 4, a lady of 
 pleasure ; 5, a wench ; 6, a nymph of the pave ; 7, a " buckle," etc., etc. 
 The sable hunt is synonymous with the Besenjagd or "broom chase." I 
 have, however, heard it asserted in Heidelberg that the term "sable" was 
 strictly applicable only to ladies'-maids. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 43 
 
 period of purification in Berlin, spoke much, but very par- 
 tially of this city. He had been constant in his attendance 
 on Wisotzki and the Theater, but judged falsely of both. 
 " For youth is ever ready with a word," etc. He spoke of 
 wardrobe expenditures, theatrical scandal, and similar mat- 
 ters. The youth knew not that in Berlin, where outside show 
 exerts the greatest influence (as is abundantly evidenced by 
 the commonness of the phrase " so people do"), this appar- 
 ent life must first of all flourish on the stage, and conse- 
 quently that the especial care of the Direction must be for 
 "the color of the beard with which a part is played," and for 
 the truthfulness of the dresses, which are designed by sworn 
 historians, and sewed by scientifically instructed tailors. And 
 this is indispensable. For if Maria Stuart wore an apron 
 belonging to the time of Queen Anne, the banker, Christian 
 Gumpel, would with justice complain that the anachronism 
 destroyed the illusion, and if Lord Burleigh in a moment of 
 forgetfulness should don the hose of Henry the Fourth, then 
 Madam, the war counselor Von Steinzopf's wife, nee Lilien- 
 thau, would not get the error out of her head for the whole 
 evening. And this delusive care on the part of the general 
 direction extends itself not only to aprons and pantaloons, but 
 also to the within enclosed persons. So in future Othello 
 will be played by a real Moor, for whom Professor Lichten- 
 stein has already written to Africa; the misanthropy and 
 remorse of Eulalia are to be sustained by a lady who has 
 really wandered from the paths of virtue ; Peter will be played 
 by a real blockhead, and the Stranger by a genuine mysteri- 
 ous wittol — for which last three characters it will not be nec- 
 essary to send to Africa. But little as this young man had 
 comprehended the relations of the Berlin drama, still less 
 was he aware that the Spontini Janizary opera with its ket- 
 tledrums, elephants, trumpets, and gongs is a heroic means 
 of inspiring with valor our sleeping race, — a means once 
 shrewdly recommended by Plato and Cicero. Least of all 
 did the youth comprehend the diplomatic inner meaning of 
 the ballet. It was with great trouble that I finally made him 
 understand that there was really more political science in 
 Hoguet's feet than in Buckholtz's head, that all his tours de 
 danse signified diplomatic negotiations, and that his every 
 
44 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 movement hinted at state matters, as, for instance, when he 
 bent forward anxiously, widely grasping out with his hands, 
 he meant our Cabinet, that a hundred pirouettes on one toe 
 without quitting the spot alluded to the alliance of Deputies, 
 that he was thinking of the lesser princes when he tripped 
 around with his legs tied, that he described the European 
 balance of power when he tottered hither and thither like a 
 drunken man, that he hinted at a Congress when he twisted 
 his bended arms together like a skein, and finally that he sets 
 forth our altogether too great friend in the East, when very 
 gradually unfolding himself he rises on high, stands for a 
 long time in this elevated position, and then all at once breaks 
 out into the most terrifying leaps. The scales fell from the 
 eyes of the young man, and he now saw how it was that 
 dancers are better paid than great poets, why the ballet forms 
 in diplomatic circles an inexhaustible subject of conversation, 
 and why a beautiful danseuse is so frequently privately sup- 
 ported by a minister, who beyond doubt labors night and day 
 that she may obtain a correct idea of his " little system." -By 
 Apis ! how great is the number of the exoteric, and how 
 small the array of the esoteric frequenters of the theater ! 
 There sit the stupid audience, gaping and admiring leaps and 
 attitudes, studying anatomy in the positions of Lemiere and 
 applauding the entre-chats of Rohnisch, prattling of " grace," 
 " harmony," and " limbs," — no one remarking, meanwhile, 
 that he has before him in choregraphic ciphers the destiny 
 of the German fatherland. 
 
 While such observations flitted hither and thither, we did 
 not lose sight of the practical, and the great dishes which 
 were honorably piled up with meat, potatoes, etc., were indus- 
 triously disposed of. The food, however, was of an indiffer- 
 ent quality. This I carelessly mentioned to my next neighbor 
 at table, who, however, with an accent in which I recognized 
 the Swiss, very impolitely replied, that Germans knew as lit- 
 tle of true content as of true liberty. I shrugged my shoulders, 
 remarking, that all the world over the humblest vassals of 
 princes, as well as pastry-cooks and confectioners, were 
 Swiss, and known as a class by that name. I also took the 
 liberty of stating that the Swiss heroes of liberty of the 
 present day reminded me of those tame hares, which we see 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 45 
 
 on market-days in public places, where they fire off pistols 
 to the great amazement of peasants and children — yet re- 
 main hares as before. 
 
 The son of the Alps had really meant nothing wicked, "he 
 was," as Cervantes says, " a plump man, and consequently a 
 good man." But my neighbor on the other side, a Greifs- 
 walder, was deeply touched by the assertior of the Swiss. 
 Energetically did he assert that German ability and simplicity 
 were not as yet extinguished, struck in a threatening manner 
 on his breast, and gulped down a tremendous flagon of white- 
 beer. The Swiss said "Nu! nu ! " But the more appeas- 
 ingly and apologetically he said this, so much the faster did 
 the Greif swalder get on with his riot. He was a man of those 
 days when hair-cutters came near dying of starvation. He 
 wore long locks, a knightly cap, a black old German coat, a 
 dirty shirt, which at the same time did duty as a waistcoat, 
 and beneath it a medallion, with a tassel of the hair of Blücher's 
 gray horse. His appearance was that of a full-grown fool. 
 I am always ready for something lively at supper, and con- 
 sequently held with him a patriotic strife. He was of the 
 opinion that Germany should be divided into thirty-three 
 districts. I asserted on the contrary that there should be 
 forty-eight, because it would then be possible to write a more 
 systematic guide-book for Germany, and because it is essential 
 that life should be blended with science. My Greifswald friend 
 was also a German bard, and, as he informed me in confidence, 
 was occupied with a national heroic poem, in honor of Herr- 
 man and the Herrman battle. Many an advantageous hint 
 did I give him on this subject. I suggested to him that the 
 morasses and crooked paths of the Teutobergian forest might 
 be very onomatopceically indicated by means of watery and 
 ragged verse, and that it would be merely a patriotic liberty 
 should the Romans in his poem chatter the wildest nonsense. 
 I hope that this bit of art will succeed in his works as in those 
 of other Berlin poets, even to the minutest particular. 
 
 The company around the table gradually became better 
 acquainted and much noisier. Wine banished beer, punch- 
 bowls steamed, and drinking, smolliren, 1 and singing were the 
 
 1 Contracted from the Latin sibi molire amicum. Schmolliren signifies to 
 gain a friend, to drink brotherhood with him, to give and take the ''brother- 
 
46 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 order of the night. The old " Landsfather " and the beautiful 
 songs of W. Müller, Rückert, Uhland, and others rang around, 
 with the exquisite airs of Methfessel. Best of all sounded 
 our own Arndt' s German words, "The Lord who bade iron 
 grow, wished for no slaves." And out of doors it roared as 
 if the old mountain sang with us, and a few reeling friends 
 even asserted that he merrily shook his bald head, which 
 caused the great unsteadiness of our floor. The bottles 
 became emptier and the heads of the company fuller. One 
 bellowed like an ox, a second piped, a third declaimed from 
 "The Crime," a fourth spoke Latin, 1 a fifth preached tem- 
 perance, and a sixth, assuming the chair learnedly, lectured 
 as follows : " Gentlemen ! The world is a round cylinder, 
 upon which human beings, as individual pins, are scattered 
 apparently at random. But the cylinder revolves, the pins 
 knock together and give out tones, some very frequently and 
 others but seldom ; all of which causes a remarkably com- 
 plicated sound, which is generally known as Universal History. 
 We will, in consequence, speak first of music, then of the 
 world, and finally of history; which latter we divide into 
 positive and Spanish flies — " and so sense and nonsense 
 went rattling on. 
 
 A jolly Mechlenburger, who held his nose to his punch- 
 glass, and, smiling with happiness, snuffed up the perfume, 
 remarked that it caused in him a sensation as if he were 
 standing again before the refreshment table in the Schwerin 
 Theater ! Another held his wine-glass like a lorgnette before 
 his eye, and appeared to be carefully studying the company, 
 while the red wine trickled down over his cheek into his pro- 
 jecting mouth. The Greifswalder, suddenly inspired, cast 
 
 kiss," and finally to Duzen, or call the friend Du or thou, equivalent to the 
 French tutoyer. The act of schmolliren is termed Schmollis, from the 
 Latin sis mihi mollis amicus, "Be my good friend!" The schmollis in 
 universities is accompanied by a variety of ceremonies, more or less im- 
 posing. The Crown-Schmollis, sung at a Cominers, or general meeting, 
 involves a vast amount of singing, etc. To refuse a schmollis is equivalent 
 to a challenge. It is generally asserted that to break the schmollis, or to 
 call the friend in a moment of forgetfulness " you," instead of " thou, " 
 calls for the forfeit of a bottle of wine, but I have never observed that this 
 rule was enforced against any, sax t foxes or freshmen and the like. 
 1 Was tipsy. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 47 
 
 himself upon my breast and shouted wildly, " Oh, that thou 
 couldst understand me, for I am a lover, a happy lover; for I 
 am loved again, and G — d d — n me, she's an educated girl, 
 for she has a full bosom, wears a white gown, and plays the 
 piano ! " But the Swiss wept, and tenderly kissed my hand, 
 and ever whimpered, " Oh, Molly dear ! oh, Molly dear ! V 
 
 During this crazy scene, in which plates learned to dance 
 and glasses to fly, there sat opposite me two youths, beautiful 
 and pale as statues, one resembling Adonis, the other Apollo. 
 The faint rosy hue which the wine spread over their cheeks 
 was scarcely visible. They gazed on each other with infinite 
 affection, as if the one could read in the eyes of the other, 
 and in those eyes there was a light as though drops of light 
 had fallen therein from the cup of burning love, which an 
 angel on high bears from one star to the other. They con- 
 versed softly with earnest, trembling voices, and narrated sad 
 stories, through all of which ran a tone of strange sorrow. 
 " Lora is also dead ! " said one, and sighing, proceeded to tell 
 of a maiden of Halle, who had loved a student, and who 
 when the latter left Halle spoke no more to any one, ate but 
 little, wept day and night, gazing ever on the canary-bird 
 which her lover had given her. "The bird died, and Lora did 
 not long survive it," was the conclusion, and both the youths 
 sighed as though their hearts would break. Finally the 
 other said, " My soul is sorrowful — come forth with me into 
 the dark night ! Let me inhale the breath of the clouds and 
 the moon-rays. Partake of my sorrows ! I love thee, thy 
 words are musical, like the rustling of reeds and the flow of 
 rivulets, they reecho in my breast, but my soul is sorrowful ! " 
 
 Both of the young men arose. One threw his arm around 
 the neck of the other, and thus left the noisy room. I 
 followed, and saw them enter a dark chamber, where the one 
 by mistake, instead of the window, threw open the door of 
 a large wardrobe, and that both, standing before it with out- 
 stretched arms, expressing poetic rapture, spoke alternately. 
 " Ye breezes of darkening night," cried the first, " how ye 
 cool and revive my cheeks ! How sweetly ye play amid my 
 fluttering locks ! I stand on the cloudy peak of the moun- 
 tain, far below me lie the sleeping cities of men, and blue 
 waters gleam. List ! far below in the valley rustle the fir- 
 
48 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 trees! Far above yonder hills sweep in misty forms the 
 spirits of my fathers. Oh, that I could hunt with ye, on your 
 cloud steeds, through the stormy night, over the rolling sea, 
 upwards to the stars ! Alas ! I am laden with grief and my 
 soul is sad ! " Meanwhile, the other had also stretched out 
 his arms towards the wardrobe, while tears fell from his eyes 
 as he cried to a broad pair of yellow pantaloons which he 
 mistook for the moon. " Fair art thou, Daughter of Heaven! 
 Lovely and blessed is the calm of thy countenance. The 
 stars follow thy blue path in the east ! At thy glance the 
 clouds rejoice, and their dark brows gleam with light. Who 
 is like unto thee in Heaven, thou the Night-born ? The stars 
 are ashamed before thee, and turn away their green sparkling 
 eyes. Whither — ah, whither — when morning pales thy 
 face dost thou flee from thy path ? Hast thou, like me, thy 
 hall ? Dwellest thou amid shadows of humility ? Have 
 thy sisters fallen from Heaven ? Are they who joyfully 
 rolled with thee through the night now no more ? Yea, they 
 fell adown, O lovely light, and thou hidest thyself to bewail 
 them ! Yet the night must at some time come when thou 
 too must pass away, and leave thy blue path above in 
 Heaven. Then the stars, who were once lovely in thy pres- 
 ence, will raise their green heads and rejoice. Now, thou art 
 clothed in thy starry splendor, and gazest adown from the 
 gate of Heaven. Tear aside the clouds, O ye winds, that 
 the night-born may shine forth and the bushy hills gleam, 
 and that the foaming waves of the sea may roll in 
 light!" 
 
 A well-known and not remarkably thin friend, who had 
 drunk more than he had eaten, though he had already at 
 supper devoured a piece of beef which would have dined six 
 lieutenants of the guard and one innocent child, here came 
 rushing into the room in a very jovial manner, that is to say, 
 ä la swine, shoved the two elegiac friends one over the other 
 into the wardrobe, stormed through the house door, and began 
 to roar around outside, as if raising the devil in earnest. The 
 noise in the hall grew wilder and louder — the two moaning 
 and weeping friends lay, as they thought, crushed at the foot 
 of the mountain ; from their throats ran noble red wine, and 
 the one said to the other, " Farewell ! I feel that I bleed. 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 49 
 
 Why dost thou waken me, breath of Spring? Thou 
 caressest me, and sayest, ' I bedew thee with drops from 
 heaven.' But the time of my withering is at hand — at hand 
 the storm which will break away my leaves. To-morrow the 
 Wanderer will come — he who saw me in my beauty — his 
 eyes will glance, as of yore, around the field — in vain — " 
 But over all roared the well-known basso voice without, 
 blasphemously complaining, amid oaths and whoops, that not 
 a single lantern had been lighted along the entire Weender 
 Street, and that one could not even see whose window-panes 
 he had smashed. 
 
 I can bear a tolerable quantity — modesty forbids me to 
 say how many bottles — and I consequently retired to my 
 chamber in tolerably good condition. The young merchant 
 already lay in bed, enveloped in his chalk-white nightcap, 
 and yellow Welsh flannel. He was not asleep, and sought 
 to enter into conversation with me. He was a Frankfort-on- 
 Mainer, and consequently spoke at once of the Jews, declared 
 that they had lost all feeling for the beautiful and noble, and 
 that they sold English goods twenty-five per cent under 
 manufacturers' prices. A fancy to humbug him came over 
 me, and I told him that I was a somnambulist, and must 
 beforehand beg his pardon should I unwittingly disturb his 
 slumbers. This intelligence, as he confessed the following 
 day, prevented him from sleeping a wink through the whole 
 night, especially since the idea had entered his head that I, 
 while in a somnambulistic crisis, might shoot him with the 
 pistol which lay near my bed. But in truth I fared no better 
 myself, for I slept very little. Dreary and terrifying fancies 
 swept through my brain. A pianoforte extract from Dante's 
 Hell. Finally I dreamed that I saw a law opera, called the 
 " Falcidia," 1 with libretto on the right of inheritance by Gans, 
 and music by Spontini. A crazy dream ! I saw the Roman 
 Forum splendidly illuminated. In it, Servius Asinius 
 Goschenus sitting as pretor on his chair, and throwing wide 
 his toga in stately folds, burst out into raging recitative ; 
 Marcus Tullius Elversus, manifesting as prima donna lega- 
 
 1 The "Falcidian law" was so called from its proposer, Falcidius. Ac- 
 cording to it, the testator was obliged to leave at least the fourth part of 
 his fortune to the person whom he named his heir. 
 5 
 
SO PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 taria all the exquisite feminineness of his nature, sang the 
 love-melting bravura of Quicunqtie civis Romanus; referees, 
 rouged red as sealing-wax, bellowed in chorus as minors; 
 private tutors, dressed as genii, in flesh-colored stockinets, 
 danced an ante-Justinian ballet, crowning with flowers the 
 Twelve Tables, while amid thunder and lightning rose from 
 the ground the abused ghost of Roman Legislation, accom- 
 panied by trumpets, gongs, fiery rain, cam omni causa. 
 
 From this confusion I was rescued by the landlord of the 
 Brocken, when he awoke me to see the sunrise. Above, on 
 the tower, I found several already waiting, who rubbed their 
 freezing hands ; others, with sleep still in their eyes, stumbled 
 around, until finally the whole silent congregation of the pre- 
 vious evening was reassembled, and we saw how, above the 
 horizon, there rose a little carmine-red ball, spreading a dim, 
 wintry illumination. Far around, amid the mists, rose the 
 mountains, as if swimming in a white rolling sea, only their 
 summits being visible, so that we could imagine ourselves 
 standing on a little hill in the midst of an inundated plain, in 
 which here and there rose dry clods of earth. To retain that 
 which I saw and felt, I sketched the following poem : — 
 
 In the east 'tis ever brighter, 
 
 Though the sun gleams cloudily ; 
 Far and wide the mountain summits 
 
 Swim above the misty sea. 
 
 Had I seven-mile boots for travel, 
 
 Like the fleeting winds I'd rove, 
 Over valley, rock, and river, 
 
 To the home of her I love. 
 
 From the bed where now she's sleeping 
 
 Soft, the curtain I would slip ; 
 Softly kiss her childlike forehead, 
 
 Soft the ruby of her lip. 
 
 And yet softer would I whisper 
 
 In the little snow-white ear : 
 " Think in dreams that I still love thee, 
 
 Think in dreams I'm ever dear." 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 5 1 
 
 Meanwhile my desire for breakfast greatly increased, and 
 after paying a few attentions to my ladies, I hastened down 
 to drink coffee in the warm public room. It was full time, 
 for all within me was as sober and as somber as in the St. 
 Stephen's church of Goslar. But with the Arabian beverage, 
 the warm Orient thrilled through my limbs. Eastern rosts 
 breathed forth their perfumes, the students were changed to 
 camels, 1 the Brocken housemaids with their Congreve-rocket 
 glances became houris, the Philistine roses minarets, etc., etc. 
 
 But the book which lay near me, though full of nonsense, 
 was not the Koran. It was the so-called Brocken book, in 
 which all travelers who ascend the mountain write their 
 names, many inscribing their thoughts or, in default thereof, 
 their feelings. Many even express themselves in verse. In 
 this book one may observe the horrors which result when 
 the great Philistine Pegasus at convenient opportunities, such 
 as this on the Brocken, becomes poetic. The palace of 
 the Prince of Paphlagonia never contained such absurdities 
 and insipidities as are to be found in this book. Those 
 who shine in it, with especial splendor, are Messieurs 
 the excise collectors, with their moldy " high inspirations " ; 
 counter jumpers, with their pathetic outgushings of the soul; 
 old German dilettanti with their Turner-union phrases, and 
 Berlin schoolmasters with their unsuccessful efforts at enthu- 
 siasm. Mr. Snobbs will also for once show himself as author. 
 In one page, the majestic splendor of the sun is described, — 
 in another, complaints occur of bad weather, of disappointed 
 hopes, and of the clouds which obstruct the view. "Went 
 up wet without, and came down wet within," is a standing 
 joke, repeated in the book hundreds of times. 
 
 The whole volume smells of beer, tobacco, and cheese, — 
 we might fancy it one of Clauren's romances. 
 
 1 A u camel" in German student dialect signifies according to the erudite 
 Dr. Vollmann, ist. A student not in any regular club. 2d. A savage. 
 3d. A finch. 4th. A badger. 5th. A stag. 6th. A hare. 7th. * * * * 
 8th. An "outsider." 9th. A Jew. 10th. A nigger, nth. A Bedouin. 
 1 2th. One who neither drinks, smokes, fights duels, cares for girls, nor 
 renowns it. To renown it (rennomiren) is equivalent to the American 
 phrase "spreads himself." The sum total of Dr. Vollmann's definitions 
 amounts, according to German student ideas, to what an Englishman would 
 call a "muff" or a " slow coach." 
 
52 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 While I drank the coffee aforesaid, and turned over the 
 Brocken book, the Swiss entered, his cheeks deeply glowing, 
 and described with enthusiasm the sublime view which he 
 had just enjoyed in the tower above, as the pure calm light 
 of the Sun, that symbol of Truth, fought with the night mists, 
 and that it appeared like a battle of spirits, in which raging 
 giants brandished their long swords, where harnessed knights 
 on leaping steeds chased each other, and war-chariots, flut- 
 tering banners, and extravagant monster forms sank in the 
 wildest confusion, till all finally entwined in the maddest con- 
 tortions melted into dimness and vanished, leaving no trace. 
 This demagogical natural phenomenon I had neglected, and, 
 should the curious affair be ever made the subject of investi- 
 gation, I am ready to declare on oath that all I know of the 
 matter is the flavor of the good brown coffee I was then 
 tasting. 
 
 Alas ! this was the guilty cause of my neglecting my fair 
 lady, and now, with mother and friend, she stood before the 
 door, about to step into her carriage. I had scarcely time to 
 hurry to her and assure her that it was cold. She seemed 
 piqued at my not coming sooner, but I soon drove the clouds 
 from her fair brow by presenting to her a beautiful flower, 
 which I had plucked the day before, at the risk of breaking 
 my neck, from a steep precipice. The mother inquired the 
 name of the flower, as if it seemed to her not altogether cor- 
 rect that her daughter should place a strange, unknown flower 
 before her bosom — for this was in fact the enviable position 
 which the flower attained, and of which it could never have 
 dreamed the day before, when on its lonely height. The 
 silent friend here opened his mouth, and after counting the 
 stamina of the flower, dryly remarked that it belonged to the 
 eighth class. 
 
 It vexes me every time, when I remember that even the 
 dear flowers which God hath made have been, like us, divided 
 into castes, and like us are distinguished by those external 
 names which indicate descent and family. If there must be 
 such divisions, it were better to adopt those suggested by 
 Theophrastus, who wished that flowers might be divided 
 according to souls — that is, their perfumes. As for myself, 
 I have my own system of Natural Science, according to which 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 53 
 
 all things are divided into those which may — or may not be 
 — eaten ! 
 
 The secret and mysterious nature of flowers was, however, 
 anything but a secret to the elder lady, and she involuntarily 
 remarked that she felt happy in her very soul when she saw 
 flowers growing in the garden or in a room, while a faint, 
 dreamy sense of pain invariably affected her on beholding a 
 beautiful flower with broken stalk — that it was really a dead 
 body, and that the delicate pale head of such a flower-corpse 
 hung down like that of a dead infant. The lady here became 
 alarmed at the sorrowful impression which her remark caused, 
 and I flew to the rescue with a few Voltairian verses. How 
 quickly two or three French words bring us back into the 
 conventional concert pitch of conversation. We laughed, 
 hands were kissed, gracious smiles beamed, the horses neighed, 
 and the wagon jolted heavily and slowly adown the hill. 
 
 And now the students prepared to depart. Knapsacks 
 were buckled, the bills, which were moderate beyond all ex- 
 pectation, were settled, the too susceptible housemaids, upon 
 whose pretty countenances the traces of successful amours 
 were plainly visible, brought, as is their custom, their Brocken 
 bouquets, and helped some to adjust their caps; for all of 
 which they were duly rewarded with either coppers or kisses. 
 Thus we all went down hill, albeit one party, among whom 
 were the Swiss and Greifswalder, took the road towards 
 Schierke, and the other of about twenty men, among whom 
 were my land's people and I, led by a guide, went through 
 the so-called Snow Holes, down to Ilsenburg. 
 
 Such a head over heels, break-neck piece of business ! 
 Halle students travel quicker than the Austrian militia. Ere 
 I knew where I was, the bald summit of the mountain with 
 groups of stones strewed over it was behind us, and we went 
 through the fir wood which I had seen the day before. The sun 
 poured down a cheerful light on the merry Burschen as they 
 merrily pressed onward through the wood, disappearing here, 
 coming to light again there, running in marshy places across 
 on shaking trunks of trees, climbing over shelving steeps by 
 grasping the projecting tree roots, while they trilled all the 
 time in the merriest manner. 
 
 The lower we descended, the more delightfully did subter- 
 
54 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 ranean waters ripple around us ; only here and there they 
 peeped out amid rocks and bushes, appearing to be recon- 
 noitering if they might yet come to light, until at last one little 
 spring jumped forth boldly. Then followed the usual show 
 — the bravest one makes a beginning, and then the great 
 multitude of hesitators, suddenly inspired with courage, rush 
 forth to join the first. A multitude of springs now leaped in 
 haste from their ambush, united with the leader, and finally 
 formed quite an important brook, which with its innumerable 
 waterfalls and beautiful windings ripples adown the valley. 
 This is now the Use — the sweet, pleasant Use. She flows 
 through the blest Use vale, on whose sides the mountains 
 gradually rise higher and higher, being clad even to their 
 base with beech-trees, oaks, and the usual shrubs, the firs and 
 other needle-covered evergreens having disappeared. For 
 that variety of trees prevails upon the Lower Harz, as the 
 east side of the Brocken is called in contradistinction to the 
 west side or Upper Harz, being really much higher and 
 better adapted to the growth of evergreens. 
 
 No pen can describe the merriment, simplicity, and gentle- 
 ness with which the Use leaps or glides amid the wildly piled 
 rocks which rise in her path, so that the water strangely 
 whizzes or foams in one place amid rifted rocks, and in 
 another wells through a thousand crannies, as if from a giant 
 watering-pot, and then in collected stream trips away over the 
 pebbles like a merry maiden. Yes, — the old legend is true, 
 the Use is a princess, who laughing in beauty runs adown 
 the mountain. How her white foam garment gleams in the 
 sunshine ! How her silvered scarf flutters in the breeze ! 
 How her diamonds flash ! The high beech-tree gazes down 
 on her like a grave father secretly smiling at the capricious 
 self-will of a darling child, the white birch-trees nod their 
 heads around like delighted aunts, the proud oak looks on 
 like a not overpleased uncle, as though he must pay for all 
 the fine weather ; the birds in the air sing their share in their 
 joy, the flowers on the bank whisper, "Oh, take us with thee! 
 take us with thee! dear sister!" but the wild maiden may 
 not be withheld, and she leaps onward, and suddenly seizes 
 the dreaming poet, and there streams over me a flower rain 
 of ringing gleams and flashing tones, and all my senses are 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 55 
 
 lost in beauty and splendor as I hear only the voice sweet 
 pealing as a flute. 
 
 I am the Princess Use, 
 
 And dwell in Ilsenstein ; 
 Come with me to my castle, 
 
 Thou shalt be blest — and mine ! 
 
 With ever-flowing fountains 
 
 I'll cool thy weary brow ; 
 Thou'lt lose amid their rippling, 
 
 The cares which grieve thee now. 
 
 In my white arms reposing 
 
 And on my snow-white breast 
 Thou'lt dream of old, old legends, 
 
 And sink in joy to rest. 
 
 I'll kiss thee and caress thee, 
 
 As in the ancient day 
 I kissed the Emperor Henry, 
 
 Who long has passed away. 
 
 The dead are dead and silent, 
 
 Only the living love ; 
 And I am fair and blooming, 
 
 — Dost feel my wild heart move ? 
 
 And as my heart is beating, 
 
 My crystal castle rings ; 
 Where many a knight and lady 
 
 In merry measure springs. 
 
 Silk trains are softly rustling, 
 
 Spurs ring from night to morn ; 
 And dwarfs are gaily drumming, 
 
 And blow the golden horn. 
 
 As round the Emperor Henry, 
 
 My arms round thee shall fall ; 
 I held his ears — he heard not 
 
 The trumpet's warning call. 
 
 We feel infinite happiness when the outer world blends 
 with the world of our own soul, and green trees, thoughts, 
 
56 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the songs of birds, gentle melancholy, the blue of heaven, 
 memory, and the perfume of flowers run together in sweet 
 arabesques. Women best understand this feeling, and this 
 may be the cause that such a sweet, incredulous smile plays 
 around their lips when we, with school pride, boast of our 
 logical deeds, — how we have classified everything so nicely 
 into subjective and objective, — how our heads are provided, 
 apothecary-like, with a thousand drawers, one of which con- 
 tains reason, another understanding, a third wretched wit, and 
 the fifth nothing at all — that is to say, the Idea. 
 
 As if wandering in dreams, I scarcely observed that we had 
 left the depths of the Ilsethal and were now again climbing 
 up hill. This was steep and difficult work, and many of us 
 lost our breath. But like our late lamented cousin, who now 
 lies buried at Mölln, we constantly kept in mind the ease with 
 which we should descend, and were much the better off in 
 consequence. Finally we reached the Ilsenstein. 
 
 This is an enormous granite rock, which rises high and 
 boldly from a glen. On three sides it is surrounded by 
 woody hills, but from the fourth — the north — there is an 
 open view, and we gaze upon the Ilsenburg and the Use 
 lying far below, and our glances wander beyond into the 
 lower land. On the tower-like summit of the rock stands a 
 great iron cross, and in case of need there is also here a rest- 
 ing-place for four human feet. 
 
 As nature, through picturesque position and form, has 
 adorned the Ilsenstein with strange and beautiful charms, so 
 has also Legend poured over it her rosy light. According 
 to Gottschalk, " the people say that there once stood here an 
 enchanted castle, in which dwelt the fair Princess Ilse, who 
 yet bathes every morning in the Use. He who is so fortunate 
 as to hit upon the exact time and place, will be led by her into 
 the rock, where her castle lies, and receive a royal reward." 
 Others narrate a pleasant legend of the loves of the Lady 
 Use and of the Knight of Westenburg, which has been ro- 
 mantically sung by one of our most noted poets, in the " Even- 
 ing Journal." Others again say that it was the old Saxon 
 Emperor Henry, who passed in pleasure his imperial hours 
 with the water-nymph, Use, in her enchanted castle. A later 
 author, one Niemann, Esq., who has written a Harz Guide, 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 57 
 
 in which the heights of the hills, variations of the compass, 
 town finances, and similar matters are described with praise- 
 worthy accuracy, asserts, however, that " what is narrated of 
 the Princess Use belongs entirely to the realm of fable." So 
 all men, to whom a beautiful princess has never appeared, 
 assert; but we who have been especially favored by fair 
 ladies know better. And this the Emperor Henry knew tool 
 It was not without cause that the old Saxon emperors held so 
 firmly to their native Harz. Let any one only turn over the 
 leaves of the fair " Lunenburg Chronicle," where the good old 
 gentlemen are represented in wondrously true-hearted wood- 
 cuts as well weaponed, high on their mailed war steeds ; the 
 holy imperial crown on their blessed heads, scepter and sword 
 in firm hands ; and then in their dear bearded faces he can 
 plainly read how they often longed for the sweet hearts of 
 their Harz princesses, and for the familiar rustling of the 
 Harz forests, when they lingered in distant lands. Yes, — 
 even when in the orange and poison gifted Italy, whither 
 they, with their followers, were often enticed by the desire 
 of becoming Roman emperors — a genuine German lust for 
 title which finally destroyed emperor and realm. 
 
 I, however, advise every one who may hereafter stand on 
 the summit of the Ilsenburg to think neither of emperor and 
 crown, nor of the fair Use, but simply of his own feet. For 
 as I stood there, lost in thought, I suddenly heard the subter- 
 ranean music of the enchanted castle, and saw the mountains 
 around begin to stand on their heads, while the red-tiled roofs 
 of Ilsenburg were dancing, and green trees flew through the 
 air, until all was green and blue before my eyes, and I, over- 
 come by giddiness, would assuredly have fallen into the abyss, 
 had I not, in the dire need of my soul, clung fast to the iron 
 cross. No one who reflects on the critically ticklish situation 
 in which I was then placed, can possibly find fault with me 
 for having done this. 
 
 The " Harz Journey " is, and remains, a fragment, and the 
 variegated threads which were so neatly wound through it, 
 with the intention to bind it into a harmonious whole, have 
 been suddenly snapped asunder as if by the shears of the 
 implacable Destinies. It may be that I will one day weave 
 
58 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 them into new songs, and that that which is now stingily with- 
 held, will then be spoken in full. But when or what we have 
 spoken will all come to one and the same thing at last, pro- 
 vided that we do but speak. The single works may ever 
 remain fragments, if they only form a whole by their union. 
 
 By such a connection the defective may here and there be 
 supplied, the rough be polished down, and that which is alto- 
 gether too harsh be modified and softened. This is perhaps 
 especially applicable to the first pages of the " Harz Journey," 
 and they would in all probability have caused a far less unfav- 
 orable impression could the reader in some other place have 
 learned that the ill humor which I entertain for Göttingen in 
 general, although greater than I have here expressed it, is 
 still far from being equal to the respect which I entertain for 
 certain individuals there. And why should I conceal the fact 
 that I here allude particularly to that estimable man, who in 
 earlier years received me so kindly, inspiring me even then 
 with a deep love for the study of History ; who strengthened 
 my zeal for it later in life and thus led my soul to calmer 
 paths ; who indicated to my peculiar disposition its peculiar 
 paths, and who finally gave me those historical consolations, 
 without which I should never have been able to support the 
 painful events of the present day. I speak of George Sarto- 
 rius, the great investigator of history and of humanity, whose 
 eye is a bright star in our dark times, and whose hospitable 
 heart is ever open to all the griefs and joys of others — for 
 the needs of the beggar or the king, and for the last sighs of 
 nations perishing with their gods. 
 
 I cannot here refrain from remarking that the Upper Harz 
 — that portion of which I described as far as the beginning 
 of the Ilsethal — did not by any means make so favorable an 
 impression on me as the romantic and picturesque Lower Harz, 
 and in its wild dark fir-tree beauty contrasts strangely with the 
 other, just as the three valleys formed by the Use, the Bode 
 and the Selke, beautifully contrast with each other when we 
 are able to individualize the character of each. They are 
 three beautiful women of whom it is impossible to determine 
 which is the fairest. 
 
 I have already spoken and sung of the fair, sweet Use, and 
 how sweetly and kindly she received me. The darker beauty 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 59 
 
 — the Bode — was not so gracious in her reception, and as I 
 first beheld her in the smithy-dark Turnip land, she appeared 
 to me to be altogether ill-natured and hid herself beneath a 
 silver-gray rain veil; but with impatient love she suddenly 
 threw it off, as I ascended the summit of the Rosstrappe her 
 countenance gleamed upon me with the sunniest splendor, from 
 every feature beamed the tenderness of a giantess, and from 
 the agitated, rocky bosom there was a sound as of sighs of 
 deep longing and melting tones of woe. Less tender, but far 
 merrier, did I find the pretty Selke, an amiable lady whose 
 noble simplicity and calm repose held at a distance all senti- 
 mental familiarity, but who by a half-concealed smile betrayed 
 her mocking mood. It was perhaps to this secret, merry spirit 
 that I might have attributed the many " little miseries " which 
 beset me in the Selkethal — as, for instance, when I sought to 
 spring over the rivulet, I plunged in exactly up to my middle ; 
 how when I continued my wet campaign with slippers, one of 
 them was soon "not at hand," or rather "not at foot," for I 
 lost it, — how a puff of wind bore away my cap, — how thorns 
 scratched me, etc., etc. Yet do I forgive the fair lady all this, 
 for she is fair. And even now she stands before the gates 
 of Imagination, in all her silent loveliness, and seems to say, 
 " Though I laugh I mean no harm, and I pray you sing of 
 me ! " The magnificent Bode also sweeps into my memory, 
 and her dark eye says, "Thou art like me in pride and in pain, 
 and I will that thou lovest me." Also the fair Use comes 
 merrily springing, delicate and fascinating in mien, form, and 
 motion, in all things like the dear being who blesses my dreams, 
 and like her she gazes on me with unconquerable indifference, 
 and is withal so deeply, so eternally, so manifestly true. Well, 
 I am Paris, and I award the apple to the fair Use. 
 
 It is the first of May, and spring is pouring like a sea of 
 life over the earth, a foam of white blossoms covers the trees, 
 the glass in the town windows flashes merrily, swallows are 
 again building on the roofs, people saunter along the street, 
 wondering that the air affects them so much, and that they 
 feel so cheerful ; the oddly dressed Vierlander girls are selling 
 bouquets of violets, foundling children, with their blue jackets 
 and dear little illegitimate faces, run along the Jungfernstieg, 
 as happily as if they had all found their fathers ; the beggar 
 
60 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 on the bridge looks as jolly as though he had won the first 
 lottery prize, and even on the grimy and as yet unhung pedler, 
 who scours about with his rascally " manufactory goods" coun- 
 tenance, the sun shines with his best-natured rays, — I will 
 take a walk beyond the town gate. 
 
 It is the first of May, and I think of thee, thou fair Use — 
 or shall I call thee by the name which I better love, of Agnes ? 
 — I think of thee and would fain see once more how thou 
 leapest in light adown thy hill. But best of all were it could 
 I stand in the valley below, and hold thee in my arms. It is 
 a lovely day ! Green — the color of hope — is everywhere 
 around me. Everywhere flowers — those dear wonders — are 
 blooming, and my heart will bloom again also. This heart is 
 also a flower of strange and wondrous sort. It is no modest 
 violet, no smiling rose, no pure lily, or similar flower, which 
 with good gentle loveliness makes glad a maiden's soul, and 
 may be fitly placed before her pretty breast, and which withers 
 to-day, and to-morrow blooms again. No, this heart rather 
 resembles that strange, heavy flower, from the woods of 
 Brazil, which, according to the legend, blooms but once in a 
 century. I remember well that I once, when a boy, saw such 
 a flower. During the night we heard an explosion, as of a 
 pistol, and the next morning a neighbor's children told me 
 that it was their "aloe," which had bloomed with the shot. 
 They led me to their garden, where I saw to my astonishment 
 that the low, hard plant, with ridiculously broad, sharp-pointed 
 leaves, which were capable of inflicting wounds, had shot high 
 in the air and bore aloft beautiful flowers, like a golden crown. 
 We children could not see so high, and the old grinning Chris- 
 tian, who liked us all so well, built a wooden stair around the 
 flower, upon which we scrambled like cats, and gazed curiously 
 into the open calyx, from which yellow threads, like rays of 
 light, and strange foreign odors, pressed forth in unheard-of 
 splendor. 
 
 Yes, Agnes, this flower blooms not often, not without effort ; 
 and according to my recollection it has as yet opened but once, 
 and that must have been long ago — certainly at least a cen- 
 tury since. And I believe that, gloriously as it then unfolded 
 its blossoms, it must now miserably pine for want of sunshine 
 and warmth, if it is not indeed shattered by some mighty win- 
 
THE HARZ JOURNEY 6 1 
 
 try storm. But now it moves, and swells, and bursts in my 
 bosom — dost thou hear the explosion ? Maiden, be not terri- 
 fied ! I have not shot myself, but my love has burst its bud 
 and shoots upwards in gleaming songs, in eternal dithyrambs, 
 in the most joyful fulness of poesy ! 
 
 But if this high love has grown too high, then, young lady, 
 take it comfortably, climb the wooden steps, and look from 
 them down into my blooming heart. 
 
 It is as yet early ; the sun has hardly left half his road 
 behind him, and my heart already breathes forth so power- 
 fully its perfumed vapor that it bewilders my brain, and I no 
 longer know where irony ceases and heaven begins, or that I 
 people the air with my sighs, and that I myself would fain 
 dissolve into sweet atoms in the uncreated Divinity ; — how 
 will it be when night comes on, and the stars shine out in 
 heaven, " the unlucky stars who could tell thee — " 
 
 It is the first of May, the lowest errand boy has to-day a 
 right to be sentimental, and would you deny the privilege to 
 a poet ? 
 
THE NORTH SEA 
 
 Motto: Xenophon's "Anabasis," IV. 7 
 
 PART FIRST 
 TWILIGHT 
 
 ON the white strand of Ocean, 
 Sat I, sore troubled with thought, and alone. 
 The sun sank lower and lower, and cast 
 Red glowing shadows on the water, 
 And the snow-white, rolling billows, 
 By the flood impelled, 
 
 Foamed up while roaring nearer and nearer, 
 A wondrous tumult, a whistling and whispering, 
 A laughing and murmuring, sighing and washing, 
 And mid them a lullaby known to me only — 
 It seemed that I thought upon legends forgotten, 
 World-old and beautiful stories, 
 Which I once, when little, 
 From the neighbor's children had heard, 
 When we, of summer evenings, 
 Sat on the steps before the house door, 
 Bending us down to the quiet narrative, 
 With little, listening hearts, 
 And curious cunning glances ; — 
 While near, the elder maidens, 
 Close by sweet-smelling pots of roses, 
 At the windows were calmly leaning, 
 Rosy-hued faces, 
 Smiling and lit by the moon. 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 The sun in crimsoned glory falls 
 Down to the ever-quivering, 
 62 
 
THE NORTH SEA 63 
 
 Gray and silvery world sea; 
 Airy figures, warm in rosy light, 
 Quiver behind, while eastward rising, 
 From autumn-like darkening veils of vapor, 
 With sorrowful death-pale features, 
 Breaks the silent moon. 
 Like sparks of light behind her, 
 Cloud-distant, glimmer the planets. 
 
 Once there shone in heaven, 
 
 Bound in marriage, 
 
 Luna the goddess, and Sol the god, 
 
 And the bright thronging stars in light swarm round them, 
 
 Their little and innocent children. 
 
 But evil tongues came whisp'ring quarrels. 
 
 And they parted in anger, 
 
 The mighty, light-giving spouses. 
 
 Now, but by day, in loneliest light 
 
 The sun god walks yonder on high, 
 
 All for his lordliness 
 
 Ever prayed to and sung by many, 
 
 By haughty, heartless, prosperous mortals, 
 
 But still by night 
 
 In heaven, wanders Luna, 
 
 The wretched mother 
 
 With all her orphaned starry children, 
 
 And she shines in silent sorrow, 
 
 And soft-loving maidens and gentle poets 
 
 Offer their songs and their sorrows. 
 
 The tender Luna ! woman at heart, 
 
 Ever she loveth her beautiful lord 
 
 And at evening, trembling and pale, 
 
 Out she peeps from light cloud curtains, 
 
 And looks to the lost one in sorrow, 
 
 Fain would she cry in her anguish : " Come ! 
 
 Come, the children are longing for thee — " 
 
 In vain, — the haughty-souled god of fire, 
 
 Flashes forth at the sight of pale Luna 
 
 In doubly deep purple, 
 
64 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 For rage and pain, 
 
 And yielding he hastens him down 
 
 To his ocean-chilled and lonely bed. 
 
 yfc 7P" yfc i/s v 
 
 Spirits whispering evil 
 
 By their power brought pain and destruction 
 
 Even to great gods eternal. 
 
 And the poor deities, high in the heavens, 
 
 Travel in sorrow ■ — 
 
 Endless, disconsolate journeys, 
 
 And they are immortal, 
 
 Still bearing with them, 
 
 Their bright-gleaming sorrow. 
 
 But I, the mortal, 
 
 Planted so lowly, with death to bless me, 
 
 I sorrow no longer. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 NIGHT ON THE SEASHORE 
 
 Starless and cold is the Night, 
 
 The wild sea foams ; 
 
 And over the sea, flat on his face, 
 
 Lies the monstrous terrible North Wind, 
 
 Sighing and sinking his voice as in secret, 
 
 Like an old grumbler, for once in good humor, 
 
 Unto the ocean he talks, 
 
 And he tells her wonderful stories, — 
 
 Giant legends, murderous-humored, 
 
 Very old sagas of Norway, 
 
 And midst them, far sounding, he howls while laughing 
 
 Sorcery songs from the Edda, 
 
 Gray old Runic sayings, 
 
 So darkly stirring and magic inspiring, 
 
 That the snow-white sea children 
 
 High are springing and shouting, 
 
 Drunk with wanton joy. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the level, white sea beach, 
 Over the sand ever washed by the flood, 
 Wanders a stranger with wild-storming spirit, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 6$ 
 
 And fiercer far than wind and billow ; 
 
 Go where he may, 
 
 Sparks are flashing and sea-shells are cracking, 
 
 And he wraps him well in his iron-gray mantle, 
 
 And quickly treads through the dark-waving Night, 
 
 Safely led by a distant taper 
 
 Which guiding and gladdening glimmers 
 
 From the fisherman's lonely hovel. 
 
 Father and brother are on the sea, 
 
 And all alone and sad, there sits 
 
 In the hovel the fisher's daughter, 
 
 The wondrous-lovely fisher's daughter, 
 
 She sits by the hearth, 
 
 Listening to the boiling kettle's 
 
 Sweet, prophetic, domestic humming ; 
 
 Scattering light-crackling wood on the fire, 
 
 And blows on it, 
 
 Till the flashing, ruddy flame rays 
 
 Shine again in magic luster 
 
 On her beautiful features, 
 
 On her tender, snow-white shoulder, 
 
 Which moving, comes peeping 
 
 Over heavy, dark gray linen, 
 
 And on the little industrious hand, 
 
 Which more firmly binds her undergarment 
 
 Round her well-formed figure. 
 
 But lo ! at once the door springs wide, 
 
 And there enters in haste the benighted stranger ; 
 
 Love assuring rest his glances 
 
 On the foam-white slender maiden, 
 
 Who trembling near him stands, 
 
 Like a storm-terrified lily ; 
 
 And he casts on the floor his mantle, 
 
 And laughs and speaks : — 
 
 " Seest thou, my child, I keep my word, 
 
 For I seek thee, and with me comes 
 
 The olden time, when the bright gods of heaven 
 
 Came once more to the daughters of mortals, 
 
 And the daughters of mortals embraced them, 
 
 And from them gave birth to 
 
66 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Scepter-carrying races of monarchs, 
 
 And heroes astounding the world. 
 
 Yet stare not, my child, any longer 
 
 At my divinity, 
 
 And I entreat thee, make some tea with rum, 
 
 For without it is cold, 
 
 And by such a night air 
 
 We too oft freeze, yes, we the undying, 
 
 And easily catch the divinest catarrhs 
 
 And coughs which may last us forever." 
 
 POSEIDON 
 
 The sun's bright rays were playing, 
 
 Over the far-away, rolling sea ; 
 
 Far in the harbor glittered the ship, 
 
 Which to my home erelong should bear me ; 
 
 But we wanted favorable breezes, 
 
 And I still sat calm on the snow-white sea beach, 
 
 Alone on the strand, 
 
 And I read the song of Odysseus, 
 
 The ancient, ever new-born song, 
 
 And from its ocean-rippled pages, 
 
 Friendly there arose to me 
 
 The breath of immortals, 
 
 And the light-giving human spring-tide, 
 
 And the soft blooming heaven of Hellas. 
 
 My noble heart accompanied truly, 
 
 The son of Laertes in wand 'ring and sorrow, 
 
 Set itself with him, troubled in spirit, 
 
 By bright gleaming firesides, 
 
 By fair queens, winning, purple spinning, 
 
 And helped him to lie and escape, glad singing 
 
 From giant-caverns and nymphs seducing, 
 
 Followed behind in fear-boding night, 
 
 And in storm and shipwreck, 
 
 And thus suffered with him unspeakable sorrow. 
 
 Sighing I spoke : " Thou evil Poseidon, 
 Thy wrath is fearful, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 67 
 
 And I myself dread 
 
 For my own voyage homeward." 
 
 The words were scarce spoken, 
 When up foamed the sea, 
 And from the sparkling waters rose 
 The mighty bulrush crowned sea god, 
 And scornful he cried : — 
 
 " Be not afraid, small poet ! 
 
 I will not in leastwise endanger 
 
 Thy wretched vessel, 
 
 Nor put thy precious being in terror, 
 
 With all too significant shaking. 
 
 For thou, small poet, hast troubled me not, 
 
 Thou hast no turret — though trifling — destroyed 
 
 In the great sacred palace of Priam, 
 
 Nor one little eyelash hast thou e'er singed, 
 
 In the eye of my son Polyphemus ; 
 
 Thee with her counsels did never protect 
 
 The goddess of wisdom, Pallas Athene." 
 
 And so spake Poseidon, 
 
 And sank him again in the sea ; 
 
 And over the vulgar sailor's joke 
 
 There laughed under the water 
 
 Amphitrite, the fat old fish- wife, 
 
 And the stupid daughters of Nereus 
 
 HOMAGE 
 
 Ye poems ! ye mine own valiant poems ! 
 
 Up, up and weapon ye ! 
 
 Let the loud trump be ringing, 
 
 And lift upon my shield 
 
 The fair young maiden, 
 
 Who now my heart in full 
 
 Shall govern as a sov'reign queen. 
 
 All hail to thee, thou fair young queen ! 
 
 From the sun above me 
 
 I tear the flashing, ruddy gold, 
 
68 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 And weave therefrom a diadem 
 
 For thy all holy head. 
 
 From the fluttering, blue-silken heaven's curtain, 
 
 Wherein night's bright diamonds glitter, 
 
 I cut a costly piece, 
 
 To hang as coronation mantle, 
 
 Upon thy white, imperial shoulders. 
 
 I give to thee, dearest, a city 
 
 Of stiffly adorned sonnets, 
 
 Proud triple verses and courteous stanzas ; 
 
 My wit thy courier shall be, 
 
 And for court fool my fantasy, 
 
 As herald, the soft smiling tears in my escutcheon, 
 
 And with them, my humor. 
 
 But I, myself, O gentle queen, 
 
 I bow before thee, lowly, 
 
 And kneeling on scarlet velvet cushions, 
 
 I here offer to thee 
 
 The fragments of reason, 
 
 Which from sheer pity once were left to me 
 
 By her who ruled before thee in the realm. 
 
 EXPLANATION 
 
 Adown and dimly came the evening, 
 
 Wilder tumbled the waves, 
 
 And I sat on the strand, regarding 
 
 The snow-white billows dancing, 
 
 And then my breast swelled up like the sea, 
 
 And longing, there seized me a deep homesickness, 
 
 For thee, thou lovely form, 
 
 Who everywhere art near 
 
 And everywhere dost call, 
 
 Everywhere, everywhere, 
 
 In the rustling of breezes, the roaring of Ocean, 
 
 And in the sighing of this, my sad heart. 
 
 With a light reed I wrote in the sand : 
 
 " Agnes, I love but thee ! " 
 
 But wicked waves came washing fast 
 
THE NORTH SEA 69 
 
 Over the tender confession, 
 
 And bore it away. 
 
 Thou too fragile reed, thou false shifting sand, 
 
 Ye swift-flowing waters, I trust ye no more ! 
 
 The heaven grows darker, my heart grows wilder, 
 
 And, with strong right hand, from Norway's forests 
 
 I'll tear the highest fir-tree, 
 
 And dip it adown 
 
 Into yEtna's hot glowing gulf, and with such a 
 
 Fiery, flaming, giant graver, 
 
 I'll inscribe on heaven's jet-black cover : 
 
 "Agnes, I love but thee." 
 
 And every night I'll witness, blazing 
 Above me, the endless flaming verse, 
 And even the latest races born from me 
 Will read, exulting, the heavenly motto : 
 "Agnes, I love but thee ! " 
 
 NIGHT IN THE CABIN 
 
 The sea hath many pearl drops, 
 The heaven hath many planets, 
 But this fond heart, my heart, 
 My heart hath tender true love. 
 
 Great is the sea and the heaven, 
 Yet greater is my heart ; 
 And fairer than pearl drops or planets 
 Flashes the love in my bosom. 
 
 Thou little gentle maiden, 
 
 Come to my beating heart ; 
 
 My heart, and the sea, and the heaven, 
 
 Are lost in loving frenzy. 
 
 ***** 
 On the dark blue heaven curtain, 
 Where the lovely stars are gleaming, 
 Fain would I my lips be pressing, 
 Press them wildly, storm-like weeping. 
 
70 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 And those planets are her bright eyes 
 But a thousand times repeated ; 
 And they shine and greet me kindly, 
 From the dark blue heaven's curtain. 
 
 To the dark blue heavenly curtain, 
 To the eyes I love so dearly, 
 High my hands I raise devoutly, 
 And I pray, and I entreat her : 
 
 Lovely eyes, ye lights of mercy, 
 Oh, I pray ye, bless my spirit, 
 Let me perish, and exalt me 
 Up to ye, and to your heaven. 
 
 From the heavenly eyes above me, 
 Snow-light sparks are trembling, falling 
 Through the night, and all my spirit, 
 Wide in love, flows forth and wider. 
 
 Oh, ye heavenly eyes above me ! 
 Weep your tears upon my spirit, 
 That those living tears of starlight 
 O'er my soul may gently ripple. 
 
 ***** 
 Cradled calm by waves of ocean, 
 And by wondrous dreaming, musing 
 Still I lie within the cabin, 
 In my gloomy corner hammock. 
 
 Through the open deadlight gazing, 
 Yonder to the gleaming starlight, 
 To the dearest, sweetest glances 
 Of my sweetest, much-loved maiden. 
 
 Yes, those sweetest, best-loved glances, 
 Calm above my head are shining, 
 They are ringing, they are peeping, 
 From the dark blue vault of heaven. 
 
 To the dark blue vault of heaven 
 Many an hour I gaze in rapture, 
 Till a snow-white cloudy curtain 
 Hides from me the best-loved glances. 
 
THE NORTH SEA Ji 
 
 On the planking of the vessel, 
 
 Where my light-dreaming head lies, 
 
 Leap up the waters — the wild, dark waters — 
 
 They ripple and murmur 
 
 Right straight in my ear : 
 
 " Thou crazy companion ! 
 
 Thy arm is short, and the heaven is far, 
 
 And the stars up yonder are nailed down firmly ; 
 
 In vain is thy longing, in vain is thy sighing, 
 
 The best thou canst do is to go to sleep." 
 
 And I was dreaming of a heath so dreary, 
 Forever mantled with the sad, white snow, 
 And 'neath the sad white snow I lay deep buried, 
 And slept the lonely ice-cold sleep of death. 
 
 And yet on high from the dark heaven were gazing 
 Adown upon my grave the starlight glances, 
 Those sad sweet glances ! and they gleamed victorious, 
 So calmly cheerful and yet full of true love. 
 
 STORM 
 Loud rages the storm, 
 And he whips the waves, 
 And the waters, rage-foaming and leaping, 
 Tower on high, and with life there come rolling 
 The snow-white water mountains, 
 And the vessel ascends them, 
 Earnest striving, 
 Then quickly it darts adown, 
 In jet-black, wide opening, wat'ry abysses. 
 
 Oh, Sea ! 
 
 Mother of Beauty, born of the foam billow ! 
 
 Great Mother of all Love ! be propitious ! 
 
 There flutters, corpse foreboding, 
 
 Around us the specter-like sea-gull. 
 
 And whets his sharp bill on the topmast, 
 
 And yearns with hunger lust, for the life-blood 
 
 Of him who sounded the praise of thy daughter, 
 
72 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 And whom thy grandson, the little rogue, 
 
 Chose for a plaything. 
 
 In vain my entreaties and tears ! 
 
 My plainings are lost in the terrible storm, 
 
 Mid war-cries of north winds ; 
 
 There's a roaring and whistling, a crackling and 
 
 howling, 
 Like a madhouse of noises ! 
 And amid them I hear distinctly, 
 Sweet enticing harp tones, 
 Melody mad with desire, 
 Spirit melting and spirit rending, — 
 Well I remember the voices. 
 
 Far on the rocky coast of Scotland, 
 
 Where the old gray castle towers 
 
 Over the wild-breaking sea, 
 
 In a lofty arched window, 
 
 There stands a lovely sickly dame, 
 
 Clear as crystal, and marble pale, 
 
 And she plays the harp and sings ; 
 
 Through her locks the wind is waving, 
 
 And bears her gloomy song, 
 
 Over the broad, white storm-rolling sea. 
 
 CALM AT SEA 
 
 Ocean silence ! rays are falling, 
 From the sun upon the water, 
 Like a train of quivering jewels 
 Sweeps the ship's green wake behind us. 
 
 Near the rudder lies our boatswain, 
 On his face, and deeply snoring ; 
 By the mast, his canvas sewing, 
 Sits a little tarry sailor. 
 
 But o'er all his dirty features 
 Glows a blush, and fear is twitching 
 Round his full-sized mouth, and sadly 
 Gaze his large and glittering eyeballs. 
 
THE NORTH SEA 73 
 
 For the captain stands before him, 
 Fumes and swears and curses " Rascal ! 
 Rascal ! — there's another herring 
 Which you've stolen from the barrel ! " 
 
 Ocean silence ! From the water 
 Up a little fish comes shooting, 
 Warms its head in pleasant sunlight, 
 With its small tail merry paddling. 
 
 But the sea-gull, sailing o'er us, 
 Darts him headlong on the swimmer, 
 And, with claws around his booty, 
 Flies and fades far, far above me. 
 
 A SEA PHANTOM 
 
 But I still leaned on the edge of the vessel, 
 
 Gazing with sad-dreaming glances, 
 
 Down at the crystal-mirror water, 
 
 Looking yet deeper and deeper — 
 
 Till in the sea's abysses, 
 
 At first, like quivering vapors, 
 
 Then slowly, — slowly, — deeper in color, 
 
 Domes of churches and towers seemed rising, 
 
 And then, as clear as day a city grand, 
 
 Quaint, old-fashioned, — Netherlandish. 
 
 And living with men, 
 
 Men of high standing, wrapped in black mantles, 
 
 With snowy-white neck ruffs and chains of honor 
 
 And good long rapiers, and good long faces, 
 
 Treading in state o'er the crowded market, 
 
 To the high steps of the town hall, 
 
 Where stone-carved statues of Kaisers 
 
 Kept watch with their swords and scepters. 
 
 Nor distant, near houses in long array, 
 
 With windows clear as mirrors, 
 
 Stand lindens, cut in pyramidal figures, 
 
 And maidens in silk-rustling garments wander, 
 
 A golden zone round the slender waist, 
 
74 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 With flower-like faces modestly curtained 
 
 In jet-black velvet coverings, 
 
 From which a ringlet fulness comes pressing. 
 
 Quaint cavalieros in old Spanish dress, 
 
 Sweep proudly along and salute them. 
 
 Elderly ladies 
 
 In dark-brown, old-fashioned garments, 
 
 With prayer-book and rosary held in their hands, 
 
 Hasten, tripping along, 
 
 To the great Cathedral, 
 
 Attracted by bells loud ringing, 
 
 And full-sounding organ tones. 
 
 E'en I am seized at that far sound, 
 
 With strange, mysterious trembling, 
 
 Infinite longing, wondrous sorrow, 
 
 Steals through my heart, 
 
 My heart as yet scarce healed ; 
 
 It seems as though its wounds, forgotten, 
 
 By loving lips again were kissed, 
 
 And once again were bleeding, 
 
 Drops of burning crimson, 
 
 Which long and slowly trickle down 
 
 Upon an ancient house below there, 
 
 In the deep, deep sea town, 
 
 On an ancient, high-roofed, curious house, 
 
 Where lone and melancholy 
 
 Below by the window a maiden sits, 
 
 Her head on her arm reclined — 
 
 Like a poor and uncared-for child, 
 
 And I know thee, thou poor and long-sorrowing child ! 
 
 Thou didst hide thus, my dear, 
 
 So deep, so deep from me, 
 
 In infant-like humor, 
 
 And now canst not arise, 
 
 And sittest strange amid stranger people, 
 
 For full five hundred years, 
 
 And I meanwhile, my spirit all grief, 
 
 Over the whole broad world have sought thee. 
 
 And ever have sought thee, 
 
 Thou dearly beloved, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 75 
 
 Thou the long-lost one, 
 
 Thou finally found one — 
 
 At last I have found thee, and now am gazing 
 
 Upon thy sweet face, 
 
 With earnest, faithful glances, 
 
 Still sweetly smiling — 
 
 And never will I again on earth leave thee^ 
 
 I am coming adown to thee, 
 
 And with longing, wide-reaching embraces, 
 
 Love, I leap down to thy heart ! 
 
 But just at the right instant 
 
 The captain caught and held me safe, 
 
 And drew me from danger, 
 
 And cried, half- angry laughing, 
 
 " Doctor — is Satan in you? " 
 
 PURIFICATION 
 
 Stay thou in gloomy ocean caverns, 
 
 Maddest of dreams, 
 
 Thou who once so many a night, 
 
 Hast vexed with treacherous joy my spirit; 
 
 And now, as ocean sprite, 
 
 Even by sun-bright day dost annoy me — 
 
 Rest where thou art, to eternity, 
 
 And I will cast thee as offering down, 
 
 All my long-worn sins and my sorrows, 
 
 And the cap and bells of my folly, 
 
 Which so long round my head have rung, 
 
 And the ice-cold slippery serpent skin 
 
 Of hypocrisy, 
 
 Which so long round my soul has been twining, 
 
 The sad, sick spirit, 
 
 The God disbelieving, and angel denying, 
 
 Miserable spirit, — 
 
 Hillo ho ! hallo ho ! There comes the wind ! 
 
 Up with the sails ! they flutter and belly ; 
 
 Over the silent, treacherous surface 
 
 Hastens the ship, 
 
 And loud laughs the spirit set free. 
 
76 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 PEACE 
 
 High in heaven the sun was standing, 
 
 By cold-white vapors bedimmed, 
 
 The sea was still, 
 
 And musing, I lay by the helm of the vessel, 
 
 Dreamily musing, — and half in waking, 
 
 And half in slumber, I saw in vision, 
 
 The Savior of Earth. 
 
 In flowing snow-white garments 
 
 He wandered giant-high 
 
 Over land and sea ; 
 
 He lifted his head unto Heaven, 
 
 His hands were stretched forth in blessing 
 
 Over land and sea ; 
 
 And as a heart in his breast 
 
 He bore the sun orb, 
 
 The ruddy, radiant sun orb, 
 
 And the ruddy, radiant, burning heart 
 
 Poured forth its beams of mercy 
 
 And its gracious and love-blessed light, 
 
 Enlight'ning and warming, 
 
 Over land and sea. 
 
 Sweetest bell tones drew us gaily, 
 Here and there, like swans soft leading 
 By bands of roses the smooth-gliding ship. 
 And swam with it sporting to a verdant country, 
 Where mortals dwelt, in a high-towering 
 And stately town. 
 
 Oh, peaceful wonder ! How quiet the city 
 
 Where the sounds of this world were silent, 
 
 Of prattling and sultry employment, 
 
 And o'er the clean and echoing highways 
 
 Mortals were walking, in pure white garments, 
 
 Bearing palm branches, 
 
 And whenever two met together, 
 
 They saw each other with ready feeling, 
 
 And thrilling with true love and sweet self-denial, 
 
 Each pressed a kiss on the forehead, 
 
THE NORTH SEA JJ 
 
 And then gazed above 
 
 To the bright sun heart of the Savior, 
 
 Which, gladly atoning his crimson blood, 
 
 Flashed down upon them, 
 
 And, trebly blessed, thus they spoke : 
 
 " Blessed be Jesus Christ ! " 
 
 If thou hadst but imagined this vision, 
 
 What wouldst thou have given, 
 
 My excellent friend? 
 
 Thou who in head and limbs art so weak, 
 
 But in faith still so mighty, 
 
 And in single simplicity honorest the Trinity, 
 
 And the lap-dog, and cross, and fingers 
 
 Of thy proud patroness daily kissest, 
 
 And by piety hast worked thyself up 
 
 To " Hofrath " and then to " Justizrath " 
 
 And now art councilor under government, 
 
 In the pious town, 
 
 Where sand and true faith are at home, 
 
 And the patient Spree, with its holy water, 
 
 Purifies souls and weakens their tea — 
 
 If thou hadst but imagined this vision, 
 
 My excellent friend ! 
 
 Thou'dst take it to some noble quarter for sale, 
 
 Thy pale, white, quivering features 
 
 Would all be melting in pious humility, 
 
 And His Gracious Highness, 
 
 Enchanted and enraptured, 
 
 Praying would sink, like thee, on his knee, 
 
 And his eyes, so sweetly beaming, 
 
 Would promise thee an augmented pension 
 
 Of a hundred current Prussian dollars, 
 
 And thou wouldst stammer, thy hands enfolding: 
 
 " Blessed be Jesus Christ ! " 
 
THE NORTH SEA 
 
 PART SECOND 
 SEA GREETING 
 
 TKALATTA ! thalatta ! 
 Be thou greeted ! thou infinite sea ! 
 Be thou greeted ten thousand times, 
 With heart wild exulting, 
 As once thou wert greeted 
 By ten thousand Grecian spirits, 
 Striving with misery, longing for home again, 
 Great, world-famous Grecian true hearts. 
 
 The wild waves were rolling, 
 
 Were rolling and roaring, 
 
 The sunlight poured headlong upon them 
 
 His flickering rosy radiance, 
 
 The frightened fluttering trains of sea-gulls 
 
 Went flutt'ring up, sharp screaming, 
 
 Loud stamped their horses, loud rung their armor, 
 
 And far it reechoed, like victor's shout : — 
 
 Thalatta! thalatta! 
 
 Greeting to thee, thou infinite sea, 
 Like the tongue of my country ripples thy water, 
 Like dreams of my childhood seem the glimmer 
 On thy wild wavering watery realm, 
 And ancient memories again seemed telling, 
 Of all my pleasant and wonderful playthings, 
 Of all the bright-colored Christmas presents, 
 Of all the branches of crimson coral, 
 Small goldfish, pearls, and beautiful sea-shells, 
 Which thou in secret ever keep'st 
 Beneath in thy sky-clear crystal home. 
 78 
 
THE NORTH SEA 79 
 
 Oh ! how have I yearned in desolate exile ! 
 
 Like to a withered floweret 
 
 In a botanist's tin herbarium, 
 
 Lay the sad heart in my breast ; 
 
 Or as if I had sat through the weary winter, 
 
 Sick in a hospital dark and gloomy, 
 
 And now I had suddenly left it, 
 
 And all bewild'ring there beams before me 
 
 Spring, — green as emerald, waked by the sun-rays, 
 
 And white tree blossoms are rustling around me, 
 
 And the young flow'rets gaze in my face, 
 
 With eyes perfuming and colored, 
 
 And it perfumes and hums, and it breathes and smiles, 
 
 And in the deep blue heaven sweet birds are singing : — 
 
 Thalatta ! thalatta ! 
 
 Thou brave, retreating heart ! 
 
 How oft, how bitter oft 
 
 The barbarous dames of the North have pressed thee round ! 
 
 From blue eyes, great and conquering, 
 
 They shot their burning arrows ; 
 
 With artful polished phrases, 
 
 Often they threatened to cleave my bosom ; 
 
 With arrowhead letters full oft they smote 
 
 My poor brain bewildered and lost — 
 
 All vainly held I my shield against them, 
 
 Their arrows hissed, and their blows rang round me, 
 
 And by the cold North's barbarous ladies 
 
 Then was I driv'n, e'en to the sea, 
 
 And free breathing I hail thee, O sea ! 
 
 Thou dearest, rescuing sea, 
 
 Thalatta! thalatta! 
 
 STORM 
 
 Dark broods a storm on the ocean, 
 And through the deep, black wall of clouds, 
 Gleams the zigzag lightning flash, 
 Quickly darting and quick departing. 
 Like a joke from the head of Kronion, 
 
80 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Over the dreary, wild waving water, 
 
 Thunder afar is rolling, 
 
 And the snow-white steeds of the waves are springing, 
 
 Which Boreas himself begot 
 
 On the beautiful mares of Erichthon ; 
 
 And ocean birds in their fright are fluttering, 
 
 Like shadowy ghosts o'er the Styx, 
 
 Which Charon sent back from his shadowy boat. 
 
 Little ship, — wretched yet merry, 
 Which yonder art dancing a terrible dance ! 
 yEolus sends thee the fastest companions, 
 Wildly they're playing the merriest dances ; 
 The first pipes soft — the next blows loud, 
 The third growls out a heavy basso — 
 And the tottering sailor stands by the helm, 
 And looks incessantly on the compass, 
 The quivering soul of the ship, 
 Lifting his hands in prayer to Heaven — 
 Oh, save me, Castor, giant-like hero, 
 And thou who fight'st with fist, Polydeuces ! 
 
 THE SHIPWRECKED 
 
 Lost hope and lost love ! All is in ruins ! 
 
 And I myself, like a dead body, 
 
 Which the sea has thrown back in anger, 
 
 Lie on the sea beach ; 
 
 On the waste, barren sea beach, 
 
 Before me rolleth a waste of water, 
 
 Behind me lies starvation and sorrow, 
 
 And above me go rolling the storm clouds, 
 
 The formless, dark gray daughters of air, 
 
 Which from the sea, in cloudy buckets, 
 
 Scoop up the water, 
 
 Ever wearied lifting and lifting, 
 
 And then pour it again in the sea, 
 
 A mournful, wearisome business, 
 
 And useless too as this life of mine. 
 
 The waves are murm'ring, the sea-gulls screaming, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 8 1 
 
 Old recollections seem floating around. 
 Long-vanished visions, long-faded pictures, 
 Torturing, yet sweet, seem living once more ! 
 
 There lives a maid in Norland, 
 
 A lovely maid, right queenly fair ; 
 
 Her slender cypress-like figure 
 
 Is clasped by a passionate snowy-white robe ; 
 
 The dusky ringlet fulness, 
 
 Like a too happy night, comes pouring 
 
 From the lofty braided-hair crowned forehead, 
 
 Twining all dreamily sweet 
 
 Round the lovely snow-pale features, 
 
 And from the lovely, snow-pale features, 
 
 Great and wondrous, gleams a dark eye, 
 
 Like a sun of jet-black fire. 
 
 O thou bright, black sun eye, how oft, 
 
 Enraptured oft, I drank from thee 
 
 Wild glances of inspiration, 
 
 And stood all quivering, drunk with their fire — 
 
 And then swept a smile all mild and dove-like, 
 
 Round the lips high mantling, proud and lovely ; 
 
 And the lips high mantling, proud and lovely, 
 
 Breathed forth words as sweet as moonlight, 
 
 Soft as the perfume of roses — 
 
 Then my soul rose up in rapture 
 
 And flew, like an eagle, high up to heaven ! 
 
 Hush ! ye billows and sea-mews ! 
 
 All is long over, hope and fortune, 
 
 Fortune and true love ! I lie on the sea beach, 
 
 A weary and wreck-ruined man, 
 
 Still pressing my face, hot glowing, 
 
 In the cold, wet sand. 
 
 SUNSET 
 
 The beautiful sun 
 
 Has calmly sunk down to his rest in the sea ; 
 The wild rolling waters already are tinged 
 With night's dark shade, 
 7 
 
82 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Though still the evening crimson 
 
 Strews them with light, as yet bright golden, 
 
 And the stern roaring might of the flood, 
 
 Crowds to the sea beach the snowy billows, 
 
 All merrily quickly leaping, 
 
 Like white woolly flocks of lambkins, 
 
 Which youthful shepherds at evening, singing, 
 
 Drive to their homes. 
 
 " How fair is the sun ! " 
 
 Thus spoke, his silence breaking, my friend, 
 
 Who with me on the sea beach loitering 
 
 And jesting half, and half in sorrow, 
 
 Assured me that the bright sun was 
 
 A lovely dame, whom the old ocean god 
 
 For " convenience " once had married. 
 
 And in the daytime she wanders gaily 
 
 Through the high heaven, purple arrayed, 
 
 And all in diamonds gleaming, 
 
 And all beloved and all amazing 
 
 To every worldly being : 
 
 And every worldly being rejoicing, 
 
 With warmth and splendor from her glances ; 
 
 Alas ! at evening, sad and unwilling, 
 
 Back must she bend her slow steps 
 
 To the dripping home, to the barren embrace 
 
 Of grisly old age. 
 
 " Believe me," — added to this my friend, 
 
 And smiling and sighing, and smiling again — 
 
 " They're leading below there the lovingest life ! 
 
 For either they're sleeping or they are scolding, 
 
 Till high uproars above here the sea, 
 
 And the fisher in watery roar can hear 
 
 How the Old One his wife abuses : — 
 
 ' Bright round measure of all things ! 
 
 Wooing with radiance ! 
 
 All the long day shinest thou for other loves, 
 
 By night, to me, thou art freezing and weary.' 
 
 At such a stern curtain lecture, 
 
 Of course the Sun bride falls to weeping, 
 
 Falls to weeping and wails her sorrow, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 83 
 
 And cries so wretchedly, that the sea god, 
 Quickly, all desperate leaps from his bed, 
 And straight to the ocean surface comes rising, 
 To get to fresh air — and his senses. 
 
 " So I beheld him, but yesterday night, 
 Rising breast high up from the Ocean, 
 He wore a long jacket of yellow flannel, 
 And a new nightcap, white as a lily, 
 And a wrinkled faded old face." 
 
 THE SONG OF THE OCEANIDES 
 
 Colder the twilight falls on the Ocean, 
 
 And lonely, with his own lonelier spirit, 
 
 Yon sits a man on the barren strand, 
 
 And casts death-chilling glances on high, 
 
 To the wide-spread, death-chilling vault of heaven, 
 
 And looks on the broad, wide wavering sea ; 
 
 And over the broad, white-wavering sea, 
 
 Like air-borne sailors, his sighs go sweeping, 
 
 Returning once more sad joyful, 
 
 But to discover, firm fastened, the heart, 
 
 Wherein they fain would anchor — 
 
 And he groans so loud, that the snow-white sea-mews, 
 
 Frightened up from their nests in the sand heaps, 
 
 Around in white clouds flutter, 
 
 And he speaks unto them the while, and laughing : — 
 
 "Ye black-legged sea-fowl, 
 
 With your white pinions o'er the sea fluttering, 
 
 With crooked dark bills drinking the sea water, 
 
 And rank, oily seal-blubber devouring, 
 
 Your wild life is bitter, e'en as your food is ! 
 
 While I here, the fortunate, taste only sweet things ! 
 
 I've tasted the sweetest breath of roses, 
 
 Those nourished with moonshine nightingale brides, 
 
 I eat the most delicate sugar meringues, 
 
 And the sweetest of all I've tasted : 
 
 Sweetest true love, and sweetest returned love. 
 
84 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 "She loves me ! she loves me ! the lovely maiden ! 
 
 She now stands at home — perhaps at the window, 
 
 And looks through the twilight, afar on the highway, 
 
 And looks and longs but for me — that's certain, 
 
 All vainly she gazes around, still sighing, 
 
 Then sighing, she walks adown in the garden, 
 
 Wandering in moonlight and perfume, 
 
 And speaks to the sweet flowers — oft telling to them 
 
 How I, the beloved one, deserve her love, 
 
 And am so agreeable — that's certain ! 
 
 In bed reposing, in slumber, in dreams, 
 
 There flits round her, happy, my well-loved form, 
 
 E'en in the morning at breakfast ; 
 
 On the glittering bread and butter, 
 
 She sees my dear features sweet smiling, 
 
 And she eats it up out of love — that's certain ! " 
 
 Thus he's boasting and boasting, 
 
 And 'mid it ah loud scream the sea-gulls, 
 
 Like old and ironical tittering ; 
 
 The evening vapors are climbing up ; 
 
 From clouds of violet — strange and dream-like, 
 
 Out there peeps the grass-yellow moon, 
 
 High are roaring the ocean billows, 
 
 And deep from the high uproaring sea, 
 
 All sadly as whispering breezes, 
 
 Sounds the lay of the Oceanides, 
 
 The beautiful, kind-hearted water fairies, 
 
 And clearest among them, the sweet notes are ringing 
 
 Of the silver-footed bride of Peleus, 
 
 And they sigh and are singing : — 
 
 " O fool, thou fool ! thou weak boasting fool ! 
 
 Thou tortured with sorrows ! 
 
 Vanished and lost are the hopes thou hast cherished, 
 
 The light sporting babes of thy heart's love ; 
 
 And ah ! thy heart, thy Niobe heart 
 
 By grief turned to stone ! 
 
 And in thy wild brain 'tis night, 
 
 And through it is darting the lightning of madness, 
 
 Aud thou boastest from anguish ! 
 
 O fool ! thou fool, thou weak boasting fool ! 
 
THE NORTH SEA S5 
 
 Stiff-necked art thou, like thy first parent, 
 The noblest of Titans, who from the immortals 
 Stole heavenly fire and on Man bestowed it, 
 And eagle-tortured, to rocks firm fettered, 
 Defied Olympus, enduring and groaning, 
 Until we heard it deep down in the sea, 
 And gathered around him with songs consoling. 
 
 " O fool, thou fool ! thou weak boasting fool ! 
 
 Thou who art weaker by far than he, 
 
 Hadst thou thy reason thou'dst honor th' immortals, 
 
 And bear with more patience the burden of suffering, 
 
 And bear it in patience, in silence, in sorrow, 
 
 Till even Atlas his patience had lost, 
 
 And the heavy world from his shoulders was thrown 
 
 Into endless night." 
 
 So rang the deep song of the Oceanides, 
 
 The lovely compassionate water-spirits, 
 
 Until the wild waters had drowned their music — 
 
 Behind the dark clouds down sank the moon, 
 
 Tired night was yawning, 
 
 And I sat yet awhile in darkness sad weeping. 
 
 THE GODS OF GREECE 
 
 Thou full blooming Moon ! In thy soft light, 
 
 Like wavering gold, bright shines the sea ; 
 
 Like morn's first radiance, yet dimly enchanted, 
 
 It lies o'er the broad, wide, strand's horizon ; 
 
 And in the pure blue heaven all starless 
 
 The snowy clouds are sweeping, 
 
 Like giant towering shapes of immortals 
 
 Of white gleaming marble. 
 
 Nay, but I err ; no clouds are those yonder ! 
 
 Those are in person the great gods of Hellas, 
 
 Who once so joyously governed the world, 
 
 But now long banished, long perished, 
 
 As monstrous terrible specters are sweeping 
 
 O'er the face of the midnight heaven. 
 
86 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Gazing and strangely bewildered I see 
 The airy Pantheon, 
 
 The awfully silent', fearful far-sweeping 
 Giant-like specters. 
 
 He there is Kronion, the King of Heaven, 
 
 Snow-white are the locks of his head, 
 
 The far-famed locks which send throbs through Olympus. 
 
 He holds in his hand the extinguished bolt, 
 
 Sorrow and suffering sit stern on his brow, 
 
 Yet still it hath ever its ancient pride. 
 
 Once there were lordlier ages, O Zeus, 
 
 When thou didst revel divinely, 
 
 'Mid fair youths and maidens and hecatombs rich ! 
 
 But e'en the immortals may not reign forever, 
 
 The younger still banish the elder, 
 
 As thou, thyself, didst banish thy father, 
 
 And drove from their kingdom thy Titan uncles, 
 
 Jupiter Parricida ! 
 
 Thee too I know well, proudest sorceress ! 
 
 Spite of all thy fearful jealousy, 
 
 Though from thee another thy scepter hath taken 
 
 And thou art no more the Queen of Heaven, 
 
 And thy wondrous eyes seem frozen, 
 
 And even thy lily-white arms are powerless, 
 
 And never more falls thy vengeance 
 
 On the god-impregnated maiden, 
 
 And the wonder-working son of Jove, 
 
 Well too I know thee, Pallas Athene ! 
 
 With shield and wisdom still then couldst not 
 
 Avert the downfall of immortals ! 
 
 Thee, too, I know now, yes thee, Aphrodite" ! 
 
 Once the Golden One — now the Silver One ! 
 
 E'en yet the charm of thy girdle adorns thee ; 
 
 But I shudder at heart before thy beauty, 
 
 And could I enjoy thy burning embraces 
 
 Like the ancient heroes, I'd perish with fear ; 
 
 As the goddess of corpses thou seem'st to me, 
 
 Venus Libitina ! 
 
 No more in fond love looks upon thee, 
 
 There, the terrible Ares. 
 
THE NORTH SEA 8? 
 
 Sadly now gazeth Phoebus Apollo, 
 
 The youthful. His lyre sounds no more, 
 
 Which once rang with joy at the feasts of the gods. 
 
 And sadder still looks Hephaistos, 
 
 And, truly the limping one ! nevermore 
 
 Will he fill the office of Hebe, 
 
 And busily pour out, in the Assembly, 
 
 The sweet-tasting nectar. — And long hath been silent 
 
 The ne'er to be silenced laugh of immortals. 
 
 Gods of old time, I never have loved ye ! 
 
 For the Greeks did never chime with my spirit, 
 
 And e'en the Romans I hate at heart, 
 
 But holy compassion and shudd'ring pity 
 
 Streams through my soul, 
 
 As I now gaze upon ye, yonder, 
 
 Gods long neglected, 
 
 Death-like, night- wandering shadows ; 
 
 Weak as clouds which the wind hath scattered — 
 
 And when I remember how weak and windy 
 
 The gods now are who o'er you triumphed, 
 
 The new and the sorrowful gods who now rule, 
 
 The joy-destroyers in lamb-robes of meekness — 
 
 Then there comes o'er me gloomiest rage, 
 
 Fain would I shatter the modern temples, 
 
 And battle for ye, ye ancient immortals, 
 
 For ye and your good old ambrosial right. 
 
 And before your lofty altars, 
 
 Once more erected, with incense sweet smoking, 
 
 Would I, once more, kneeling, adoring, 
 
 And praying, uplift my arms to you. 
 
 For constantly, ye old immortals, 
 Was it your custom, in mortal battles, 
 Ever to lend your aid to the conqueror. 
 Therefore is man now far nobler than ye, 
 And in the contest I now take part 
 With the cause of the conquered immortals. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 'Twas thus I spoke, and blushes were visible 
 Over the cold white aerial figures, 
 Gazing upon me like dying ones, 
 
88 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 With pain transfigured, and quickly vanished. 
 
 The moon concealed her features 
 
 Behind a cloud, which darkly went sweeping : 
 
 Loudly the wild sea rose foaming, 
 
 And the beautiful calm beaming stars, victorious 
 
 Shone out o'er Heaven. 
 
 QUESTIONING 
 
 By the sea, by the dreary darkening sea 
 
 Stands a youthful man, 
 
 His heart all sorrowing, his head all doubting, 
 
 And with gloomiest accent he questions the billows : 
 
 " Oh, solve me Life's riddle I pray ye, 
 
 The torturing ancient enigma, 
 
 O'er which full many a brain hath long puzzled, 
 
 Old heads in hieroglyph-marked miters, 
 
 Heads in turbans and caps medieval, 
 
 Wig-covered pates and a thousand others, 
 
 Sweating, wearying heads of mortals — 
 
 Tell me what signifies Man? 
 
 Whence came he hither? Where goes he hence? 
 
 Who dwells there on high in the radiant planets ? " 
 
 The billows are murmuring their murmur unceasing, 
 Wild blows the wind — the dark clouds are fleeting, 
 The stars are still gleaming, so calmly and cold, 
 And a fool awaits an answer. 
 
 THE PHENIX 
 
 A bird from the far west his way came winging ; 
 
 He eastward flies 
 
 To the beautiful land of gardens, 
 
 Where softest perfumes are breathing and growing, 
 
 And palm-trees rustle and brooks are rippling — 
 
 And flying, sings the bird so wondrous : — 
 
 " She loves him — she loves him ! 
 
THE NORTH SEA 89 
 
 She bears his form in her little bosom, 
 
 And wears it sweetly and secretly hidden, 
 
 Yet she knows it not yet ! 
 
 Only in dreams he comes to her, 
 
 And she prays and weeps, his hand oft kissing, 
 
 His name often calling, 
 
 And calling she wakens, and lies in terror, 
 
 And presses in wonder those eyes, soft gleaming — 
 
 She loves him ! she loves him ! " 
 
 ECHO 
 
 I leaned on the mast ; on the lofty ship's deck 
 
 Standing, I heard the sweet song of a bird. 
 
 Like steeds of dark green, with their manes of bright silver, 
 
 Sprang up the white and wild curling billows. 
 
 Like trains of wild swans, went sailing past us, 
 
 With shimmering canvas, the Helgolanders, 
 
 The daring nomads of the North Sea. 
 
 Over my head, in the infinite blue, 
 
 Went sailing a snowy white cloud. 
 
 Bright flamed the eternal sun orb, 
 
 The rose of heaven, the fire blossoming, 
 
 Who, joyful, mirrored his rays in ocean 
 
 Till heaven and sea, and my heart besides 
 
 Rang back with the echo : — 
 
 She loves him ! she loves him ! 
 
 SEASICKNESS 
 
 The dark gray vapors of evening 
 Are sinking deeper adown on the sea, 
 Which rises darkling to their embrace, 
 And 'twixt them on drives the ship. 
 
 Seasick, I sit as before by the mainmast, 
 Making reflections of personal nature, 
 World ancient, gray-colored examinings, 
 Which Father Lot first made of old, 
 When he too much enjoyed life's good things, 
 
90 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 And afterwards found that he felt unwell. 
 
 Meanwhile I think, too, on other old legends : 
 
 How cross and scrip-bearing pilgrims, long perished, 
 
 In stormiest voyage, the comforting image 
 
 Of the blessed Virgin, confiding, kissed ; 
 
 How knights, when seasick, in dole and sorrow, 
 
 The little glove of some fair lady 
 
 Pressed to their lips, and soon were calm ; — 
 
 But here I'm sitting and munching in sorrow 
 
 A wretched herring, the salted refreshment 
 
 Of drunken sickness and heavy sorrow ! 
 
 While I'm groaning, lo ! our ship 
 
 Fights the wild and terrible flood ; 
 
 As a capering war-horse now she bounds, 
 
 Leaping on high, till the rudder cracks, 
 
 Now darting head-forward adown again, 
 
 To the sad, howling, wat'ry gulf; 
 
 Then, as if all careless — weak with love — 
 
 It seems as though 'twould slumber 
 
 On the gloomy breast of the giantess Ocean, 
 
 Who onward comes foaming — 
 
 When sudden, a mighty sea waterfall, 
 
 In snowy foam-curls together rolls, 
 
 Wetting all, and me, with foam. 
 
 This tottering, and trembling, and shaking, 
 
 Is not to be borne with ! 
 
 But vainly sweep my glances and seek 
 
 The German coast line. Alas ! but water, 
 
 And once again water — wild, waving water ! 
 
 As the winter wanderer, at evening, oft longs 
 For one good warm and comforting cup of tea, 
 Even so now longs my heart for thee, 
 My German Fatherland ! 
 
 May, for all time, thy lovely valleys be covered 
 With madness, hussars, and wretched verses, 
 And little tracts, lukewarm and watery ; 
 May, from this time forth, all thy zebras 
 Be nourished with roses instead of thistles ; 
 And may forever, too, thy noble monkeys 
 
THE NORTH SEA 91 
 
 In a garb of leisure go grandly strutting, 
 
 And think themselves better than all the other 
 
 Low-plodding, stupid, mechanical cattle. 
 
 May, for all time, too, thy snail-like assemblies 
 
 Still deem themselves immortal 
 
 Because they so slowly go creeping ; 
 
 And may they daily go on deciding 
 
 If the maggots of cheeses belong to the cheese ; 
 
 And long be lost in deliberation, 
 
 How breeds of Egyptian sheep may be bettered, 
 
 That their wool may be somewhat improved, 
 
 And the shepherd may shear them like any other, 
 
 Sans difference — 
 
 Ever, too, may injustice and folly 
 
 Be all thy mantle, O Germany ! 
 
 And yet I am longing for thee : 
 
 For e'en at the worst thou art solid land. 
 
 IN PORT 
 
 Happy the man who is safe in his haven, 
 And has left far behind the sea and its sorrows, 
 And now so warm and calmly sits 
 In the cosy Town Cellar of Bremen. 
 
 Oh, how the world, so homelike and sweetly, 
 In the wine cup is mirrored again, 
 And how the wavering microcosmos 
 Sunnily flows through the thirstiest heart ! 
 All things I behold in the glass — 
 Ancient and modern histories by myriads, 
 Grecian and Ottoman, Hegel and Gans, 
 Forests of citron and watches patrolling, 
 Berlin, and Schilda, and Tunis, and Hamburg, 
 But above all the form of the loved one, 
 An angel's head on a Rhine-wine gold ground. 
 
 Oh, how fair ! how fair art thou, beloved ! 
 
 Thou art as fair as roses ! 
 
 Not like the roses of Shiraz, 
 
 The brides of the nightingale sung by old Hafiz ! 
 
92 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Not like the rose of Sharon, 
 
 Holily blushing and hallowed by prophets ; 
 
 Thou art like the rose in the cellar of Bremen ! * 
 
 That is the Rose of Roses, 
 
 The older she grows, the sweeter she bloometh, 
 
 And her heavenly perfume hath made me happy, 
 
 It hath inspired me — hath made me tipsy, 
 
 And were I not held by the shoulder fast, 
 
 By the Town Cellar Master of Bremen, 
 
 I had gone rolling over ! 
 
 The noble soul ! we sat there together, 
 
 And drank too, like brothers, 
 
 Discoursing of lofty, mysterious matters, 
 
 Sighing and sinking in solemn embraces, 
 
 He made me a convert to Love's holy doctrine ; 
 
 I drank to the health of my bitterest enemy, 
 
 And I forgave the worst of all poets, 
 
 As I myself some day shall be forgiven ; 
 
 Till piously weeping, before me 
 
 Silently opened the gates of redemption, 
 
 Where the twelve Apostles, the holy barrels, 
 
 Preach in silence and yet so distinctly 
 
 Unto all nations. 
 
 Those are the sort 
 
 Invisible outwards in sound oaken garments, 
 
 Yet they within are lovely and radiant, 
 
 For all the proudest Levites of the Temple, 
 
 And the life guardsmen and courtiers of Herod, 
 
 Glittering in gold and arrayed in rich purple ; — 
 
 Still I have ever maintained 
 
 That not amid common, vulgar people, 
 
 No — but the £lite of society, 
 
 Constantly lived the monarch of Heaven. 
 
 Halleluiah ! How sweetly wave round me 
 The palm-trees of Beth-El ! 
 
 1 In the Rathskeller — Council Cellar or Town Hall Cellar — of Bremen, there 
 is kept a celebrated tun called the Rose., containing wine three hundred years old. 
 Around it are the twelve Apostles or hogsheads filled with wine of a lesser age. 
 When a bottle is drawn from the Rose it is supplied from one of the Apostles, and 
 by this arrangement the contents of the Rose are thus kept up to the requisite 
 standard of antiquity. 
 
THE NORTH SEA 93 
 
 How sweet breathe the myrrh shrubs of Hebron ! 
 
 How Jordan ripples and tumbles with gladness, 
 
 And my own immortal spirit tumbleth, 
 
 And I tumble with it, and tumbling 
 
 I'm helped up the stairway into broad daylight, 
 
 By the brave Council Cellar Master of Bremen ! 
 
 Thou brave Council Cellar Master of Bremen ! 
 Seest thou upon the roofs of the houses sitting 
 Lovely, tipsy angels sweetly singing ; 
 The radiant sun, too, yonder in Heaven 
 Is only a crimson, wine-colored proboscis, 
 Which the World Soul protrudeth, 
 And round the red nose of the World Soul 
 Circles the whole of the tipsified world. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 As in the meadow the wheat is growing, 
 
 So, sprouting and waving in mortal souls, 
 
 Thoughts are growing. 
 
 Aye — but the soft inspirations of poets 
 
 Are like the blue and crimson flow'rets, 
 
 Blossoming amid them. 
 
 Blue and crimson blossoms ! 
 
 The ill-natured reaper rejects ye as useless, 
 
 Blockheaded simpletons scorn ye while threshing, 
 
 Even the penniless wanderer, 
 
 Who, by your sight is made glad and inspired, 
 
 Shaketh his head, 
 
 And calls ye weeds, though lovely. 
 
 Only the fair peasant maiden, 
 
 The one who twineth garlands, 
 
 Doth honor you and plucks you, 
 
 And decks with you her lovely tresses, 
 
 And when thus adorned, to the dance hastens, 
 
 Where the pipe and the viol are merrily pealing ; 
 
 Or to the tranquil beech- tree, 
 
 Where the voice of the loved one more pleasantly sounds, 
 
 Than the pipe or the viol. 
 
THE NORTH SEA 
 
 PART THIRD 
 WRITTEN ON THE ISLAND NORDERNEY 
 
 THE natives are generally poor as crows, and live by 
 their fishery, which begins in the stormy month of Oc- 
 tober. Many of these islanders also serve as sailors in 
 foreign merchant vessels, and remain for years absent from 
 home, without being heard from by their friends. Not unfre- 
 quently they perish at sea. I have met upon the island poor 
 women, all the male members of whose families had thus been 
 lost — a thing which is likely enough to occur, as the father 
 generally accompanies his sons on a voyage. 
 
 Maritime life has for these men an indescribable attraction, 
 and yet I believe that they are happiest when at home. 
 Though they may have arrived in their ships at those south- 
 ern lands, where the sun shines brighter, and the moon glows 
 with more romance, still all the flowers there do not calm 
 their hearts, and in the perfumed home of Spring they still 
 long for their sand island, for their little huts, and for the 
 blazing hearth, where their loved ones, well protected in 
 woolen jackets, crouch, drinking a tea which differs from 
 sea water only in name, and gabble a jargon of which the 
 real marvel is that they can understand it themselves. 
 
 That which connects these men so firmly and contentedly, 
 is not so much the inner mystical sentiment of love, as that of 
 custom — that mutual " through-and-above-living " according 
 to nature, or that of social directness. They enjoy an equal 
 elevation of soul, or, to speak more correctly, an equal de- 
 pression, from which result the same needs and the same 
 desires, the same experiences and the same reflections. Con- 
 sequently, they more readily understand each other, and sit 
 
 94 
 
THE NORTH SEA 95 
 
 socially together by the fire in their little huts, crowd up 
 together when it is cold, see the thoughts in each other's 
 eyes before a word is spoken, all the conventional -signs of 
 daily life are readily intelligible, and by a single sound, or a 
 single gesture, they excite in each other that laughter, those 
 tears, or that pious feeling which we could not awaken in our 
 like without long preliminary explanations, expectorations, 
 and declamations. For at bottom we live spiritually alone, 
 and owing to peculiar methods of education and peculiar 
 reading we have each formed a different individual char- 
 acter. Each of us, spiritually masked, thinks, feels, and acts 
 differently from his fellow, and misunderstandings are so fre- 
 quent that even in roomy houses life in common costs an 
 effort, and we are everywhere limited, everywhere strange, 
 and everywhere, so to speak, in a strange land. 
 
 Entire races have not unfrequently lived for ages, as equal 
 in every particular, in thought and feeling, as these islanders. 
 The Roman Church in the Middle Ages seemed to have 
 desired to bring about a similar condition in the corporate 
 members of all Europe, and consequently took under its pro- 
 tection every attribute of life, every power and development 
 — in short, the entire physical and moral man. It cannot be 
 denied that much tranquil happiness was thereby effected, 
 that life bloomed more warmly and inly, and that Art, calmly 
 developing itself, unfolded that splendor at which we are 
 even yet amazed, and which, with all our dashing science, we 
 cannot imitate. But the soul hath its eternal rights, it will 
 not be darkened by statutes, nor lullabied by the music of 
 bells, — it broke from its prison, shattering the iron leading- 
 strings by which Mother Church trained it along, — it rushed 
 in a delirium of joyous liberty over the whole earth, climbed 
 the highest mountain peaks, sang and shouted for wanton- 
 ness, recalled ancient doubts, pored over the wonders of day, 
 and counted the stars by night. We know not as yet the 
 number of the stars, we have not yet solved the enigmas of 
 the marvels of the day, the ancient doubts have grown mighty 
 in our souls — are we happier than we were before ? We 
 know that this question, as far as the multitude are concerned, 
 cannot be lightly assented to; but we know, also, that the 
 happiness which we owe to a lie is no true happiness, and 
 
96 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 that we, in the few and. far-between moments of a godlike con- 
 dition, experience a higher dignity of soul and more happiness 
 than in the long, onward, vegetating life of the gloomy faith 
 of a coal burner. 
 
 In every respect that church government was a tyranny of 
 the worst sort. Who can be bail for those good intentions, as 
 I have described them ? Who can prove, indeed, that evil 
 intentions were not mingled with them ? Rome would always 
 rule, and when her legions fell, she sent dogmas into the 
 provinces. Like a giant spider she sat in the center of the 
 Latin world, and spun over it her endless web. Generations 
 of people lived beneath it a peaceful life, for they believed 
 that to be a heaven near them, which was only a Roman web. 
 Only the higher striving spirits, who saw through its meshes, 
 felt themselves bound down and wretched, and when they 
 strove to break away, the crafty spider easily caught them, 
 and sucked the bold blood from their hearts, — and was not 
 the dreamy happiness of the purblind multitude purchased too 
 dearly by such blood ? The days of spiritual serfdom are 
 over ; weak with age, the old cross spider sits between the 
 broken pillars of her Colosseum, ever spinning the same old 
 web — but it is weak and brittle, and catches only butterflies 
 and bats, and no longer the wild eagles of the North. 
 
 It is right laughable to think that just as I was in the 
 mood to expand with such good-will over the intentions of the 
 Roman Church, the accustomed Protestant feeling which ever 
 ascribes to her the worst suddenly seized upon me, and it is 
 this very difference of opinion in myself which again supplies 
 me with an illustration of the incongruities of the manner of 
 thinking prevalent in these days. What we yesterday ad- 
 mired, we hate to-day, and to-morrow, perhaps, we ridicule it 
 with perfect indifference. 
 
 Considered from a certain point, all is equally great or 
 small, and I thus recurred to the great European revolutions 
 of ages, while I looked at the little life of our poor islanders. 
 Even they stand on the margin of such a new age, and their 
 old unity of soul and simplicity will be disturbed by the suc- 
 cess of the fashionable watering-place recently established 
 here, inasmuch as they every day pick up from the guests 
 some new bits of knowledge which they must find difficult to 
 
THE NORTH SEA 97 
 
 reconcile with their ancient mode of life. If they stand 
 of an evening before the lighted windows of the conversa- 
 tion hall, and behold within the conduct of the gentle- 
 men and ladies, the meaning glances, the longing grimaces, 
 the voluptuous dances, the full contented feasting, the 
 avaricious gambling, etc., it is morally certain that evil 
 results must ensue which can never be counterbalanced 
 by the money which they derive from this bathing estab- 
 lishment. This money will never suffice for the con- 
 suming new wants which they conceive, and from this must 
 result disturbances in life, evil enticements, and greater 
 sorrows. 
 
 The islanders thus far have lived in simplicity almost 
 primeval ; and their contact with the ladies and gentlemen of 
 fashion will result in a thorough education in vice. When I 
 beheld fashionably undressed ladies walk by me, I reflected 
 that the poor islanders who have hitherto lived in such a state 
 of blessed innocence have here unusual opportunities for be- 
 coming corrupted, and that it would be well if the proprietors 
 of the aforesaid ladies would take pains to cover them up a 
 little more carefully. The consequences of their present 
 exposure are likely to be greater than they imagine, and if 
 the poor female islanders conceive all sorts of sweet-baked 
 fancies, and even go so far as to bring forth children that 
 strongly resemble the aristocratic guests, the matter is 
 easily enough understood. I do not wish to be here under- 
 stood as hinting at any immodest or immoral connections. 
 The virtue of the islanderesses is amply protected by their 
 ugliness, and still more so by an abominably fishy odor 
 which, to me at least, is insupportable. Should, in fact, 
 children with fashionable-boarder faces be here born into 
 the world, I should much prefer to recognize in it a psycho- 
 logical phenomenon, and explain it by those material-mysti- 
 cal laws which Goethe has so beautifully developed in his 
 " Elective Affinities." 
 
 The number of enigmatical appearances in nature, which 
 can be explained by those laws, is truly astonishing. When 
 I, last year, owing to a storm at sea, was cast away on another 
 East Frisian island, I there saw hanging, in a boatman's hut, 
 an indifferent engraving, bearing the title, " La tentation du 
 
98 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Vieillard," and representing an old man disturbed in his study 
 by the appearance of a woman, who, naked to the hips, rose 
 from a cloud ; and singular to relate, the boatman's daughter 
 had exactly the same wanton pug-dog face as the woman in 
 the picture! — To cite another example: in the house of a 
 money-changer, whose wife attended to the business and care- 
 fully examined coins from morning till night, I found that the 
 children had in their countenances a startling likeness to all 
 the greatest monarchs of Europe, and when they were all 
 assembled, fighting and quarreling, I could almost fancy that 
 I beheld a congress of sovereigns ! 
 
 On this account, the impression on coins is for politicians a 
 matter of no small importance. For as people so often love 
 money from their very hearts, and doubtlessly gaze lovingly 
 on it, their children often receive the likeness of their prince 
 impressed thereon, and thus the poor prince is suspected of 
 being, in sober sadness, the father of his subjects. The Bour- 
 bons had good reasons for melting down the Napoleons d'or 
 — not wishing to behold any longer so many Napoleon heads 
 among their subjects. Prussia has carried it further than any 
 other in her specie politics, for they there understand by a 
 judicious intermixture of copper to so make their new small 
 change and changes that a blush very soon appears on the 
 cheeks of the monarch. In consequence, the children in 
 Prussia have a far healthier appearance than of old, and it 
 is a real pleasure to gaze upon their blooming little silver 
 groschen faces. 
 
 I have, while pointing out the destruction of morals with 
 which the islanders are threatened, made no mention of 
 their spiritual defense, the Church. How this really appears 
 is beyond my powers of description, not having been in it. 
 The Lord knows I am a good Christian, and even often get so 
 far as to intend to make a call at his house, but by some mis- 
 hap I am invariably hindered in my good intentions. Generally 
 this is done by some long-winded gentleman who holds me by 
 the button in the street, and even if I get to the gate of the 
 temple, some jesting, irreverent thought comes over me, and 
 then I regard it as sinful to enter. Last Sunday something 
 of the sort happened, when just before the door of the church 
 there came into my head an extract from Goethe's " Faust," 
 
THE NORTH SEA 99 
 
 where the hero, passing with Mephistopheles by a cross, asks 
 the latter : — 
 
 " Mephisto, art in haste? 
 Why cast'st thou at the crojs adown thy glances ? " 
 
 To which Mephistopheles replies : — 
 
 " I know right well it shows a wretched taste, 
 But crosses never ranked among my fancies." 
 
 These verses, as I remember, are not printed in any edition 
 of " Faust," and only the late Hofrath Moritz, who had read 
 them in Goethe's manuscript, gave them to the world in his 
 " Philip Reiser," a long out-of-print romance, which contains 
 the history of the author, or rather the history of several 
 hundred dollars which his pocket did not contain, and owing 
 to which his entire life became an array of self-denials and 
 economies, while his desires were anything but presuming — 
 namely, to go to Weimar and become a servant in the house 
 of the author of Werther. His only desire in life was to live 
 in the vicinity of the man who, of all mankind, had made the 
 deepest impression on his soul. 
 
 Wonderful ! even then Goethe had awoke such inspiration, 
 and yet it seems that " our third after-growing race " is first 
 in condition to appreciate his true greatness. 
 
 But this race has also brought forth men into whose hearts 
 only foul water trickles, and who would fain dam up in others 
 the springs of fresh healthy life-blood : men whose powers of 
 enjoyment are extinguished, who slander life, and who would 
 render all the beauty and glory of this world disgusting to 
 others, representing it as a bait which the Evil One has 
 placed here simply to tempt us, just as a cunning housewife 
 leaves during her absence the sugar bowl exposed, with every 
 lump duly counted, that she may test the honesty of the maid. 
 These men have assembled a virtuous mob around them, 
 preaching to their adherents a crusade against the Great 
 Heathen, and against his naked images of the gods, which 
 they would gladly replace with their disguised dumb devils. 
 
 Masks and disguises are their highest aim, the naked and 
 divine is fatal to them, and a Satyr has always good reasons 
 for donning pantaloons and persuading Apollo to do the 
 same. People then call him a moral man* and know not 
 
100 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 that in the Clauren smiles of a disguised Satyr there is more 
 which is really repulsive than in the entire nudity of a Wolf- 
 gang Apollo, and that in those very times when men wore 
 puff breeches, which required in make sixty yards of cloth, 
 morals were no better than at present. 
 
 But will not the ladies be offended at my saying breeches 
 instead of pantaloons ? — Oh, the refined feelings of ladies ! 
 In the end only eunuchs will dare to write for them, and 
 their spiritual servants in the West must be as harmless as 
 their body-servants in the East. 
 
 Here a fragment from Berthold's diary comes into my 
 head. 
 
 " If we only reflect on it, we are all naked under our 
 
 clothes," said Doctor M , to a lady who was offended by 
 
 a rather cynical remark to which he had given utterance. 
 
 The Hanoverian nobility is altogether discontented with 
 Goethe, asserting that he disseminates irreligion, and that 
 this may easily bring forth false political views, — in fine, 
 that the people must by means of the old faith be led back 
 to their ancient modesty and moderation. I have also recently 
 heard much discussion of the question whether Goethe were 
 greater than Schiller. But lately I stood behind the chair of 
 a lady, from whose very back at least sixty-four descents were 
 evident, and heard on the Goethe and Schiller theme a warm 
 discourse between her and two Hanoverian nobles, whose 
 origin was depicted on the Zodiac of Dendera. One of 
 them, a long lean youth, full of quicksilver, who looked like a 
 barometer, praised the virtue and purity of Schiller, while the 
 other, also a long upsprouted young man, lisped verses from 
 the " Dignity of Woman," smiling meanwhile as sweetly as a 
 donkey who has stuck his head into a pitcher of molasses 
 and delightedly licks his lips. Both of the youths confirmed 
 their asssertions with the refrain, "But he is still greater. He 
 is really greater in fact. He is the greater, I assure you upon 
 my honor he is greater." The lady was so amiable as to bring 
 me too into this esthetic conversation, and inquire : " Doctor, 
 what do you think of Goethe ? " I, however, crossed my 
 arms on my breast, bowed my head as a believer and said : 
 " La illah ill allah wamohammed rasul allah ! " 
 
 The lady had, without knowing it, put the shrewdest of 
 
THE NORTH SEA IOI 
 
 questions. It is not possible to directly inquire of a man — 
 " What thinkest thou of Heaven and Earth ? what are thy 
 views of Man and Human Life ? art thou a reasonable being 
 or a poor dumb devil ? " Yet all these delicate queries lie in 
 the by no means insidious question : " What do you think of 
 Goethe ? " For while Goethe's works lie before our eyes, we 
 can easily compare the judgment which another pronounces 
 with our own, and thus obtain an accurate standard whereby 
 to measure all his thoughts and feelings. Thus has he un- 
 consciously passed his own sentence. But, as Goethe him- 
 self, like a common world, thus lies open to the observation 
 of all, and gives us opportunities to learn mankind ; so can . 
 we in turn best learn to know him by his own judgment of 
 objects which are exposed to all, and on which the greatest 
 minds have expressed opinions. In this respect I would 
 prefer to point to Goethe's " Italian Journey," as we are all 
 familiar with the country in question, either from personal 
 experience or from what we have learned from others. Thus 
 we can remark how every writer views it with subjective 
 eyes, the one with displeased looks which behold only the 
 worst, another with the inspired eyes of Corinna, seeing 
 everywhere the glorious, while Goethe with his clear Greek 
 glances sees all things, the dark and the light, colors nothing 
 with his individual feelings, and pictures the land and its 
 people in the true outlines and true colors in which God 
 clothed it. 
 
 This is a merit of Goethe's which will not be appreciated 
 until later times, for we, as we are nearly all invalids, remain 
 too firm in our sickly ragged romantic feelings which we have 
 brought together from all lands and ages, to be able to see 
 plainly how sound, how uniform, and how plastic Goethe dis- 
 plays himself in his works. He himself as little remarks it, — 
 in his naive unconsciousness of his own ability, he wonders 
 when " a reflection on present things " or " objective thought " 
 is ascribed to him ; and while in his autobiography he seeks 
 to supply us with a critical aid to comprehend his works, he 
 still gives us no measure of judgment, but only new facts 
 whereby to judge him. Which is all natural enough, for no 
 bird can fly over itself. 
 
 Later times will also in addition to this ability of plastic 
 
102 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 perception, feeling, and thinking discover much in Goethe of 
 which we have as yet no shadow of an idea. The works of 
 the soul are immutably firm, but criticism is somewhat vola- 
 tile ; she is born of the views of the age, is significant only 
 for it, and if she herself is not of a sect which involves artis- 
 tic value, as for example that of Schlegel, she passes with her 
 time to the grave. Every age, when it gets new ideas, gets 
 with them new eyes, and sees much that is new in the old 
 efforts of mind which have preceded it. A Schubarth now 
 sees in the " Iliad " something else and something more than 
 all the Alexandrians ; and critics will yet come, who will see 
 more than a Schubarth in Goethq. 
 
 And so I finally prattled with myself to Goethe ! But such 
 digressions are natural enough when, as on this island, the 
 roar of the ocean thrills our ears and tunes the soul accord- 
 ing to its will. 
 
 There is a strong northeast wind blowing, and the witches 
 have once again mischief in their heads. There are many 
 strange legends current here of witches, who know how to 
 conjure storms, — for on this, as on all northern islands, there 
 is much superstition. The sea-folks declare that certain 
 islands are secretly governed by peculiar witches, and that 
 when mishaps occur to vessels passing them, it is to be attrib- 
 uted entirely to the evil will of these mysterious guardians. 
 While I, last year, was some time at sea, the steersman of 
 our ship told me, one day, that witches were remarkably 
 powerful on the Isle of Wight, and sought to delay every ship 
 which sailed past during the day, that it might then by night 
 be dashed to pieces on the rocks, or driven ashore. At such 
 times the witches are heard whizzing so sharply through the 
 air, and howling so loudly around the ship, that the Klaboter- 
 mann can with difficulty withstand them. When I asked 
 who the Klabotermann was, the sailor answered very ear- 
 nestly, that he was the good invisible guardian angel of the 
 ship, who takes care lest ill luck befall honest and orderly 
 skippers, who look after everything themselves, and provide 
 a place for everything. The brave steersman assured me, 
 in a more confidential tone, that I could easily hear this spirit 
 in the hold of the vessel, where he willingly busied himself 
 with stowing away the cargo more securely, and that this 
 
THE NORTH SEA 103 
 
 was the cause of the creaking of the barrels and the boxes 
 when the sea rolled high, as well as of the groaning of the 
 planks and beams. It was also true that the Klabotermann 
 often hammered without on the ship, and this was a warning 
 to the carpenter to repair some unsound spot which had been 
 neglected. But his favorite fancy is to sit on the topsail, as 
 a sign that a good wind blows or will blow erelong. In 
 answer to my question, if he were ever seen, he replied, "No, 
 
 — that he was never seen, and that no man wished to see him, 
 for he only showed himself when there was no hope of being 
 saved." The steersman could not vouch from his own experi- 
 ence, but he had heard others say that the Klabotermann 
 was often heard giving orders from the topsail to his sub- 
 ordinate spirits ; and that when the storm became too powerful 
 for him, and utter destruction was unavoidable, he invariably 
 took a place at the helm — showing himself for the first time 
 
 — and then breaking it, vanished. Those who beheld him at 
 this terrible moment were always engulfed the moment after. 
 
 The captain, who had listened with me to this narration, 
 smiled more graciously than I could have anticipated from 
 his rough countenance, hardened by wind and weather, and 
 afterwards told me that fifty or a hundred years ago the faith 
 in the Klabotermann was so strongly impressed on the sailors' 
 minds, that at meals they always reserved for him the best 
 morsels, and that on some vessels this custom was still ob- 
 served. 
 
 I often walk alone on the beach, thinking over these mar- 
 velous sea legends. The most attractive of them all is that 
 of the Flying Dutchman, who is seen in a storm with all sail 
 set, and who occasionally sends out a boat to ships, giving 
 them letters to carry home, but which no one can deliver, as 
 they are all addressed to persons long since dead. And I 
 often recall the sweet old story of the fisher boy, who one 
 night listened securely on the beach to the music of the water- 
 nixies, and afterwards wandered through the world, casting 
 all into enchanted raptures who listened to the melody of the 
 sea-nymph waltz. This legend was once told me by a dear 
 friend, as we were at a concert in Berlin. I once heard just 
 such an air played by the wondrous boy, Felix Mendelssohn 
 Bartholdy. 
 
104 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 There is an altogether peculiar charm in excursions around 
 the island. But the weather must be fair, the clouds must 
 assume strange forms, we must lie on our backs gazing into 
 heaven — and at the same time have a piece of heaven in our 
 hearts. Then the waves will murmur all manner of strange 
 things, all manner of words in which sweet memories nutter, 
 all manner of names which, like sweet associations, reecho 
 in the soul — " Evelina! " Then ships come sailing by, and 
 we greet them as if we could see them again every day. But 
 at night there is something uncanny and mysterious in thus 
 meeting strange ships at sea ; and we imagine that our best 
 friends, whom we have not seen for years, sail silently by, and 
 that we are losing them forever. 
 
 I love the sea, as my own soul. 
 
 I. of ten feel as if the sea were really my own soul itself, and 
 as there are in it hidden plants, which only rise at the in- 
 stant in which they bloom above the water, and sink again at 
 the instant in which they fade ; so from time to time there 
 rise wondrous flower forms from the depths of my soul, and 
 breathe forth perfume, and gleam and vanish — "Evelina! " 
 
 They say that on a spot not far from this island, where 
 there is now nothing but water, there once stood the fairest 
 villages and towns, which were all suddenly overwhelmed 
 by the sea, and that in clear weather sailors yet see in the 
 ocean, far below, the gleaming pinnacles of church spires, and 
 that many have often heard, early on quiet Sabbath mornings, 
 the chime of their bells. The story is true, for the sea is my 
 
 own soul. 
 
 " There a wondrous world to ocean given, 
 
 Ever hides from daylight's searching gleam ; 
 But it shines at night like rays from heaven, 
 In the magic mirror of my dream." 
 
 Awakening then I hear the echoing tones of bells and the 
 song of holy voices — " Evelina ! " 
 
 If we go walking on the strand, the ships sailing by present 
 a beautiful sight. When in full sail they look like great swans. 
 But this is particularly beautiful when the sun sets behind 
 some passing ship, and this seems to be rayed round as with 
 a giant glory. 
 
 Hunting on this beach is also said to present many very 
 
THE NORTH SEA 105 
 
 great attractions. As far as I am concerned, I am not partic- 
 ularly qualified to appreciate its charms. A love for the sub- 
 lime, the beautiful, and the good is often inspired in men by- 
 education, but a love for hunting lies in the blood. When 
 ancestors in ages beyond recollection killed stags, the de- 
 scendant still finds pleasure in this legitimate occupation. But 
 my ancestors did not belong to the hunters so much as to the 
 hunted, and the idea of attacking the descendants of those 
 who were our comrades in misery goes against my grain. 
 Yes, I know right well from experience, and from moral con- 
 viction, that it would be much easier for me to let fly at a 
 hunter who wishes that those times were again here when 
 human beings were a higher class of game. God be praised ! 
 those days are over ! If such hunters now wish to chase a 
 man, they must pay him for it, as was the case with a runner 
 whom I saw two years ago in Göttingen. The poor being 
 had already run himself weary in the heat of a sultry Sunday, 
 when some Hanoverian youths, who there studied humaniora, 
 offered him a few dollars if he would run the whole course 
 over again. The man did it. He was deathly pale, and 
 wore a red jacket, and close behind him, in the whirling dust, 
 galloped the well-fed noble youths, on high horses, whose 
 hoofs occasionally struck the goaded, gasping being, — and 
 he was a man ! 
 
 For the sake of the experiment, for I must accustom my 
 blood to a better state, I went hunting yesterday. I shot at 
 a few sea-gulls which flew too confidently around and could 
 not of course know that I was a bad shot. I did not wish to 
 shoot them, but only to warn them from going another time 
 so near persons with loaded guns; but my gun shot " wrong," 
 and I had the bad luck to kill a young gull. It was well 
 that it was not an old one, for what would then have become 
 of the poor little gulls which as yet unfledged lie in their 
 sand nests on the great downs, and which, without their 
 mother, must starve to death? Before I went out I had a 
 presentiment that something unfortunate would happen, for 
 a hare ran across my path. 
 
 But I am in an altogether strange mood when I wander 
 alone by twilight on the strand, — behind me the flat downs, 
 before me the waving, immeasurable ocean, and above me 
 
106 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 heaven, like a giant crystal dome, — for I then appear to my- 
 self so ant-like small, and yet my soul expands so world-wide. 
 The lofty simplicity of nature, as she here surrounds me, at 
 the same time subdues and elevates my heart, and, indeed, in 
 a higher degree than in any other scene, however exalting. 
 Never did any dome as yet appear great enough to me ; my 
 soul, with its Titan prayer, ever strove higher than the Gothic 
 pillars, and would ever fain pierce the vaulted roof. On the 
 peaks of the Rosstrappe, at first sight, the colossal rocks, in 
 their bold groupings, had a tolerably imposing effect on me ; 
 but this impression did not long endure, my soul was only 
 startled, not subdued, and those monstrous masses of stone 
 became, little by little, smaller in my eyes, and finally they 
 merely appeared like the little ruins of a giant palace, in 
 which, perhaps, my soul would have found itself comfortably 
 at home. 
 
 Ridiculous as it may sound, I cannot conceal it, but the 
 disproportion between soul and body torments me not a little, 
 and here on the sea, in the sublimest natural scenery, it be- 
 comes very significant, and the metempsychosis is often the 
 subject of my reflection. Who knows the divine irony which 
 is accustomed to bring forth all manner of contradictions 
 between soul and body ? Who knows in what tailor's body 
 the soul of Plato now dwells, and in what schoolmaster the 
 soul of Caesar may be found ? Who knows if the soul of 
 Gregory VII. may not sit in the body of the Great Turk, and 
 feel itself, amid the caressing hands of a thousand women, 
 more comfortable than of old in its purple celibate's cowl ? 
 On the other hand how many true Moslem souls, of the 
 days of Ali, may, perhaps, be now found among our anti- 
 Hellenic statesmen ! The souls of the two thieves who were 
 crucified by the Savior's side now hide, perhaps, in fat Con- 
 sistorial bodies, and glow with zeal for orthodox doctrine. 
 The soul of Ghengis-khan lives, it may be, in some literary 
 reviewer, who daily, without knowing it, sabers down the 
 souls of his truest Bashkirs and Kalmucks in a critical jour- 
 nal ! Who knows ! who knows ! The soul of Pythagoras 
 hath traveled, mayhap, into some poor candidate for a uni- 
 versity degree, and who is plucked at examination because 
 he cannot explain the Pythagorean doctrines; while in his 
 
THE NORTH SEA 107 
 
 examiners dwell the souls of those oxen which Pythagoras 
 once offered to the immortal gods for joy at discovering the 
 doctrines in question. The Hindus are not so stupid as our 
 missionaries think. They honor animals for the human souls 
 which they suppose dwell in them, and if they found hospi- 
 tals for invalid monkeys, after the manner of our academies, 
 nothing is more likely than that in those monkeys dwell the 
 souls of great scholars, since it is evident enough that among 
 us in many great scholars are only apish souls ! 
 
 But who can look with the omniscience of the past, from 
 above, on the deeds of mortals. When I, by night, wander 
 by the sea, listening to the song of the waves, and every 
 manner of presentiment and of memory awakes in me, then 
 it seems as though I had once heard the like from above, and 
 had fallen, through tottering terror, to earth ; it seems too as 
 though my eyes had been so telescopically keen that I could 
 see the stars wandering as large as life in Heaven, and had 
 been dazzled by all their whirling splendor ; — then, as if 
 from the depth of a millennium, there come all sorts of 
 strange thoughts into my soul, thoughts of wisdom old as the 
 world, but so obscure that I cannot surmise what they mean ; 
 only this much I know, that all our cunning, knowledge, 
 effort, and production must to some higher spirit seem as 
 little and valueless as those spiders seemed to me which I 
 have so often seen in the library of Göttingen. There they 
 sat, so busily weaving, on the folios of the World's History, 
 looking so philosophically confident on the scene around 
 them, and they had so exactly the pedantic obscurity of Göt- 
 tingen, and seemed so proud of their mathematical knowledge 
 
 — of their contributions to Art — of their solitary reflections 
 
 — and yet they knew nothing of all the wonders which were 
 in the book on which they were born, on which they had 
 passed their lives, and on which they must die, if not dis- 
 turbed by the prying Doctor L . And who is the prying 
 
 Doctor L ? His soul once dwelt in just such a spider, 
 
 and now he guards the folios on which he once sat, — and if 
 he reads them he never learns their true contents. 
 
 What may have happened on the ground where I now 
 walk ? A Conrector who was bathing here asserted that it 
 was in this place that the religious rites of Hertha, or, more 
 
108 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 correctly speaking, of Forsete, were once celebrated — those 
 rites of which Tacitus speaks so mysteriously. Let us only 
 trust that the reporter from whom Tacitus picked up the 
 intelligence did not err and mistake a bathing-wagon for 
 the sacred vehicle of the goddess. 
 
 In the year 1819 I attended in Bonn, in one and the same 
 season, four courses of lectures on German antiquities from 
 the remotest times. The first of these was the history of the 
 German tongue by Schlegel, who for three months developed 
 the most old-fashioned hypotheses on the origin of the Teu- 
 tonic race; 2d. the " Germania" of Tacitus by Arndt, who 
 sought in the old German forests for those virtues which 
 he misses in the saloons of the present day; 3d. German 
 National Law by Hüllmann, whose historical views are the 
 least vague of those current, and 4th. Primitive German His- 
 tory by Radloff, who at the end of the half year had got no 
 further than the time of Sesostris. In those days the legend 
 of the ancient Hertha may have interested me more than at 
 present. I did not at all admit that she dwelt in Rügen, and 
 preferred to believe that it was on an East Frisian island. 
 A young savant always likes to have his own private hypoth- 
 esis. But at any rate I never supposed that I should some 
 day wander on the shore of the North Sea, without thinking 
 of the old Goddess with patriotic enthusiasm. Such is, in 
 fact, not altogether the case, for I am here thinking of god- 
 desses, only younger and more beautiful ones. Particularly 
 when I wander on the strand near those terrible spots where 
 the most beautiful ladies have recently been swimming like 
 nymphs. For neither ladies nor gentlemen bathe here under 
 cover, but walk about in the open sea. On this account the 
 bathing places of the two sexes are far apart, and are sepa- 
 rated by a little peninsula or point of land which as effectually 
 shuts off even a spy-glass view of one from the other as though 
 they were on different sides of the same island. Moreover, 
 the authorities are very prudish, and tell a story which — but 
 I wander from my subject. 
 
 The bathing carriages, those hackney-coaches of the North 
 Sea, are here simply shoved to the edge of the water. They 
 are generally angular wooden structures, covered with coarse 
 stiff linen. Now, during winter, they are ranged along the 
 
THE NORTH SEA 109 
 
 conversation hall, and without doubt maintain among them- 
 selves as wooden and stiff linen-like conversations as the 
 aristocratic world which not long since filled their place. 
 
 But when I say the aristocratic world, I do not mean the 
 good citizens of East Friesland, a race flat and tame as their 
 own sand-hills, who can neither pipe nor sing, and yet possess 
 a talent worth any trilling and nonsense — a talent which 
 ennobles man, and lifts him above those windy souls of ser- 
 vice, who believe themselves alone to be noble. I mean the 
 talent for freedom. If the heart beats for liberty, that beat- 
 ing is better than any strokes conferring knighthood, as the 
 " free Frisians " well know, and they well deserve this, their 
 national epithet. With the exception of the ancient days 
 of chieftainship, an aristocracy never predominated in East 
 Friesland ; very few noble families have ever dwelt there, and 
 the influence of the Hanoverian nobility by force and military 
 power as it now spreads over the land troubles many a free 
 Frisian heart. Everywhere a love for their earlier Prussian 
 government is manifested. 
 
 Yet I cannot unconditionally agree with the universal Ger- 
 man complaint of the pride of birth of the Hanoverian nobil- 
 ity. The Hanoverian corps of officers give least occasion for 
 complaints of this nature. It is true that, as in Madagascar, 
 only the nobility have the right to become butchers, so in days 
 of old only the nobility in Hanover were permitted to become 
 soldiers. But since, in recent times, so many citizens have 
 distinguished themselves in German regiments, and risen to 
 be officers, this evil customary privilege has fallen into disuse. 
 Yes, the entire body of the German legions has contributed 
 much to soften all prejudices, for these men have traveled 
 afar, and out in the world men see many things, especially in 
 England ; and they have learned much, and it is a real pleas- 
 ure to hear them talk of Portugal, Spain, Sicily, the Ionian 
 Isles, Ireland, and other distant lands where they have fought, 
 and " seen full many towns, and learned full many manners," 
 so that we can imagine that we are listening to an " Odyssey," 
 which alas will never find its Homer ! Among these officers 
 many independent English customs have also found their 
 way, which contrast more strikingly with the old Hanoverian 
 manners, than we in the rest of Germany would imagine ; as 
 
HO PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 we are in the habit of supposing that England has exercised 
 great influence over Hanover. Through all the land of Han- 
 over nothing is to be seen but genealogical trees, to which 
 horses are bound, so that for mere trees the land itself is 
 obscured, and with all its horses it never advances. No — 
 through this Hanoverian forest of nobility, there never pene- 
 trated a sun-ray of British freedom, and no tone of British 
 freedom was ever perceptible amid the neighing noise of 
 Hanoverian steeds. 
 
 The general complaint of Hanoverian pride of birth is best 
 founded as regards the hopeful youth of certain families, who 
 either rule or believe that they really rule the realm. But 
 these noble youths will soon lay aside this haughtiness, or, 
 more correctly speaking, this naughtiness, when they too 
 have seen a little more of the world, or have had the advan- 
 tage of a better education. It is true that they are sent to 
 Gottingen, but they hang together, talking about their horses, 
 dogs, and ancestry: learning but little of modern history, 
 and if they happen once in a while by chance to hear of " it, 
 their minds are, notwithstanding, stupefied by the sight of 
 the count's table," which, a true indication of Göttingen, is 
 intended only for students of noble birth. Of a truth, if the 
 young Hanoverian nobility were better taught, many com- 
 plaints would be obviated. But the young become like the 
 old. The same delusion, as though they were the flowers of 
 the earth, and we others but its grass ; the same folly, seeking 
 to cover their own worthlessness with their ancestors' merits ; 
 the same ignorance of what there may be problematic in these 
 merits, as there are few indeed among them who reflect that 
 princes seldom reward their most faithful and virtuous sub- 
 jects, but very often their panders, flatterers and similar 
 favorite rascals with ennobling grace. Few indeed among 
 these nobles could say with any certainty what their ancestors 
 have done, and they can only show their name in Ruxner's 
 " Book of Tournaments," — yes, and if they could prove that 
 an ancestor was at the taking of Jerusalem, then ought they, 
 before availing themselves of the honor, to prove that their 
 ancestor fought as a knight should, that his mail suit was not 
 lined with fear, and that beneath his red cross beat an honest 
 heart. Were there no "Iliad," but simply a list of names of 
 
THE NORTH SEA III 
 
 those heroes who fought before Troy, and if those family 
 names were yet among us, how would the descendants of 
 Thersites be puffed up with pride ! As for the purity of the 
 blood, I will say nothing; philosophers and family footmen 
 have doubtless some peculiar thoughts on this subject. 
 
 My faultfinding, as already hinted, is based upon the lame 
 education of the Hanoverian nobility, and their early impressed 
 delusion as to the importance of certain idle forms. Oh ! how 
 often have I laughed when I remarked the importance attached 
 to these forms ; as if it were even a difficult matter to learn 
 this representing, this presenting, this smiling without saying 
 anything, this saying something without thinking, and all 
 these noble arts which the good plain citizen stares at, as on 
 wonders from beyond sea, and which after all, every French 
 dancing-master has better and more naturally than the German 
 nobleman, to whom they have with weary pains been made 
 familiar in the cub-licking Lutetia, and who, after their 
 importation, teaches them with German thoroughness, and 
 German labor, to his descendants. This reminds me of the 
 fable of the dancing bear, who, having escaped from his 
 master, rejoined his fellow bears in the wood, and boasted to 
 them of the difficulty of learning to dance, and how he him- 
 self excelled in the art, and in fact the poor brutes who 
 beheld his performances, could not withhold their admiration. 
 That nation, as Werther calls them, formed the aristocratic 
 world, which here at this watering-place shone on water and 
 land, and they were altogether excellent, excellent folks, and 
 played their parts well. 
 
 Persons of royal blood were also here, and I must admit 
 that they were more modest in their address than the lesser 
 nobility. Whether this modesty was in the hearts of these 
 elevated persons, or whether they were impelled to it by their 
 position, I will here leave undecided. I assert this, however, 
 only of the German mediatized princes. These persons have 
 of late suffered great injustice, inasmuch as they have been 
 robbed of a sovereignty to which they had as good right as 
 the greater princes, unless, indeed, any one will assume that 
 that which cannot maintain itself by its own power, has no 
 right to exist. But for the greatly divided Germany, it was 
 a benefit, that this array of sixteen-mo despots were obliged 
 
112 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 to resign their power. It is terrible when we reflect on 
 the number which we poor Germans are obliged to feed, for 
 although these mediatized princes no longer wield the scepter, 
 they still wield knives, forks, and spoons, and do not eat hay, 
 and if they did, hay would still be expensive enough. I 
 imagine that we shall eventually be freed by America from 
 this burden of princes. For sooner or later the presidents of 
 those free states will be metamorphosed into sovereigns, and 
 if they need legitimate princesses for wives, they will be glad 
 if we give them our blood-royal dames, and if they take six, 
 we will throw in the seventh gratis ; and by and by our 
 princes may be busied with their daughters in turn ; for which 
 reason the mediatized princes have acted very shrewdly in 
 retaining at least their right of birth, and value their family 
 trees as much as the Arabs value the pedigrees of their 
 horses, and indeed, with the same object, as they well know 
 that Germany has been in all ages the great princely stud 
 from which all the reigning neighboring families have been 
 supplied with mares and stallions. 
 
 In every watering-place it is an old established customary 
 privilege, that the departed guests should be sharply criti- 
 cized by those who remain, and as I am here the last in the 
 house, I may presume to exercise that right to its fullest 
 extent. 
 
 And it is now so lonely in the island, that I seem to myself 
 like Napoleon on St. Helena. Only that I have here found 
 something entertaining, which he wanted. For it is with the 
 great Emperor himself with whom I am now busied. A young 
 Englishman recently presented me with Maitland's book, pub- 
 lished not long since, in which the mariner sets forth the way 
 and manner in which Napoleon gave himself up to him, and 
 deceived himself on the BelleropJion, till he, by command of 
 the British ministry was brought on board the Northnmber- 
 la?id. From this book it appears clear as day, that the 
 Emperor, in a spirit of romantic confidence in British mag- 
 nanimity, and finally to give peace to the world, went to the 
 English more as a guest than as a prisoner. It was an error 
 which no other man would have fallen into, and least of all 
 a Wellington. But history will declare that this error was so 
 beautiful, so elevated, so sublime, that it required more true 
 
THE NORTH SEA 113 
 
 greatness of soul than we, the rest of the world, can elevate 
 ourselves to in our greatest deeds. 
 
 The cause which has induced Captain Maitland to publish 
 this book appears to be no other than the moral need of 
 purification, which every honorable man experiences who has 
 been entangled by bad fortune in a piece of business of a 
 doubtful complexion. The book itself is an invaluable con- 
 tribution to the history of the imprisonment of Napoleon, as 
 it forms the last portion of his life, singularly solves all the 
 enigmas of the earlier parts, and amazes, reconciles, and puri- 
 fies the mind, as the last act of a genuine tragedy should. 
 The characteristic differences of the four principal writers 
 who have informed us as to his captivity, and particularly 
 as to his manner and method of regarding things, is not dis- 
 tinctly seen, save by their comparison. 
 
 Maitland, the stern, cold, English sailor, describes events 
 without prejudice, and as accurately as though they were 
 maritime occurrences to be entered in a log-book. Las 
 Casas, like an enthusiastic chamberlain, lies, as he writes, in 
 every line, at the feet of his Emperor; not like a Russian 
 slave, but like a free Frenchman, who involuntarily bows the 
 knee to unheard-of heroic greatness and to the dignity of 
 renown. O'Meara, the physician, though born in Ireland, 
 is still altogether a Briton, and as such was once an enemy 
 of the Emperor. But now, recognizing the majestic rights of 
 adversity, he writes boldly, without ornament, and conscien- 
 tiously : almost in a lapidary style, while we recognize not 
 so much a style as a stiletto in the pointed, striking manner 
 of writing of the Italian Autommarchi, who is altogether 
 mentally intoxicated with the vindictiveness and poetry of 
 his land. 
 
 Both races, French and English, gave from either side a 
 man of ordinary powers of mind, uninfluenced by the powers 
 that be, and this jury has judged the Emperor, and sen- 
 tenced him to live eternally — an object of wonder and of 
 commiseration. 
 
 There are many great men who have already walked in 
 this world. Here and there we see the gleaming marks of 
 their footsteps, and in holy hours they sweep like cloudy 
 forms before our souls ; but an equally great man sees his 
 
 9 
 
114 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 predecessors far more significantly. From a single spark of 
 the traces of their earthly glory, he recognizes their most 
 secret act, from a single word left behind, he penetrates every 
 fold of their hearts, and thus in a mystical brotherhood live 
 the great men of all times. Across long centuries they bow 
 to each other, and gaze on each other with significant glances, 
 and their eyes meet over the graves of buried races whom 
 they have thrust aside between, and they understand and 
 love each other. But we little ones, who may not have such 
 intimate intercourse with the great ones of the past, of whom 
 we but seldom see the traces and cloudy forms, it is of the 
 highest importance to learn so much of these great men, that 
 it will be easy for us to take them distinct, as in life, into our 
 own souls, and thereby enlarge our minds. Such a man is 
 Napoleon Bonaparte. We know more of his life and deeds 
 than of the other great ones of this world, and day by day 
 we learn still more and more. We see the buried form divine, 
 slowly dug forth, and with every spadeful of earth which is 
 removed, increases our joyous wonder at the symmetry and 
 splendor of the noble figure which is revealed ; and the spiri- 
 tual lightnings with which foes would shatter the great statue, 
 serve but to light it up more gloriously. Such is the case 
 with the assertions of Madame de Stael, who with all her bit- 
 terness says nothing more than that the Emperor was not 
 a man like other men, and that his soul could be measured 
 with no measure known to us. 
 
 It is to such a spirit that Kant alludes, when he says, that 
 we can think to ourselves an understanding, which, because 
 it is not discursive like our own, but intuitive, goes from the 
 synthetic universal, of the observation of the whole, as such, 
 to the particular — that is to say, from the whole to a part. 
 Yes, Napoleon's spirit saw through that which we learn by 
 weary analytical reflection, and long deduction of conse- 
 quences, and comprehended it in one and the same moment. 
 Thence came his talent to understand his age, to cajole its 
 spirit into never abusing him, and being ever profitable to 
 him. 
 
 But as this spirit of the age is not only revolutionary, but 
 is formed by the antagonism of both sides, the revolutionary 
 and the counter revolutionary, so did Napoleon act not ac- 
 
THE NORTH SEA 115 
 
 cording to either alone, but according to the spirit of both 
 principles, both efforts, which found in him their union, and 
 he accordingly always acted naturally, simply and greatly ; 
 never convulsively and harshly — ever composed and calm. 
 Therefore he never intrigued in details, and his striking effects 
 were ever brought about by his ability to comprehend and to 
 bend the masses to his will. Little analytical souls incline to 
 entangled, wearisome intrigues, while, on the contrary, syn- 
 thetic intuitive- spirits understand in a wondrously genial 
 manner so to avail themselves of the means which are 
 afforded them by the present, as quickly to turn them to their 
 own advantage. The former often founder, because no mor- 
 tal wisdom can foresee all the events of life, and life's relations 
 are never long permanent ; the latter, on the contrary, the in- 
 tuitive men, succeed most easily in their designs, as they only 
 require an accurate computation of that which is at hand, and 
 act so quickly, that their calculations are not miscarried by 
 any ordinary agitation, or by any sudden unforeseen changes. 
 
 It is a fortunate coincidence that Napoleon lived just in an 
 age which had a remarkable inclination for history, for re- 
 search, and for publication. Owing to this cause, thanks to 
 the memoirs of contemporaries, but few particulars of Napo- 
 leon's life have been withheld from us, and the number of 
 histories which represent him as more or less allied to the 
 rest of the world, increase every day. On this account the 
 announcement of such a work by Scott awakens the most 
 anxious anticipation. 
 
 All those who honor the genius of Scott must tremble for 
 him, for such a book may easily prove to be the Moscow of a 
 reputation which he has won with weary labor by an array of 
 historical romances which, more by their subject than by 
 their poetic power, have moved every heart in Europe. This 
 theme is, however, not merely an elegiac lament over Scot- 
 land's legendary glory, which has been little by little banished 
 by foreign manners, rule, and modes of thought, but the 
 greatest suffering for the loss of those national peculiarities 
 which perish in the universality of modern civilization — a 
 grief which now causes the hearts of every nation to throb. 
 For national memories lie deeper in man's heart than we 
 generally imagine. Let any one attempt to bury the an- 
 
Il6 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 cient forms, and overnight the old love blooms anew with its 
 flowers. This is not a mere figure of speech, but a fact, for 
 when Bullock, a few years ago, dug up in Mexico an old 
 heathen stone image, he found, next morning, that during 
 the night it had been crowned with flowers, although Spain 
 had destroyed the old Mexican faith with fire and sword, and 
 though the souls of the natives had been for three centuries 
 dug about and plowed, and sowed with Christianity. And 
 such flowers as these bloom in Walter Scott's poems. These 
 poems themselves awaken the old feeling, and as once in 
 Granada men and women ran with the wail of desperation 
 from their houses, when the song of the departure of the 
 Moorish king rang in the streets, so that it was prohibited, on 
 pain of death, to sing it, so hath the tone which rings through 
 Scott's romance thrilled with pain a whole world. This tone 
 reechoes in the hearts of our nobles, who see their castles and 
 armorial bearings in ruins ; it rings again in the hearts of our 
 burghers, who have been crowded from the comfortable nar- 
 row way of their ancestors by wide-spreading, uncongenial 
 modern fashion ; in Catholic cathedrals, whence faith has 
 fled ; in Rabbinic synagogues, from which even the faithful 
 flee. It sounds over the whole world, even into the Banian 
 groves of Hindustan, where the sighing Brahmin sees before 
 him the destruction of his gods, the demolition of their 
 primeval cosmogony, and the entire victory of the Briton. 
 
 But his tone — the mightiest which the Scottish bard can 
 strike upon his giant harp — accords not with the imperial 
 song of Napoleon, the new man — the man of modern 
 times — the man in whom this new age mirrors itself so 
 gloriously, that we thereby are well-nigh dazzled, and never 
 think meanwhile of the vanished Past, nor of its faded 
 splendor. It may well be presupposed that Scott, accord- 
 ing to his predilections, will seize upon the stable element 
 already hinted at, the counter revolutionary side of the 
 character of Napoleon, while, on the contrary, other writers 
 will recognize in him the revolutionary principle. It is from 
 this last side that Byron would have described him — Byron, 
 who forms in every respect an antithesis to Scott, and who, 
 instead of lamenting like him the destruction of old forms, 
 even feels himself vexed and bounded by those which remain, 
 
THE NORTH SEA 117 
 
 and would fain annihilate them with revolutionary laughter 
 and with gnashing of teeth. In this rage he destroys the 
 holiest flowers of life with his melodious poison, and like a 
 mad harlequin strikes a dagger into his own heart, mockingly 
 to sprinkle with the jetting black blood the ladies and gentle- 
 men around. 
 
 I truly realize at this instant that I am no worshiper, or at 
 least no bigoted admirer of Byron. My blood is not so 
 splenetically black, my bitterness comes only from the gall- 
 apples of my ink, and if there be poison in me it is only an 
 antipoison for those snakes which lurk so threateningly 
 amid the shelter of old cathedrals and castles. Of all great 
 writers Byron is just the one whose writings excite in me the 
 least passion, while Scott, on the contrary, in his every book, 
 gladdens, tranquilizes, and strengthens my heart. Even his 
 imitators please me, as in such instances as Willibald Alexis, 
 Bronikowski, and Cooper, the first of whom, in the ironic 
 " Walladmoor," approaches nearest his pattern, and has 
 shown in a later work such a wealth of form and of spirit, 
 that he is fully capable of setting before our souls with a 
 poetic originality well worthy of Scott, a series of historical 
 novels. 
 
 But no true genius follows paths indicated to him : these lie 
 beyond all critical computation, so that it may be allowed to 
 pass as a harmless play of thought, if I may express my 
 anticipatory judgment over Walter Scott's " History of Napo- 
 leon." Anticipatory judgment is here the most comprehen- 
 sive expression. Only one thing can be said with certainty, 
 which is that the book will be read from its uprising even 
 unto the downsetting thereof, and we Germans will trans- 
 late it. 
 
 We have also translated Segur. Is it not a pretty epic 
 poem ? We Germans also write epic poems, but their heroes 
 only exist in our own heads. The heroes of the French epos, 
 on the contrary, are real heroes, who have performed more 
 doughty deeds and suffered far greater woes than we in our 
 garret rooms ever dreamed of. And yet we have much 
 imagination, and the French but little. Perhaps on this 
 account the Lord helped them out in another manner, for 
 they only need truly relate what has happened to them during 
 
Il8 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the last thirty years to have such a literature of experience 
 as no nation and no age ever yet brought forth. Those 
 memoirs of statesmen, soldiers, and noble ladies which appear 
 daily in France, form a cycle of legends in which posterity 
 will find material enough for thought and song — a cycle in 
 whose center the life of the great Emperor rises like a giant 
 tree. Segur's " History of the Russian Campaign " is a song, 
 a French song of the people, which belongs to this legend 
 cycle and which in its tone and matter is, and will remain, 
 like the epic poetry of all ages. A heroic poem which from 
 the magic words "freedom and equality" has shot up from 
 the soil of France, and as in a triumphal procession, intoxi- 
 cated with glory and led by the Goddess Fame herself, has 
 swept over, terrified and glorified the world. And now at 
 last it dances clattering sword-dances on the ice-fields of the 
 North, until they break in, and the children of fire and of 
 freedom perish by cold and by the Slavs. 
 
 Such a description of the destruction of a heroic world is 
 the keynote and material of the epic poems of all races. 
 On the rocks of Ellora and other Indian grotto-temples, 
 there remain such epic catastrophes, engraved in giant hiero- 
 glyphics, the key to which must be sought in the " Mahabha- 
 rata." The North too in words not less rock-like, has narrated 
 this twilight of the gods in its " Edda," the " Nibelungen " 
 sings the same tragic destruction, and has in its conclusion 
 a striking similarity with Segur's description of the burning 
 of Moscow. The " Roland's Song " of the battle of Ronces- 
 valles, which though its words have perished still exists as a 
 legend, and which has recently been raised again to life by 
 Immermann, one of the greatest poets of the Fatherland, 
 is also the same old song of woe. Even the song of Troy 
 gives most gloriously the old theme, and yet it is not grander 
 or more agonizing than that French song of the people in 
 which Segur has sung the downfall of his hero world. Yes, 
 this is a true epos, the heroic youth of France is the beautiful 
 hero who early perishes as we have already seen in the deaths 
 of Balder, Siegfried, Roland, and Achilles, who also perished 
 by ill fortune and treachery ; and those heroes whom we once 
 admired in the " Iliad " we find again in the song of Segur. 
 We see them counseling, quarreling, and fighting, as once 
 
THE NORTH SEA IIQ 
 
 of old before the Scaean Gate. If the court of the King of 
 Naples is somewhat too variedly modern, still his courage in 
 battle and his pride are greater than those of Pelides; a Hector 
 in mildness and bravery is before us in " Prince Eugene, the 
 knight so noble." Ney battles like an Ajax, Berthier is a 
 Nestor without wisdom ; Davoust, Daru, Caulincourt, and 
 others possess the souls of Menelaus, of Odysseus, of 
 Diomed — only the Emperor alone has not his like — in his 
 head is the Olympus of the poem, and if I compare him in 
 his heroic apparition to Agamemnon, I do it because a tragic 
 end awaited him with his lordly comrades in arms, and be- 
 cause his Orestes yet lives. 
 
 There is a tone in Segur's epos like that in Scott's poems 
 which moves our hearts. But this tone does not revive our 
 love for the long-vanished legions of olden time. It is a tone 
 which brings to us the present, and a tone which inspires us 
 with its spirit. 
 
 But we Germans are genuine Peter Schlemihls ! In later 
 times we have seen much and suffered much — for example, 
 having soldiers quartered on us, and pride from our nobility ; 
 and we have given away our best blood, for example, to Eng- 
 land, which has still a considerable annual sum to pay for 
 shot-off arms and legs to their former owners ; and we have 
 done so many great things on a small scale, that if they were 
 reckoned up together, they would result in the grandest deeds 
 imaginable, for instance, in the Tyrol ; and we have lost much, 
 for instance, our "greater shadow," the title of the holy dar- 
 ling Roman Empire — and still, with all our losses, sacrifices, 
 self-denials, misfortunes and great deeds, our literature has 
 not gained one such monument of renown, as rise daily 
 among our neighbors, like immortal trophies. Our Leipzig 
 Fairs have profited but little by the battle of Leipzig. A 
 native of Gotha intends, as I hear, to sing them successively 
 in epic form, but as he has not as yet determined whether he 
 belongs to the one hundred thousand souls of Hildburghau- 
 sen, or to the one hundred and fifty thousand of Meiningen, 
 or to the one hundred and sixty thousand of Altenburg, he 
 cannot as yet begin his epos, and must accordingly begin 
 with, " Sing, immortal souls, Hildburghau sian souls, Meinin- 
 gian or even Altenburgian souls, sing, all the same, sing the 
 
120 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 deliverance of the sinful Germans ! " This soul-murderer, and 
 his fearful ruggedness, allows no proud thought, and still less 
 a proud word to manifest itself, our brightest deeds become 
 ridiculous by a stupid result; and while we gloomily wrap 
 ourselves in the purple mantle of German heroic blood, there 
 comes a political waggish knave and puts his cap and bells 
 on our head. 
 
IDEAS 
 
 BOOK LE GRAND 
 
 The mighty race of Oerindur, 
 The pillar of our throne, 
 Though Nature perish, will endure, 
 Forever and alone. — Müllner. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 She was worthy of love, and he loved her. He, however, was not lovable, and 
 she did not love him. — Old Play. 
 
 M 
 
 ADAME, are you familiar with that old play? It is 
 an altogether extraordinary performance — only a 
 little too melancholy. I once played the leading 
 part in it myself, so that all the ladies wept save one, who 
 did not shed so much as a single tear, and in that, consisted 
 the whole point of the play — the real catastrophe. 
 
 Oh, that single tear ! it still torments me in my reveries. 
 When the Devil desires to ruin my soul, he hums in my ear a 
 ballad of that tear, which ne'er was wept, a deadly song with 
 a more deadly tune — ah ! such a tune is only heard in hell ! 
 
 You can readily form an idea, Madame, of what life is like 
 in Heaven — the more readily, as you are married. There 
 people amuse themselves altogether superbly, every sort of 
 entertainment is provided, and one lives in nothing but desire 
 and its gratification, or as the saying is " like the Lord in 
 France." There they live from morning to night, and the 
 cookery is as good as Jagor's, roast geese fly around with 
 gravy boats in their bills, and feel flattered if any one con- 
 descends to eat them ; tarts gleaming with butter grow wild 
 
122 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 like sunflowers, everywhere there are rivulets of bouillon and 
 champagne, everywhere trees on which clean napkins flutter 
 wild in the wind, and you eat and wipe your lips and eat 
 again without injury to the health. There, too, you sing 
 psalms, or flirt and joke with the dear, delicate little angels, 
 or take a walk on the green Halleluiah Meadow, and your 
 white flowing garments fit so comfortably, and nothing dis- 
 turbs your feeling of perfect happiness — no pain, no vexa- 
 tion. Nay — when one accidentally treads on another's corns, 
 and exclaims, " Excusez ! " the one trodden on smiles as if 
 glorified, and insists " Thy foot, brother, did not hurt in the 
 least, quite au contraire — it only causes a deeper thrill of 
 Heavenly rapture to shoot through my heart ! " 
 
 But of Hell, Madame, you have not the faintest idea. Of 
 all the devils in existence, you have probably made the ac- 
 quaintance only of Amor, the nice little Croupier of Hell, 
 who is the smallest Beelzebub of them all. And you know 
 him only from Don Juan, and doubtless think that for such 
 a betrayer of female innocence Hell can never be made hot 
 enough, though our praiseworthy theater directors shower 
 down upon him as much flame, fiery rain, squibs, and colo- 
 phonium as any Christian could desire to have emptied into 
 Hell itself. 
 
 However, things in Hell look much worse than our theater 
 directors imagine, — if they did know what is going on there, 
 they would never permit such stuff to be played as they do. 
 For in Hell it is infernally hot, and when I was there, in the 
 dog-days, it was past endurance. Madame — you can have 
 no idea of Hell ! We have very few official returns from 
 that place. Still it is rank calumny to say that down there 
 all the poor souls are compelled to read all day long all the 
 dull sermons which were ever printed on earth. Bad as Hell 
 is, it has not quite come to that, — Satan will never invent 
 such refinements of torture. On the other hand, Dante's 
 description is too mild — I may say, on the whole, too poetic. 
 Hell appeared to me like a great town kitchen, with an end- 
 lessly long stove, on which were placed three rows of iron 
 pots, and in these sat the damned, and were cooked. In one 
 row were placed Christian sinners, and, incredible as it may 
 seem, their number was anything but small, and the devils 
 
IDEAS 123 
 
 poked the fire up under them with especial good-will. In 
 the next row were Jews, who continually screamed and cried, 
 and were occasionally mocked by the fiends, which sometimes 
 seemed odd enough — as for instance, when a fat, wheezy 
 old pawnbroker complained of the heat, and a little devil 
 poured several buckets of cold water on his head, that he 
 might realize what a refreshing benefit baptism was. In the 
 third row sat the heathen, who, like the Jews, could take no 
 part in salvation, and must burn forever. I heard one of the 
 latter, as a square-built, burly devil put fresh coals under his 
 kettle, cry out from his pot — " Spare me ! I was once Soc- 
 rates, the wisest of mortals — I taught Truth and Justice, and 
 sacrificed my life for Virtue." But the clumsy, stupid devil 
 w^ent on with his work, and grumbled — " Oh, shut up, there ! 
 All heathens must burn, and we can't make an exception for 
 the sake of a single man." I assure you, Madame, the heat 
 was terrible, with such a screaming, sighing, groaning, croak- 
 ing, crying, quacking, cracking, growling, grunting, yelling, 
 squealing, wailing, trilling — and through all this terrible tur- 
 moil there rang distinctly the fatal melody of the Song of the 
 Unwept Tear. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 " She was worthy of love, and he loved her. He, however, was not lovable, and 
 
 she did not love him." 
 
 Madame ! that old play is a tragedy, though the hero in it 
 is neither killed nor commits suicide. The eyes of the hero- 
 ine are beautiful — very beautiful : — Madame, do you scent 
 the perfume of violets ? — very beautiful, and yet so piercing 
 that they struck like poignards of glass through my heart 
 and probably came out through my back — and yet I was 
 not killed by those treacherous, murderous eyes. The voice 
 of the heroine was also sweet — Madame, was it a nightingale 
 you heard sing just as I spoke ? — a soft, silken voice, a sweet 
 web of the sunniest tones, and my soul was entangled in it 
 and choked and tormented itself. I myself — it is the Count 
 of Ganges w T ho now speaks, and as the story goes on, in 
 Venice — I myself soon had enough of those tortures, and 
 
124 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 had thoughts of putting an end to the play in the first act, 
 and of shooting myself through the head, foolscap and all. 
 Therefore I went to a fancy store in the Via Burstah, where 
 I saw a pair of beautiful pistols in a case — I remember them 
 perfectly well — near them stood many ornamental articles of 
 mother-of-pearl and gold, steel hearts on gilt chains, porcelain 
 cups with delicate devices, and snuff-boxes with pretty pictures, 
 such as the divine history of Susannah, the Swan Song of Leda, 
 the Rape of the Sabines, Lucretia, a fat, virtuous creature, 
 with naked bosom, in which she was lazily sticking a dagger; 
 the late Bethmann, la belle Ferronniere — all enrapturing 
 faces — but I bought the pistols without much ado, and then 
 I bought balls, then powder, and then I went to the restaurant 
 of Signor Somebody, and ordered oysters and a glass of Hock. 
 I could eat nothing, and still less could I drink. The warm 
 tears fell in the glass, and in that glass I saw my dear home, 
 the blue, holy Ganges, the ever gleaming Himalaya, the giant 
 banyan woods, amid whose broad arcades calmly wandered 
 wise elephants and white-robed pilgrims, strange dream-like 
 flowers gazed on me with meaning glance, wondrous golden 
 birds sang softly, flashing sun-rays and the droll, silly chatter 
 of monkeys pleasantly mocked me, from far pagodas sounded 
 the pious prayers of priests, and amid them rang the melt- 
 ing, wailing voice of the Sultaness of Delhi — she ran wildly 
 around in her carpeted chamber, she tore her silver veil, she 
 struck with her peacock fan the black slave to the ground, 
 she wept, she raged, she cried. — I could not hear what she 
 said, the restaurant of Signor Somebody is three thousand 
 miles distant from the Harem of Delhi, besides the fair Sul- 
 taness had been dead three thousand years — and I quickly 
 drank up the wine, the clear, joy-giving wine, and yet my 
 soul grew darker and sadder — I was condemned to death. 
 
 As I left the restaurant, I heard the "bell of poor sinners " 
 ring, a crowd of people swept by me ; but I placed myself at 
 the corner of the Strada San Giovanni, and recited the follow- 
 ing monologue : — 
 
 In ancient tales they tell of golden castles, 
 Where harps are sounding, lovely ladies dance, 
 
IDEAS 125 
 
 And trim attendants serve, and jessamine, 
 Myrtle and roses spread their soft perfume — 
 And yet a single word of sad enchantment, 
 Sweeps all the glory of the scene to naught, 
 And there remains but ruins old and gray, 
 And screaming birds of night and foul morass, — 
 E'en so have I with a short single word, 
 Enchanted Nature's blooming loveliness. 
 There lies she now, lifeless and cold and pale, 
 E'en like a monarch's corse laid out in state, 
 The royal deathly cheeks fresh stained with rouge, 
 And in his hand the kingly scepter laid, 
 Yet still his lips are yellow and most changed, 
 For they forget to dye them, as they should, 
 And mice are jumping o'er the monarch's nose, 
 And mock the golden scepter in his grasp. 
 
 It is an universal regulation, Madame, that every one 
 should deliver a soliloquy before shooting himself. Most 
 men, on such occasions, use Hamlet's " To be, or not to be." 
 It is an excellent passage, and I would gladly have quoted it 
 — but charity begins at home, and when a man has writ- 
 ten tragedies himself, in which such farewell-to-life speeches 
 occur, as for instance, in my immortal " Almansor," it is very 
 natural that one should prefer his own words even to Shake- 
 speare's. At any rate the delivery of such speeches is an 
 excellent custom ; for thereby one gains at least a little time. 
 And as it came to pass that I remained a long time standing 
 on the corner of the Strada San Giovanni — and as I stood 
 there like a condemned criminal awaiting death, I raised my 
 eyes, and suddenly beheld her. 
 
 She wore her blue silk dress and rose-red bonnet, and her 
 eyes beamed on me so mild, so death-conqueringly, so life- 
 givingly. — Madame, you well know, that when the vestals in 
 ancient Rome met on their way a malefactor condemned to 
 death, they had the right to pardon him, and the poor rogue 
 lived. — With a single glance she saved my life, and I stood 
 before her revived, and dazzled by the sunny gleaming of her 
 beauty, and she passed on — and left me alive. 
 
126 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 And she saved my life, and I live, and that is the main 
 point. 
 
 Others may, if they choose, enjoy the good fortune of hav- 
 ing their lady love adorn their graves with garlands and 
 water them with the tears of true love, — Oh, women ! hate 
 me, laugh at me, mitten me ! — but let me live ! Life is all 
 too wondrous sweet, and the world is so beautifully be- 
 wildered ; it is the dream of an intoxicated divinity who has 
 taken French leave of the tippling multitude of immortals, 
 and has lain down to sleep in a solitary star, and knows not 
 himself that he also creates all that which he dreams — and 
 the dream images form themselves often so fantastically 
 wildly, and often so harmoniously and reasonably. The 
 " Iliad," Plato, the battle of Marathon, Moses, the Medicean 
 Venus, the Cathedral of Strasburg, the French Revolution, 
 Hegel and steamboats, etc., etc., are other good thoughts in 
 this divine dream — but it will not last long, and the immortal 
 one awakes and rubs his sleepy eyes, and smiles — and our 
 world has run to nothing — yes, has never been. 
 
 No matter ! I live. If I am but the shadowy image in a 
 dream, still this is better than the cold black void annihilation 
 of Death. Life is the greatest of blessings and death the 
 worst of evils. Berlin lieutenants of the guard may sneer 
 and call it cowardice, because the Prince of Homburg 
 shudders when he beholds his open grave. Henry Kleist 
 had, however, as much courage as his high-breasted, tightly 
 laced colleagues, and has, alas ! proved it. But all great, 
 powerful souls love life. Goethe's Egmont does not cheerfully 
 take leave " of the cheerful wontedness of being and action." 
 Iramermann's Edwin clings to life "like a child upon the 
 mother's breast." And though he finds it hard to live by 
 stranger mercy, he still begs for mercy : " For life and breath 
 is still the best of boons." 
 
 When Odysseus in the lower world regards Achilles as the 
 leader of dead heroes, and extols his renown among the 
 living, and his glory even among the dead, the latter 
 replies : — 
 
IDEAS 127 
 
 u No more discourse of death, consolingly, noble Odysseus! 
 Rather would I in the field as daily laborer be toiling, 
 Slave to the meanest of men, a pauper and lacking possessions, 
 Than 'mid the infinite host of long-vanished mortals be ruler. 11 
 
 Yes, when Major Duvent challenged the great Israel Lyon 
 to fight with pistols and said to him : " If you do not meet 
 me, Mr. Lyon, you are a dog" ; the latter replied, " I would 
 rather be a live dog than a dead lion ! " — and was right. I 
 have fought often enough, Madame, to dare to say this — God 
 be praised ! I live ! Red life boils in my veins, earth yields 
 beneath my feet, in the glow of love I embrace trees and 
 statues, and they live in my embrace. Every woman is to 
 me the gift of a world. I revel in the melody of her counte- 
 nance, and with a single glance of my eye I can enjoy more 
 than others with their every limb through all their lives. 
 Every instant is to me an eternity, I do not measure time 
 with the ell of Brabant or of Hamburg, and I need no priest 
 to promise me a second life, for I can live enough in this life, 
 when I live backwards in the life of those who have gone 
 before me, and win myself an eternity in the realm of the 
 past. 
 
 And I live ! The great pulsation of nature beats too in 
 my breast, and when I carol aloud, I am answered by a thou- 
 sand-fold echo. I hear a thousand nightingales. Spring 
 hath sent them to awaken Earth from her morning slumber, 
 and Earth trembles with ecstasy, her flowers are hymns, 
 which she sings in inspiration to the sun — the sun moves 
 far too slowly, I would fain lash on his steeds that they 
 might advance more rapidly. — But when he sinks hissing in 
 the sea, and the night rises with her great eyes, oh ! then 
 true pleasure first thrills through me like a new life, the 
 evening breezes lie like flattering maidens on my wild heart, 
 and the stars wink to me, and I rise and sweep over the little 
 earth and the little thoughts of mankind. 
 
128 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 But a day must come when the fire of youth will be 
 quenched in my veins, when winter will dwell in my heart, 
 when his snowflakes will whiten my locks, and his mists will 
 dim my eyes. Then my friends will lie in their lonely grave, 
 and I alone will remain like a solitary stalk forgotten by the 
 reaper. A new race will have sprung up with new desires and 
 new ideas, full of wonder I hear new names and listen to new 
 songs, for the old names are forgotten and I myself am for- 
 gotten, perhaps honored by but few, scorned by many and 
 loved by none ! And then the rosy-cheeked boys will spring 
 around me and place the old harp in my trembling hand, and 
 say, laughing, " Thou indolent gray-headed old man, sing us 
 again songs of the dreams of thy youth." 
 
 Then I will grasp the harp and my old joys and sorrows 
 will awake, tears will again gleam on my pale cheeks. Spring 
 will bloom once more in my breast, sweet tones of woe will 
 tremble on the harp-strings. I will see once more the blue 
 flood and the marble palaces and the lovely faces of ladies and 
 young girls — and I will sing a song of the flowers of Brenta. 
 
 It will be my last song, the stars will gaze on me as in the 
 nights of my youth, the loving moonlight will once more kiss 
 my cheeks, the spirit chorus of nightingales long dead will 
 sound from afar, my eyes intoxicated with sleep will softly 
 close, my soul will reecho with the notes of my harp — per- 
 fume breathes from the flowers of the Brenta. 
 
 A tree will shadow my grave. I would gladly have it a 
 palm, but that tree will not grow in the North. It will be a 
 linden, and of a summer evening lovers will sit there caress- 
 ing ; the greenfinches will be listening silently, and my linden 
 will rustle protectingly over the heads of the happy ones who 
 will be so happy that they will have no time to read what is 
 written on the white tombstone. But when at a later day the 
 lover has lost his love, then he will come again to the well- 
 known linden, and sigh, and weep, and gaze long and oft upon 
 the stone until he reads the inscription : " He loved the flowers 
 of the Brenta." 
 
IDEAS 129 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Madame ! I have been telling you lies. I am not the Count 
 of the Ganges. Never in my life did I see the holy stream, 
 nor the lotus flowers, which are mirrored in its sacred waves. 
 Never did I lie dreaming under Indian palms, nor in prayer 
 before the Diamond Deity Juggernaut, who with his diamonds 
 might have easily aided me out of my difficulties. I have no 
 more been in Calcutta than the turkey, of which I ate yester- 
 day at dinner, had ever been in the realms of the Grand Turk. 
 Yet my ancestors came from Hindustan, and therefore I feel 
 so much at my ease in the great forest of song of Valmiki. 
 The heroic sorrows of the divine Ramo move my heart like 
 familiar griefs, from the flower lays of Kalidasa the sweetest 
 memories bloom, and when a few years ago a gentle lady in 
 Berlin showed me the beautiful pictures, which her father, who 
 had been governor-general in India, had brought from there, 
 the delicately painted, holy, calm faces seemed as familiar to 
 me as though I were gazing at my own family gallery. 
 
 Franz Bopp — Madame you have of course read his " Nalus " 
 and his " System of Conjugations " — gave me much informa- 
 tion relative to my ancestry, and I now know with certainty 
 that I am descended from Brahma's head, and not from his 
 corns. I have also good reason to believe that the entire 
 "Mahabharata" with its two hundred thousand verses is merely 
 an allegorical love-letter, which my first forefather wrote to my 
 first foremother. Oh ! they loved dearly, their souls kissed, 
 they kissed with their eyes, they were both but one single kiss. 
 
 An enchanted nightingale sits on a red coral bough in the 
 silent sea, and sings a song of the love of my ancestors, 
 earnestly gaze the pearls from their shelly cells, the wondrous 
 water flowers tremble with sad longing, the cunning quaint 
 sea-snails bearing on their backs many-colored porcelain towers 
 come creeping onwards, the ocean roses blush with shame, the 
 yellow, sharp-pointed starfish, and the thousand-hued glassy 
 jellyfish quiver and stretch, and all swarm and crowd and listen. 
 
 Unfortunately, Madame, this nightingale song is far too long 
 to admit of translation here ; it is as long as the world itself 
 — even its mere dedication to Anangas, the God of Love, is 
 
130 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 as long as all Sir Walter Scott's novels together, and there is 
 a passage referring to it in Aristophanes, which reads thus : — 
 
 " Tiotio, tiotio, tiotinx, 
 Totototo, totototo, tototinx." 
 
 No, I was not born in India. I first beheld the light of the 
 world on the shores of that beautiful stream in whose green 
 hills folly grows and is plucked in Autumn, laid away in 
 cellars, poured into barrels, and exported to foreign lands. 
 
 In fact, only yesterday I heard some one speaking a 
 
 piece of folly which, in the year 1818, was imprisoned in a 
 bunch of grapes, which I myself then saw growing on the 
 Johannisberg. — But much folly is also consumed at home, 
 and men are the same there as everywhere : they are born, 
 eat, drink, sleep, laugh, cry, slander each other, are in great 
 trouble and care about the continuation of their race, try 
 to seem what they are not and to do what they cannot, never 
 shave until they have a beard, and often have beards before 
 they get discretion, and when they at last have discretion, 
 they drink it away in white and red folly. 
 
 Mon dieu ! if I had faith, so that I could remove mountains 
 — the Johannisberg would be just the mountain which I 
 would transport about everywhere. But not having the 
 requisite amount of faith, fantasy must aid me — and she at 
 once bears me to the beautiful Rhine. 
 
 Oh, there is a fair land, full of loveliness and sunshine. In 
 its blue streams are mirrored the mountain shores, with their 
 ruined towers, and woods, and ancient towns. There, before 
 the house door, sit the good people, of a summer evening, and 
 drink out of great cans, and gossip confidingly, — how the 
 wine — the Lord be praised! — thrives, and how justice 
 should be free from all secrecy, and Marie Antoinette's being 
 guillotined is none of our business, and how dear the tobacco 
 tax makes the tobacco, and how all mankind are equal, and 
 what a glorious fellow Gorres is. 
 
 I have never troubled myself much with such conversation, 
 and greatly preferred sitting by the maidens in the arched 
 window, and laughed at their laughing, and let them strike 
 me in the face with flowers, and feigned ill-nature until they 
 told me their secrets, or some other story of equal importance. 
 
IDEAS 131 
 
 Fair Gertrude was half wild with delight when I sat by her. 
 She was a girl like a flaming rose, and once as she fell on my 
 neck, I thought that she would burn away in perfumes in my 
 arms. Fair Katharine melted in musical sweetness when she 
 talked with me, and her eyes were of that pure, perfect internal 
 blue, which I have never seen in animated beings and very 
 seldom in flowers — one gazed so gladly into them and could 
 then ever imagine the sweetest things. But the beautiful 
 Hedwiga loved me, for when I came to her she bowed her 
 head till the black locks fell down over the blushing counte- 
 nance, and the gleaming eyes shone forth like stars from a dark 
 heaven. Her diffident lips spoke not a word, and even I 
 could say nothing to her. I coughed and she trembled. She 
 often begged me, through her sisters, not to climb the rocks 
 so eagerly, or to bathe in the Rhine when I had exercised or 
 drunk wine until I was heated. Once I overheard her pious 
 prayer to the image of the Virgin Mary, which she had 
 adorned with leaf gold and illuminated with a glowing lamp, 
 and which stood in a corner of the sitting-room. She prayed 
 to the Mother of God to keep me from climbing, drinking 
 and bathing ! I should certainly have been desperately in 
 love with her had she manifested the least indifference, and I 
 was indifferent because I knew that she loved me. Madame, 
 if any one would win my love, they must treat me en canaille. 
 Johanna was the cousin of the three sisters, and I was 
 right glad to be with her. She knew the most beautiful old 
 legends, and when she pointed with the whitest hand in the 
 world through the window out to the mountains where all 
 had happened which she narrated, I became fairly enchanted. 
 The old knights rose visibly from the ruined castles and 
 hewed away at each other's iron clothes, the Lorelei sat again 
 on the mountain summit, singing adown her sweet seductive 
 song, and the Rhine rippled so intelligibly, so calmingly — 
 and yet at the same time so mockingly and strangely — and 
 the fair Johanna gazed at me so bewilderingly, so mysteri- 
 ously, so enigmatically confiding, as though she herself were 
 one with the legend which she narrated. She was a slender, 
 pale beauty, sickly and musing, her eyes were clear as truth 
 itself, her lips piously arched, in her features lay a great 
 untold story — perhaps a love legend ? I know not what it 
 
132 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 was, nor had I ever courage to ask. When I gazed long 
 upon her I became calm and cheerful — it seemed to me as 
 though there were a tranquil Sunday in my heart, and that 
 the angels were holding church service there. 
 
 In such happy hours I told her tales of my childhood, and 
 she listened earnestly to me, and singular ! when I could not 
 think of this or that name, she remembered it. When I then 
 asked her with wonder where she had learned the name, she 
 would answer with a smile that she had learned it of a little 
 bird which had built its nest on the sill of her window — and 
 she tried to make me believe that it was the same bird which 
 I once bought with my pocket-money from a hard-hearted 
 peasant boy, and then let fly away. But I believed that she 
 knew everything because she was so pale, and really soon died. 
 She also knew when she must die, and wished that I would 
 leave Andernach the day before. When I bade her farewell 
 she gave me both her hands — they were white, sweet hands, 
 and pure as the Host — and she said: Thou art very good, and 
 when thou art bad, then think of the little dead Veronica. 
 
 Did the chattering birds also tell her this name ? Often in 
 hours when desirous of recalling the past, I had wearied my 
 brain in trying to think of that dear name, and could not. 
 
 And now that I have it again, my earliest infancy shall 
 bloom again in recollections — and I am again a child, and 
 play with other children in the Castle Court at Düsseldorf, 
 on the Rhine. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Yes, Madame, there was I born, and I am particular in 
 calling attention to this fact, lest after my death seven cities 
 — those of Schiida, Krähwinkel, Polvvitz, Bockum, Dülken, 
 Göttingen, and Schoppenstadt — should contend for the 
 honor of having witnessed my birth. Düsseldorf is a town 
 on the Rhine, where about sixteen thousand mortals live, and 
 where many hundred thousands are buried. And among them 
 are many of whom my mother says it were better if they 
 were still alive — for example, my grandfather and my uncle, 
 the old Herr von Gelden, and the young Herr von Gelden, 
 
IDEAS 133 
 
 who were both such celebrated doctors, and saved the lives 
 of so many men, and yet at last must both die themselves. 
 And good pious Ursula, who bore me, when a child, in her 
 arms, also lies buried there, and a rose-bush grows over her 
 grave — she loved rose perfume so much in her life, and 
 her heart was all rose -perfume and goodness. And the 
 shrewd old Canonicus also lies there buried. Lord, how 
 miserable he looked when I last saw him ! He consisted of 
 nothing but soul and plasters, and yet he studied night and 
 day as though he feared lest the worms might find a few 
 ideas missing in his head. Little William also lies there — 
 and that is my fault. We were schoolmates in the Francis- 
 can cloister, and were one day playing on that side of the 
 building where the Dussel flows between stone walls, and I 
 said, "William — do get the kitten out, which has just fallen 
 in ! " and he cheerfully climbed out on the board which 
 stretched over the brook, and pulled the cat out of the water, 
 but fell in himself, and when they took him out he was drip- 
 ping and dead. The kitten lived to a good old age. 
 
 The town of Düsseldorf is very beautiful, and if you think 
 of it when in foreign lands and happen at the same time to 
 have been born there, strange feelings come over the soul. 
 I was born there, and feel as if I must go directly home. 
 And when I say home I mean the Volkerstrasse and the 
 house where I was born. This house will be some day very 
 remarkable, and I have sent word to the old lady who owns 
 it, that she must not for her life sell it. For the whole house 
 she would now hardly get as much as the present which the 
 green-veiled English ladies will give the servant-girl when she 
 shows them the room where I was born and the hen-house 
 wherein my father generally imprisoned me for stealing grapes, 
 and also the brown door on which my mother taught me to write 
 with chalk — oh, Lord! Madame — should I ever become a 
 famous author, it has cost my poor mother trouble enough. 
 
 But my renown as yet slumbers in the marble quarries of 
 Carrara; the waste-paper laurel with which they have be- 
 decked my brow has not spread its perfume through the 
 wide world, and the green-veiled English ladies, when they 
 visit Düsseldorf, leave the celebrated house unvisited, and go 
 directly to the Market Place and there gaze on the colossal 
 
134 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 black equestrian statue which stands in its midst This rep- 
 resents the Prince Elector, Jan Wilhelm. He wears black 
 armor and a long, hanging wig. When a boy, I was told 
 that the artist who made this statue observed with terror 
 while it was being cast that he had not metal enough to fill 
 the mold, and then all the citizens of the town came running 
 with all their silver spoons, and threw them in to make up the 
 deficiency — and I often stood for hours before the statue 
 wondering how many spoons were concealed in it, and how 
 many apple tarts the silver would buy. Apple tarts were 
 then my passion — now it is love, truth, liberty and crab 
 soup — and not far from the statue of the Prince Elector, at 
 the Theater corner, generally stood a curiously constructed 
 saber-legged rascal with a white apron, and a basket girt 
 around him full of smoking apple tarts, which he well knew 
 how to praise with an irresistible voice. " Here you are ! hot 
 apple tarts! just from the oven — see how they smoke — 
 quite delicious ! " Truly, whenever in my later years the 
 Evil One sought to win me, he always cried in just such an 
 enticing soprano voice, and I should certainly have never 
 remained twelve hours by the Signora Guilietta, if she had 
 not thrilled me with her sweet perfumed apple-tart tones. 
 And in fact the apple tarts would never have so sorely tempted 
 me, if the crooked Hermann had not covered them up so mys- 
 teriously with his white aprons — and it is secrecy, you know, 
 which — but I wander from the subject. I was speaking of the 
 equestrian statue which has so many silver spoons in it, and no 
 soup, and which represents the Prince Elector, Jan Wilhelm. 
 
 He was a brave gentleman, 'tis reported, and was himself a 
 man of genius. He founded the picture gallery in Düssel- 
 dorf, and in the observatory there they show a very curiously 
 executed piece of wooden work, consisting of one box within 
 another, which he, himself, had carved in his leisure hours, 
 of which latter he had every day four and twenty. 
 
 In those days princes were not the persecuted wretches 
 which they now are. Their crowns grew firmly on their 
 heads, and at night they drew their caps over it and slept in 
 peace, and their people slumbered calmly at their feet, and 
 when they awoke in the morning they said " Good morning, 
 father! " — and he replied " Good morning, dear children ! " 
 
IDEAS 135 
 
 But there came a sudden change over all this, for one 
 morning when we awoke, and would say " Good morning, 
 father ! " the father had traveled away, and in the whole 
 town there was nothing but dumb sorrow. Everywhere there 
 was a funeral-like expression, and people slipped silently 
 through the market and read the long paper placed on the 
 door of the town house. It was dark and lowering, yet the 
 lean tailor Kilian stood in the nankeen jacket, which he gen- 
 erally wore only at home, and in his blue woolen stockings, 
 so that his little bare legs peeped out as if in sorrow, and 
 his thin lips quivered as he read, murmuringly, the handbill. 
 An old invalid soldier from the Palatine read it in a some- 
 what louder tone, and little by little a transparent tear ran 
 down his white, honorable old mustache. I stood near him 
 and asked why we wept ? and he replied, " The Prince Elector 
 has abdicated." And then he read further, and at the words 
 " for the long manifested fidelity of my subjects," " and hereby 
 release you from allegiance," he wept still more. It is a 
 strange sight to see, when so old a man, in faded uniform, 
 with a scarred veteran's face, suddenly bursts into tears. 
 While we read, the Princely Electoral coat of arms was being 
 taken down from the Town Hall, and everything began to 
 appear as miserably dreary as though we were waiting for an 
 eclipse of the sun. The gentlemen town councilors went 
 about at an abdicating wearisome gait, even the omnipotent 
 beadle looked as though he had no more commands to give, 
 and stood calmly indifferent, although the crazy Aloysius 
 stood upon one leg and chattered the names of French gen- 
 erals, while the tipsy, crooked Gumpertz rolled around in the 
 gutter, singing " Ca ira ! ca ira ! " 
 
 But I went home, weeping and lamenting because "the 
 Prince Elector had abducted ! " My mother had trouble 
 enough to explain the word, but I would hear nothing. I 
 knew what I knew, and went weeping to bed, and in the 
 night dreamed that the world had come to an end — that all 
 the fair flower gardens and green meadows of the world were 
 taken up and rolled up, and put away like carpets and baize 
 from the floor, that a beadle climbed up on a high ladder and 
 took down the sun, and that the tailor Kilian stood by and 
 said to himself, " I must go home and dress myself neatly, for 
 
136 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 I am dead and am to be buried this afternoon." And it grew 
 darker and darker — a few stars glimmered sparely on high, 
 and these at length fell down like yellow leaves in Autumn, 
 one by one all men vanished, and I a poor child wandered 
 in anguish around, until before the willow fence of a deserted 
 farmhouse, I saw a man digging up the earth with a spade, 
 and near him an ugly, spiteful-looking woman, who held 
 something in her apron like a human head — but it was the 
 moon, and she laid it carefully in the open grave — and 
 behind me stood the Palatine invalid, sighing and spelling 
 "The Prince Elector has abducted." 
 
 When I awoke, the sun shone as usual through the window, 
 there was a sound of drums in the street, and as I entered 
 the sitting-room and wished my father — who was sitting in 
 his white dressing-gown — a good morning, I heard the little 
 light-footed barber, as he made up his hair, narrate very mi- 
 nutely that homage would that morning be offered at the Town 
 Hall to the Archduke Joachim. I heard, too, that the new 
 ruler was of excellent family, that he had married the sister 
 of the Emperor Napoleon, and was really a very respec- 
 table man — that he wore his beautiful black hair in flowing 
 locks, that he would shortly enter the town, and in fine that 
 he must please all the ladies. Meanwhile, the drumming in 
 the streets continued, and I stood before the house door and 
 looked at the French troops marching in that joyful race of 
 fame, who, singing and playing, swept over the world, the 
 merry, serious faces of the grenadiers, the bear-skin shakoes, 
 the tricolored cockades, the glittering bayonets, the voltigeurs 
 full of vivacity and point d'honneur, and the omnipotent giant- 
 like silver-laced Tambour Major, who cast his baton with a 
 gilded head as high as the second story, and his eyes to the 
 third, where pretty girls gazed from the windows. I was so 
 glad that soldiers were to be quartered in our house — in 
 which my mother differed from me — and I hastened to the 
 market-place. There everything looked changed — somewhat 
 as though the world had been new whitewashed. A new 
 coat of arms was placed on the Town Hall, its iron balconies 
 were hung with embroidered velvet drapery. French grena- 
 diers stood as sentinels, the old gentlemen town councilors 
 had put on new faces, and donned their Sunday coats, and 
 
 
IDEAS 137 
 
 looked at each other Frenchily, and said " Bonjour ! " Ladies 
 looked from every window, curious citizens and armed soldiers 
 filled the square, and I, with other boys, climbed on the great 
 bronze horse of the Prince Elector, and thence gazed down 
 on the motley crowd. 
 
 Our neighbor's Peter, and tall Jack Short nearly broke 
 their necks in accomplishing this feat, and it would have been 
 better if they had been killed outright, for the one afterwards 
 ran away from his parents, enlisted as a soldier, deserted, and 
 was finally shot in Mayence, while the other, having made 
 geographical researches in strange pockets, was on this 
 account elected member of a public treadmill institute. But 
 having broken the iron bands which bound him to his father- 
 land, he passed safely beyond sea, and eventually died in 
 London in consequence of wearing a much too long cravat, 
 one end of which happened to be firmly attached to something, 
 just as a royal official removed a plank from beneath his feet. 
 
 Tall Jack told us that there was no school to-day on account 
 of the homage. We had to wait a long time ere this was 
 over. Finally the balcony of the Council House was filled 
 with gaily dressed gentlemen, with flags and trumpets, and 
 our burgomaster, in his celebrated red coat, delivered an 
 oration, which stretched out like india-rubber or like a night- 
 cap into which one has thrown a stone — only that it was not 
 the stone of wisdom — and I could distinctly understand many 
 of his phrases, for instance that "we are now to be made 
 happy " — and at the last words the trumpets sounded out and 
 the people cried hurrah ! — and as I myself cried hurrah, I 
 held fast to the old Prince Elector. And it was really neces- 
 sary that I should, for I began to grow giddy. It seemed to 
 me as if the people were standing on their heads because the 
 world whizzed around, while the old Prince Elector, with his 
 long wig, nodded and whispered, " Hold fast to me ! " — and 
 not till the cannon reechoed along the wall did I become so- 
 bered, and climbed slowly down from the great bronze horse. 
 
 As I went home I saw the crazy Aloysius again dancing 
 on one leg, while he chattered the names of French generals, 
 and I also beheld crooked Gumpertz rolling in the gutter and 
 growling " Ca ira, ca ira," and I said to my mother that we 
 were all to be made happy, and that on that account we had 
 that day no school. 
 
138 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The next day the world was again all in order, and we had 
 school as before, and things were got by heart as before — 
 the Roman Emperors, chronology — the nomina in im, the 
 verba irregidaria — Greek, Hebrew, geography, German, 
 mental arithmetic — Lord ! my head is still giddy with it ! — 
 all must be thoroughly learned. And much of it was eventu- 
 ally to my advantage. For had I not learned the Roman 
 Emperors by heart, it would subsequently have been a matter 
 of perfect indifference to me whether Niebuhr had or had 
 not proved that they never really existed. And had I not 
 learned the numbers of the different years, how could I ever, 
 in later years, have found out any one in Berlin, where one 
 house is as like another as drops of water, or as grenadiers, 
 and where it is impossible to find a friend unless you have 
 the number of his house in your head. Therefore I associ- 
 ated with every friend some historical event which had hap- 
 pened in a year corresponding to the number of his house, 
 so that the one recalled the other, and some curious point in 
 history always occurred to me whenever I met any one whom 
 I visited. For instance, when I met my tailor I at once 
 thought of the Battle of Marathon ; if I saw the banker Chris- 
 tian Gumpel, I remembered the destruction of Jerusalem ; if a 
 Portuguese friend, deeply in debt, of the flight of Mahomet ; 
 if the University judge, a man whose probity is well known, 
 of the death of Haman ; and if Wadzeck, I was at once re- 
 minded of Cleopatra. — Ah, heaven ! the poor creature is 
 dead now, our tears are dry, and we may say of her, with 
 Hamlet, " Take her for all in all, she was an old woman — 
 we oft shall look upon her like again ! " But as I said, 
 chronology is necessary. I know men who have nothing in 
 their heads but a few years, yet who know exactly where to 
 look for the right houses, and are, moreover, regular profess- 
 ors. But oh, the trouble I had at school with my learning 
 to count ! — and it went even worse with the ready reckoning. 
 I understood best of all subtraction, and for this I had a very 
 practical rule — " Four can't be taken from three, therefore 
 I must borrow one " — but I advise all, in such a case, to 
 
IDEAS 139 
 
 borrow a few extra dollars, for no one can tell what may 
 happen. 
 
 But oh ! the Latin ! — Madame, you can really have no 
 idea of what a mess it is. The Romans would never have 
 found time to conquer the world if they had been obliged 
 first to learn Latin. Lucky dogs ! they already knew in their 
 cradles the nouns ending in im. I on the contrary had to 
 learn it by heart, in the sweat of my brow, but still it is well 
 that I knew it. For if I, for example, when I publicly dis- 
 puted in Latin, in the College Hall of Göttingen on the 
 20th of July, 1825 — Madame, it was well worth while to 
 hear it — if I, I say, had said sinapem instead of sinapim, the 
 blunder would have been evident to the Freshmen, and an 
 endless shame for me. Vis, buris, sitis, tussis, cucumis, amassis, 
 cannabis, sinapis. — These words which have attracted so 
 much attention in the world, effected this, inasmuch as they 
 belonged to a determined class, and yet were withal an excep- 
 tion. And the fact that I have them ready at my finger's 
 ends when I perhaps need them in a hurry, often affords me 
 in life's darkened hours much internal tranquillity and spiri- 
 tual consolation. But, Madame, the verba irregularia — they 
 are distinguished from the verbis regiilaribus by the fact that 
 the boys in learning them get more whippings — are terribly 
 difficult. In the arched way of the Franciscan cloister near 
 our schoolroom, there hung a large Christ-crucified of gray 
 wood, a dismal image, that even yet at times rises in my 
 dreams and gazes sorrowfully on me with fixed bleeding eyes 
 — before this image I often stood and prayed. " O thou 
 poor and also tormented God, I pray thee, if it be possible, 
 that I may get by heart the irregular verbs ! " 
 
 I will say nothing of Greek — otherwise I should vex 
 myself too much. The monks of the Middle Ages were not so 
 very much in the wrong when they asserted that Greek was 
 an invention of the Devil. Lord knows what I suffered 
 through it. It went better with Hebrew, for I always had a 
 great predilection for the Jews, although they to this very 
 hour have crucified my good name. In fact I never could 
 get so far in Hebrew as my watch did, which had a much 
 more intimate intercourse with pawnbrokers than I, and in 
 consequence acquired many Jewish habits — for instance, it 
 
140 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 would not go on Saturday — and it learned the holy lan- 
 guage, and was subsequently occupied with its grammar, for 
 often when sleepless in the night I have to my amazement 
 heard it industriously repeating: " katal, katalta, katalki — 
 kittle, kittalta, kittalti — pokat, pokadeti — pikat — pik — pik." 
 
 Meanwhile I learned more of German than of any other 
 tongue, though German itself is not such child's play, after 
 all. For we poor Germans, who have already been suffi- 
 ciently vexed with having soldiers quartered on us, military 
 duties, poll-taxes, and a thousand other exactions, must needs 
 over and above all this bag Mr. Adelung, and torment each 
 other with accusatives and datives. I learned much German 
 from the old Rector Schallmeyer, a brave clerical gentleman, 
 whose protege I was from childhood. Something of the matter 
 I also learned from Professor Schramm, a man who had written 
 a book on eternal peace, and in whose class my schoolfellows 
 quarreled and fought with unusual vigor. 
 
 And while thus dashing on in a breath, and thinking of 
 everything, I have unexpectedly found myself back among 
 old school stories, and I avail myself of this opportunity to 
 mention, Madame, that it was not my fault, if I learned so 
 little of geography that later in life I could not make my 
 way in the world. For in those days the French made an 
 intricate mixture of all limits and boundaries, every-day lands 
 were recolored on the world's map ; those which were once 
 blue suddenly became green, many indeed were even dyed 
 blood-red, the old established rules were so confused and con- 
 founded that the Devil himself would never have remembered 
 them. The products of the country were also changed, chicory 
 and beets now grew where only hares and hunters running 
 after them were once to be seen ; even the character of dif- 
 ferent races changed, the Germans became pliant, the French 
 paid compliments no longer, the English ceased making ducks 
 and drakes of their money, and the Venetians were not subtle 
 enough ; there was promotion among princes, old kings obtained 
 new uniforms, new kingdoms were cooked up and sold like hot 
 cakes ; many potentates were chased on the other hand from 
 house and home, and had to find some new way of earning 
 their bread, while others went at once at a trade, and manu- 
 factured, for instance, sealing-wax, or — Madame, this para- 
 
IDEAS 141 
 
 graph must be brought to an end, or I shall be out of breath 
 — in fine, in such times it is impossible to advance far in 
 geography. 
 
 I succeeded better in natural history, for there we find fewer 
 changes and we always have standard engravings of apes, 
 kangaroos, zebras, rhinoceroses, etc., etc. And having many 
 such pictures in my memory, it often happens that at first 
 sight many mortals appear to me like old acquaintances. 
 
 I also did well in mythology, and took a real delight in the 
 mob of gods and goddesses who ran so jolly naked about the 
 world. I do not believe that there was a schoolboy in ancient 
 Rome who knew the principal points of his catechism — that 
 is, the loves of Venus — better than I. To tell the plain truth, 
 it seems to me that if we must learn all the heathen gods by 
 heart, we might as well have kept them from the first, and 
 we have not perhaps made so much out of our New Roman 
 Trinity or our Jewish unity. Perhaps the old mythology was 
 not in reality so immoral as we imagine, and it was, for ex- 
 ample, a very decent idea of Homer to give to the much-loved 
 Venus a husband. 
 
 But I succeeded best in the French class of the Abbe 
 d'Aulnoi, a French emigre who had written a number of 
 grammars, and wore a red wig, and jumped about very ner- 
 vously when he recited his Art poetique, and his German 
 history. He was the only one in the whole gymnasium who 
 taught German history. Still French has its difficulties, and 
 to learn it there must be much quartering of troops, much 
 drumming in, much apprendre par cceur, and above all, no 
 one should be a Bete allemande. From all this resulted many 
 a cross word, and I can remember as though it happened but 
 yesterday, that I got into many a scrape through la religion. 
 I was once asked at least six times in succession : " Henri, 
 what is the French for 'the faith'?" And six times, ever 
 more weepingly, I replied, " It is called le credit." And after 
 the seventh question, with his cheeks of a deep red-cherry-rage 
 color, my furious examiner cried, "It is called la religion" — 
 and there was a rain of blows and a thunder of laughter from all 
 my schoolmates. Madame ! — since that day I never hear the 
 word " religion," without having my back turn pale with terror, 
 and my cheeks turn red with shame. And to tell the honest 
 
142 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 truth, le credit has during my life stood me in better stead than 
 la religion. It occurs to me just at this instant that I still owe 
 the landlord of the "Lion," in Bologna, five dollars, and I 
 pledge you my sacred word of honor that I would willingly 
 owe him five dollars more, if I could only be certain that 
 I should never again hear that unlucky word, la religion, as 
 long as I live. 
 
 Parbleu, Madame ! I have succeeded tolerably well in 
 French. For I understand not only patois, but even aris- 
 tocratic governess French. Not long ago, when in noble 
 society, I understood full one half of the conversation of two 
 German countesses, one of whom could count at least sixty- 
 four years, and as many descents. Yes — in the Cafe Royal, 
 I once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking French, 
 and could understand every word he spoke, though there was 
 no understanding in anything he said. We must know the 
 spirit of a language, and this is best learned by drumming. 
 Parbleu ! how much do I not owe to the French drummer 
 who was so long quartered in our house, who looked like the 
 Devil, and yet had the good heart of an angel, and who above 
 all this drummed so divinely. 
 
 He was a little, nervous figure, with a terrible black mustache, 
 beneath which red lips came bounding suddenly outwards, 
 while his wild eyes shot fiery glances all around. 
 
 I, a young shaver, stuck to him like a bur, and helped him 
 
 to clean his military buttons till they shone like mirrors, and 
 
 to pipe-clay his vest — for Monsieur Le Grand liked to look 
 
 well — and I followed him to the watch, to the roll-call, to the 
 
 parade — in those times there was nothing but the gleam of 
 
 weapons and merriment — les jours de fete sont pass6es ! 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand knew but a little broken German, only the 
 
 three principal words in every tongue — " Bread," " Kiss," 
 
 " Honor" — but he could make himself very intelligible with 
 
 his drum. For instance, if I knew not what the word " liberte " 
 
 meant, he drummed the Marseillaise — and I understood him. 
 
 If I did not understand the word "egalite," he drummed the 
 
 march 
 
 " Ca ira, ca ira, ca ira, 
 
 Les aristocrates ä la Lanterne! 1 ' 
 and I understood him. If I did not know what betise meant, 
 
IDEAS 143 
 
 he drummed the Dessauer March, which we Germans, as 
 Goethe also declares, have drummed in Champagne — and I 
 understood him. He once wanted to explain to me the word 
 " l'Allemagne " and he drummed the all too simple melody, 
 which on market-days is played to dancing dogs — namely, 
 dum — dum — dumb ! I was vexed — but I understood him, 
 for all that ! 
 
 In like manner he taught me modern history. I did not 
 understand, it is true, the words which he spoke, but as he 
 constantly drummed while speaking, I understood him. This 
 is, fundamentally, the best method. The history of the 
 storming of the Bastile, of the Tuileries, and the like cannot 
 be correctly understood until we know how the drumming was 
 done on such occasions. In our school compendiums of his- 
 tory we merely read : " Their excellencies, the Baron and 
 Count, with the most noble spouses of the aforesaid, were be- 
 headed." " Their highnesses the Dukes and Princes with the 
 most noble spouses of the aforesaid were beheaded." "His 
 Majesty the King with his most sublime spouse, the Queen, 
 was beheaded." But when you hear the red march of the 
 guillotine drummed, you understand it correctly, for the first 
 time, and with it the how and the why. Madame — that is 
 really a wonderful march ! It thrilled through marrow and 
 bone when I first heard it, and I was glad that I forgot it. 
 People are apt to forget one thing and another as they grow 
 older, and a young man has nowadays so much and such a 
 variety of knowledge to keep in his head — whist, Boston, 
 genealogical registers, parliamentary conclusions, dramaturgy, 
 the liturgy, carving — and yet, I assure you, that despite all 
 my jogging up of my brain, I could not for a long time recall 
 that tremendous tune ! And only to think, Madame! — not 
 long ago, I sat one day at table with a whole menagerie of 
 Counts, Princes, Princesses, Chamberlains, Court-Marshal- 
 esses, Seneschals, Upper Court Mistresses, Court-keepers- 
 of-the-royal-plate, Court-hunters' wives, and whatever else 
 these aristocratic domestics are termed, and their under 
 domestics ran about behind their chairs, and shoved full plates 
 before their mouths — but I, who was passed by and neglected, 
 sat at leisure without the least occupation for my jaws, and 
 kneaded little bread-balls, and drummed with my fingers — 
 
144 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 and to my astonishment I found myself suddenly drumming 
 the red, long-forgotten guillotine march ! 
 
 " And what happened ? " — Madame, the good people were 
 not in the least disturbed, nor did they know that other 
 people, when they can get nothing to eat, suddenly begin to 
 drum, and that, too, very queer marches, which people have 
 long forgotten. 
 
 Is drumming now an inborn talent, or was it early devel- 
 oped in me ? — enough, it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in 
 my feet, and often involuntarily manifests itself. I once sat 
 at Berlin in the lecture-room of the Privy Councilor Schmaltz, 
 a man who had saved the state by his book on the " Red and 
 Black Coat Danger." — You remember, perhaps, Madame, 
 that in Pausanias we are told that by the braying of an ass an 
 equally dangerous plot was once discovered, and you also 
 know from Livy, or from Becker's " History of the World," 
 that geese once saved the Capitol, and you must certainly 
 know from Sallust that by the chattering of a loquacious 
 putain, the Lady Livia, that the terrible conspiracy of Cati- 
 line came to light. But to return to the mutton aforesaid. I 
 listened to popular law and right, in the lecture-room of the 
 Herr Privy Councilor Schmaltz, and it was a lazy sleepy 
 summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench and little by little 
 I listened less and less — my head had gone to sleep — when 
 all at once I was wakened by the roll of my own feet, which 
 had not gone to sleep, and had probably observed that any- 
 thing but popular rights and constitutional tendencies was 
 being preached, and my feet which, with the little eyes of 
 their corns, had seen more of how things go in the world than 
 the Privy Councilor with his Juno-eyes — these poor dumb 
 feet, incapable of expressing their immeasurable meaning by 
 words, strove to make themselves intelligible by drumming, 
 and they drummed so loudly, that I thereby came near getting 
 into a terrible scrape. 
 
 Cursed, unreflecting feet ! They once acted as though they 
 were corned indeed, when I on a time in Göttingen sponged 
 without subscribing on the lectures of Professor Saalfeld, and 
 as this learned gentleman, with his angular activity, jumped 
 about here and there in his pulpit, and heated himself in order 
 to curse the Emperor Napoleon in regular set style, right and 
 
IDEAS 145 
 
 left — no, my poor feet, I cannot blame you for drumming 
 then — indeed, I would not have blamed you if in your dumb 
 nai'vete you had expressed yourselves by still more energetic 
 movements. How could I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the 
 Emperor cursed ? The Emperor ! the Emperor ! the great 
 Emperor ! 
 
 When I think of the great Emperor, all in my memory 
 again becomes summer green and golden. A long avenue of 
 lindens rises blooming around, on the leafy twigs sit singing 
 nightingales, the waterfall rustles, flowers are growing from 
 full round beds, dreamily nodding their fair heads — I stood 
 amidst them once in wondrous intimacy, the rouged tulips, 
 proud as beggars, condescendingly greeted me, the nervous 
 sick lilies nodded with woful tenderness, the tipsy red roses 
 nodded at me at first sight from a distance, the night-violets 
 sighed — with the myrtle and laurel I was not then acquainted, 
 for they did not entice with a shining bloom, but the reseda, 
 with whom I am now on such bad terms, was my very par- 
 ticular friend. — I am speaking of the court garden of Düssel- 
 dorf, where I often lay upon the bank, and piously listened 
 there when Monsieur Le Grand told of the warlike feats of 
 the great Emperor, beating meanwhile the marches which 
 were drummed during the deeds, so that I saw and heard all 
 to the life. I saw the passage over the Simplon — the Em- 
 peror in advance and his brave grenadiers climbing on behind 
 him, while the scream of frightened birds of prey sounded 
 around, and avalanches thundered in the distance — I saw 
 the Emperor with flag in hand on the bridge of Lodi — I 
 saw the Emperor in his gray cloak at Marengo — I saw the 
 Emperor mounted in the battle of the Pyramids — naught 
 around save powder, smoke and Mamelukes — I saw the 
 Emperor in the battle of Austerlitz — ha ! how the bullets 
 whistled over the smooth, icy road ! — I saw, I heard the 
 battle of Jena — dum, dum, dum. — I saw, I heard the battles 
 of Eylau, of Wagram no, I could hardly stand it ! Mon- 
 sieur Le Grand drummed so that I nearly burst my own 
 sheepskin. 
 
 11 
 
146 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 But what were my feelings when I first saw with highly- 
 blest and with my own eyes him, hosanna ! the Emperor ! 
 
 It was exactly in the avenue of the Court Garden at Düssel- 
 dorf. As I pressed through the gaping crowd, thinking of 
 the doughty deeds and battles which Monsieur Le Grand 
 had drummed to me, my heart beat the " general march " — 
 yet at the same time I thought of the police regulation, that 
 no one should dare under penalty of five dollars' fine ride 
 through the avenue. And the Emperor with his cortege 
 rode directly down the avenue. The trembling trees bowed 
 towards him as he advanced, the sun-rays quivered, frightened, 
 yet curiously through the green leaves, and in the blue heaven 
 above there swam visibly a golden star. The Emperor wore 
 his invisible-green uniform and the little world-renowned hat. 
 He rode a white palfrey which stepped with such calm pride, so 
 confidently, so nobly — had I then been Crown Prince of Prus- 
 sia I would have envied that horse. The Emperor sat care- 
 lessly, almost lazily, holding with one hand his rein, and with 
 the other good-naturedly patting the neck of the horse. — It 
 was a sunny marble hand, a mighty hand — one of the pair 
 which bound fast the many-headed monster of anarchy, and re- 
 duced to order the war of races — and it good-naturedly patted 
 the neck of the horse. Even the face had that hue which we 
 find in the marble Greek and Roman busts, the traits were as 
 nobly proportioned as in the antiques, and on that countenance 
 was plainly written, "Thou shalt have no Gods before me! " 
 A smile, which warmed and tranquilized every heart, flitted 
 over the lips — and yet all knew that those lips needed but to 
 whistle — et la Prusse n'existait plus — those lips needed but 
 to whistle — and the entire clergy would have stopped their 
 ringing and singing — those lips needed but to whistle — and 
 the entire holy Roman realm would have danced. It was an 
 eye, clear as Heaven, it could read the hearts of men, it saw 
 at a glance all things at once, and as they were in this world, 
 while we ordinary mortals see them only one by one, and by 
 their shaded hues. The brow was not so clear, the phantoms 
 of future battles were nestling there, and there was a quiver 
 
IDEAS 147 
 
 which swept over the brow, and those were the creative 
 thoughts, the great seven-mile-boots thoughts, wherewith the 
 spirit of the Emperor strode invisibly over the world — and I 
 believe that every one of those thoughts would have given to 
 a German author full material wherewith to write all the days 
 of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Indian 
 Sea lies his lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too 
 narrow, lies silently under a little hillock, where five weeping 
 willows hang their green heads, and a gentle little brook, 
 murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no inscription 
 on his tomb ; but Clio, with unerring pen, has written thereon 
 invisible words, which will resound, like spirit tones, through 
 thousands of years. 
 
 Britannia ! the sea is thine. But the sea hath not water 
 enough to wash away the shame with which the death 
 of that Mighty One hath covered thee. Not thy windy Sir 
 Hudson — no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo with whom 
 perjured kings bargained, that they might revenge on the 
 man of the people that which the people had once inflicted 
 on one of themselves. — And he was thy guest, and had 
 seated himself by thy hearth. 
 
 Until the latest times the boys of France will sing and tell 
 of the terrible hospitality of the BelleropJwn, and when those 
 songs of mockery and tears resound across the strait, there 
 will be a blush on the cheeks of every honorable Briton. But 
 a day will come when this song will ring thither, and there 
 will be no Britannia in existence — when the people of Pride 
 will be humbled to the earth, when Westminster's monu- 
 ments will be broken, and when the royal dust which they en- 
 closed will be forgotten. — And St. Helena is the Holy Grave, 
 whither the races of the East and of the West will make their 
 pilgrimage in ships, with pennons of many a hue, and their 
 hearts will grow strong with great memories of the deeds of 
 the worldly Savior, who suffered and died under Sir Hudson 
 Lowe, as it is written in the evangelists, Las Casas, O'Meara 
 and Autommarchi. 
 
148 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the 
 three greatest enemies of the emperor. Londonderry has cut 
 his throat, Louis XVIII. has rotted away on his throne, and 
 Professor Saalfeld is still, as before, professor in Göttingen. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 It was a clear, frosty morning in autumn as a young 
 man, whose appearance denoted the student, slowly loitered 
 through the avenue of the Düsseldorf Court Garden, often, 
 as in childlike mood, pushing aside with wayward feet the 
 leaves which covered the ground, and often sorrowfully 
 gazing towards the bare trees, on which a few golden-hued 
 leaves still fluttered in the breeze. As he thus gazed up, he 
 thought on the words of Glaucus : — 
 
 Like the leaves in the forests, e'en so are the races of mortals ; 
 Leaves are blown down to the earth by the wind, while others are driven 
 Away by the green budding wood, when fresh upliveth the springtide ; 
 So the races of man — this grows and the other departeth. 
 
 In earlier days the youth had gazed with far different eyes 
 on the same trees. When he was a boy he had there sought 
 bird's nests or summer chafers, which delighted his very soul, 
 as they merrily hummed around, and were glad in the beau- 
 tiful world, and were contented with a sap-green leaf and a 
 drop of water, with a warm sun-ray and with the perfume of 
 the herbage. In those times the boy's heart was as gay as 
 the fluttering insects. But now his heart had grown older, its 
 little sun-rays were quenched, its flowers had faded, even its 
 beautiful dream of love had grown dim ; in that poor heart 
 was naught save wanton will and care, and to say the worst 
 — it was my heart. 
 
 I had returned that day to my old father town, but I would 
 not remain there overnight, and I longed for Godesberg, that 
 I might sit at the feet of my lady friend and tell of the little 
 Veronica. I had visited the dear graves. Of all my living 
 friends, I had found but an uncle and an aunt. Even when 
 I met once known forms in the street, they knew me no more, 
 and the town itself gazed on me with strange glances. Many 
 


 
 NAPOLEON ON THE BELLEROPHON 
 
 Photogravure from a painting by Orchardson. 
 
 
 
IDEAS 149 
 
 houses were colored anew, strange faces gazed on me through 
 the window-panes, worn-out old sparrows hopped on the old 
 chimneys, everything looked dead and yet fresh, like a salad 
 growing in a graveyard ; where French was once spoken I 
 now heard the Prussian dialect ; even a little Prussian court had 
 taken up its retired dwelling there, and the people bore court 
 titles. The hair-dresser of my mother had now become the 
 Court-Hair-Dresser, and there were Court-Tailors, Court-Shoe- 
 makers, Court-Bed-Bug-Destroyers, Court-Groggeries — the 
 whole town seemed to be a Court Hospital for courtly spiritual 
 invalids. Only the old Prince Elector knew me, he still stood 
 in the same old place ; but he seemed to have grown thinner. 
 For just because he stood in the Market Place, he had had a 
 full view of all the miseries of the time, and people seldom 
 grow fat on such sights. I was as if in a dream, and thought 
 of the legend of the enchanted city, and hastened out of the 
 gate, lest I should awake too soon. I missed many a tree in 
 the Court Garden, and many had grown crooked with age, and 
 the four great poplars which once seemed to me like green 
 giants, had become smaller. Pretty girls were walking here 
 and there, dressed as gaily as wandering tulips. And I had 
 known these tulips when they were but little bulbs ; for ah ! 
 they were the neighbor's children with whom I had once 
 played " Princess in the Tower." But the fair maidens 
 whom I had once known as blooming roses were now faded 
 roses, and in many a high brow whose pride had once thrilled 
 my heart, Saturn had cut deep wrinkles with his scythe. 
 And now for the first time, and alas ! too late, I understood 
 what those glances meant, which they had once cast on the 
 adolescent boy ; for I had meanwhile in other lands fathomed 
 the meaning of similar glances in other lovely eyes. I was 
 deeply moved by the humble bow of a man, whom I had once 
 known as wealthy and respectable, and who had since become 
 a beggar. Everywhere in the world, we see that men when 
 they once begin to fall, do so according to Newton's theory, 
 ever faster and faster in ratio as they descend to misery. 
 One, however, who did not seem to be in the least changed 
 was the little baron, who tripped merrily as of old through 
 the Court Garden, holding with one hand his left coat-skirt 
 on high, and with the other swinging hither and thither his 
 
150 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 light cane ; — he still had the same genial face as of old, its 
 rosy bloom now somewhat concentrated towards the nose, but 
 he had the same ninepin hat as of old, and the same old 
 queue behind, only that the hairs which peeped from it were 
 now white instead of black. But merry as the old baron 
 seemed, it was still evident that he had suffered much sorrow, 
 — his face would fain conceal it, but the white hairs of his 
 queue betrayed him behind his back. Yet the queue itself 
 seemed striving to lie, so merrily did it shake. 
 
 I was not weary, but a fancy seized me to sit once more 
 on the wooden bench, on which I had once carved the name 
 of my love. I could hardly discover it among the many new 
 names, which had since been cut around. Ah ! once I slept 
 upon this bench, and dreamed of happiness and love. " Dreams 
 are foams and gleams." And the old plays of childhood 
 came again to my soul, and with them old and beautiful 
 stories ! but a new treacherous game, and a new terrible 
 tale ever resounded through all, and it was the story of two 
 poor souls who were false to each other, and went so far in 
 their untruth, that they were at last unfaithful to the good 
 God himself. It is a bad, sad story, and when one has noth- 
 ing better on hand to do, he can well weep over it. Oh, 
 Lord ! once the world was so beautiful, and the birds sang 
 thy eternal praise, and little Veronica looked at me with 
 silent eyes, and we sat by the marble statue before the castle 
 court ; — on one side lies an old ruined castle, wherein ghosts 
 wander, and at night a headless dame in long, trailing black- 
 silken garments sweeps around : — on the other side is a high, 
 white dwelling in whose upper rooms gay pictures gleamed 
 beautifully in their golden frames, while below stood thou- 
 sands of great books which Veronica and I beheld with long- 
 ing, when the good Ursula lifted us up to the window. — In 
 later years when I had become a great boy, I climbed every 
 day to the very top of the library ladder, and brought down 
 the topmost books, and read in them so long, that finally I 
 feared nothing — least of all ladies without heads — and be- 
 came so wise that I forgot all the old games and stories and 
 pictures and little Veronica — whose very name I also 
 forgot. 
 
 But while I, sitting upon the bench in the Court Garden, 
 
IDEAS 151 
 
 dreamed my way back into the past, there was a sound be- 
 hind me of the confused voices of men lamenting the ill 
 fortune of the poor French soldiers, who having been taken 
 prisoners in the Russian war and sent to Siberia, had there 
 been kept prisoners for many a long year, though peace had 
 been reestablished, and who now were returning home. As 
 I looked up, I beheld in reality several of these orphan chil- 
 dren of Fame. Through their tattered uniforms peeped 
 naked misery, deep sorrowing eyes were couched in their 
 desolate faces, and though mangled, weary, and mostly lame, 
 something of the military manner was still visible in their 
 mien. Singularly enough, they were preceded by a drummer 
 who tottered along with a drum, and I shuddered as I recalled 
 the old legend of soldiers, who had fallen in battle, and who 
 by night rising again from their graves on the battle-field, 
 and with the drummer at their head, marched back to their 
 native city. And of them the old ballad sings thus : — 
 
 " He beat on the drum with might and main, 
 
 To their old night-quarters they go again ; 
 
 Through the lighted street they come ; 
 
 Trallerie — trallerei — trallera, 
 They march before Sweetheart's home. 
 
 " Thus the dead return ere break of day, 
 Like tombstones white in their cold array, 
 And the drummer he goes before ; 
 
 Trallerie — trallerei — trallera, 
 And we see them come no more." 
 
 Truly the poor French drummer seemed to have risen but 
 half repaired from the grave. He was but a little shadow 
 in a dirty patched gray capote, a dead yellow countenance, 
 with a great mustache which hung down sorrowfully over his 
 faded lips, his eyes were like burnt-out tinder, in which but a 
 few sparks still gleamed, and yet by one of those sparks I 
 recognized Monsieur Le Grand. 
 
 He too recognized me and drew me to the turf, and we 
 sat down together as of old, when he taught me on the drum 
 French and Modern History. He had still the well-known 
 old drum, and I could not sufficiently wonder how he had pre- 
 served it from Russian plunderers. And he drummed again 
 
152 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 as of old, but without speaking a word. But though his lips 
 were firmly pressed together, his eyes spoke all the more, 
 flashing fiercely and victoriously, as he drummed the old 
 marches. The poplars near us trembled, as he again thun- 
 dered forth the red march of the guillotine. And he drummed, 
 as before, the old battles, the deeds of the Emperor, and it 
 seemed as though the drum itself were a living creature 
 which rejoiced to speak out its inner soul. I heard once 
 more the cannon thunder, the whistling of balls, the riot of 
 battle, the death rage of the Guards — I saw once more the 
 waving flags, again, the Emperor on his steed — but little by 
 little there fell a sad tone in amid the most stirring confusion, 
 sounds rang from the drum, in which the wildest hurrahs and 
 the most fearful grief were mysteriously mingled ; it seemed 
 a march of victory and a march of death. Le Grand's eyes 
 opened spirit-like and wide, and I saw in them nothing but a 
 broad white field of ice covered with corpses — it was the 
 battle of Moscow. 
 
 I had never imagined that the hard old drum could give 
 forth such wailing sounds as Monsieur Le Grand had drawn 
 from it. They were tears which he drummed, and they 
 sounded ever softer and softer ; and like a troubled echo, deep 
 sighs broke from Le Grand's breast. And they became ever 
 more languid and ghostlike, his dry hands trembled, as if 
 from frost, he sat as in a dream, and stirred with his drum- 
 stick nothing but the air, and seemed listening to voices far 
 away, and at last he gazed on me with a deep — oh, so deep 
 and entreating a glance — I understood him — and then his 
 head sank down on the drum. 
 
 In this life Monsieur Le Grand never drummed more. 
 And his drum never gave forth another sound, for it was not 
 destined to serve the enemies of liberty for their servile roll- 
 calls. I had well understood the last entreating glance of Le 
 Grand, and I at once drew the rapier from my cane, and with 
 it pierced the drum. 
 
IDEAS 153 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas, Madame ! 
 
 But life is in reality so terribly serious, that it would be in- 
 supportable were it not for these unions of the pathetic and 
 the comic, as our poets well know. Aristophanes only ex- 
 hibits the most harrowing forms of human madness in the 
 laughing mirror of wit, Goethe only presumes to set forth the 
 fearful pain of thought comprehending its own nothingness 
 in the doggerel of a puppet show, and Shakespeare puts the 
 most agonizing lamentations on the misery of the world 
 in the mouth of a fool, who meanwhile rattles his cap and 
 bells in all the nervous suffering of pain. 
 
 They have all learned from the great First Poet, who, 
 in his World Tragedy in thousands of acts, knows how to 
 carry humor to the highest point, as we see every day. 
 After the departure of the heroes, the clowns and graciosos 
 enter with their baubles and lashes, and after the bloody 
 scenes of the Revolution, there came waddling on the stage 
 the fat Bourbons, with their stale jokes and tender " legiti- 
 mate " bon mots, and the old noblesse with their starved 
 laughter hopped merrily before them, while behind all swept 
 the pious Capuchins with candles, cross and banners of the 
 Church. Yes — even in the highest pathos of the World 
 Tragedy, bits of fun slip in. It may be that the desperate 
 republican, who, like a Brutus, plunged a knife to his heart, 
 first smelt it to see whether some one had not split a herring 
 with it — and on this great stage of the world all passes 
 exactly the same as on our beggarly boards. On it, too, there 
 are tipsy heroes, kings who forget their parts, scenes which 
 obstinately stay up in the air, prompters' voices sounding 
 above everything, danseuses who create astonishing effects 
 with their legs, and above all costumes which are and ever 
 will be the main thing. And high in Heaven, in the first row 
 of the boxes sit the lovely angels, and keep their lorgnettes 
 on us poor sinners comedianizing here down below, and 
 the blessed Lord himself sits seriously in his splendid seat, 
 and, perhaps, finds it dull, or calculates that this theater can- 
 not be kept up much longer because this one gets too high a 
 
154 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 salary, and that one too little, and that they altogether play 
 far too indifferently. 
 
 Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas, Madame ! As 
 I ended the last chapter, narrating to you how Monsieur Le 
 Grand died, and how I conscientiously executed the testa- 
 mentum militare which lay in his last glance, some one 
 knocked at my room door, and there entered an old woman, 
 who asked, pleasantly, if I were not a Doctor? And as I 
 assented, she asked me in a friendly, patronizing tone to go 
 with her to her house that I might there cut the corns of her 
 husband. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The German censors of the press — 
 
 blockheads 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ■ Madame ! under Leda's productive hemispheres lay in em- 
 bryo the whole Trojan world, and you could never under- 
 stand the far-famed tears of Priam, if I did not first tell you 
 of the ancient eggs of the Swan. And I pray you, do not 
 complain of my digressions. In every foregoing and fore- 
 gone chapter, there is not a line which does not belong to 
 the business in hand. — I write in bonds ; I avoid all super- 
 fluity ; I ever and often neglect the necessary — for instance, 
 I have not regularly cited — I do not mean spirits, but on the 
 contrary beings which are often quite spiritless, that is to 
 say, authors — and yet the citation of old and new books is 
 the chief pleasure of a young author, and a few fundamen- 
 
IDEAS 155 
 
 tally erudite quotations often adorn the entire man. Never 
 believe, Madame, that I am wanting in knowledge of titles 
 of books. Moreover, I have caught the knack of those great 
 souls who know how to pick corianders out of biscuit, and 
 citations from college lecture books ; and I can also tell 
 whence Bartle brought the new wine. Nay — in case ot 
 need, I can negotiate a loan of quotations from my learned 
 
 friends. My friend G , in Berlin, is, so to speak, a little 
 
 Rothschild in quotations, and will gladly lend me a few mil- 
 lions, and if he does not happen to have them about him, I 
 can easily find some cosmopolite spiritual bankers who have. 
 But what need of loans have I, who am a man who stands 
 well with the world, and have my annual income of 10,000 
 quotations to spend at will ? I have even discovered the art 
 of passing off forged quotations for genuine. If any wealthy 
 literary man would like to buy this secret, I will cheerfully 
 sell it for nineteen thousand current dollars — or will trade 
 with him. Another of my discoveries I will impart gratis for 
 the benefit of literature. 
 
 I hold it to be an advisable thing when quoting from 
 an obscure author invariably to give the number of his 
 house. 
 
 These "good men and bad musicians," as the orchestra is 
 termed in Ponce de Leon — these unknown authors almost 
 invariably still possess a copy of their long out-of-print works, 
 and to hunt up this latter it is necessary to know the number 
 of their houses. If I wanted, for example, to find Spitta's 
 "Song Book for Traveling Journeymen Mechanics," — my 
 dear Madame, where would you look for the book ? But if 
 quoted : — 
 
 "Vide — 'Song Book for Traveling Journeymen Appren- 
 tices,' by P. Spitta; Lüneburg, Lüner Street, No. 2, right 
 hand, around the corner." 
 
 And so you could, if it were worth your while, Madame, 
 hunt up the book. But it is not worth the while. 
 
 Moreover, Madame, you can have no idea of the facility 
 with which I quote. Everywhere do I discover opportunities 
 to parade my profound pedantry. If I chance to mention 
 eating, I at once remark in a note that the Greeks, Romans 
 and Hebrews also ate — I quote all the costly dishes which 
 
156 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 were prepared by Lucullus's cook — woe me, that I was born 
 fifteen hundred years too late ! — I also remark, that these 
 meals were called this, that, or the other by the Romans, and 
 that the Spartans ate black broth. After all, it is well that I 
 did not live in those days, for I can imagine nothing more 
 terrible than if I, poor devil, had been a Spartan. Soup is 
 my favorite dish. Madame, I have thought of going next 
 year to London, but if it is really true, that no soup is to be 
 had there, a deep longing will soon drive me back to the 
 soup flesh-pots of the Fatherland. I could also dilate by the 
 hour on the cookery of the ancient Hebrews, and also de- 
 scend into the kitchen of the Jews of the present day. I 
 may cite apropos of this the entire Steinweg. I might also 
 allege the refined manner in which many Berlin savants have 
 expressed themselves relative to Jewish eating, which would 
 lead me to the other excellences and preeminences of the 
 chosen people, to which we are indebted, as for instance, 
 their invention of bills of exchange and Christianity — but 
 hold ! it will hardly do for me to praise the latter too highly 
 — not having as yet made much use of it — and I believe 
 that the Jews themselves have not profited so much by it as 
 by their bills of exchange. While on the Jews I could ap- 
 propriately quote Tacitus — he says that they honored asses 
 in their temples — and what a field of rich' erudition and 
 quotation opens on us here ! How many a noteworthy thing 
 can be adduced on ancient asses as opposed to the modern. 
 How intelligent were the former, and, ah ! how stupid are 
 the latter. How reasonably — for instance — spoke the ass 
 of B. Balaam. 
 
 Vide Pentat. Lib. — — — — 
 Madame, I have not the work just at hand, and will 
 here leave a hiatus to be filled at a convenient opportu- 
 nity. On the other hand, to confirm my assertion of the 
 dulness, tameness, and stupidity of modern asses, I may 
 allege 
 
 Vide. _-— — — — — — _ 
 
 — — no, I will leave these quotations also unquoted, 
 
 otherwise I myself will be cited, namely, injuriarum or for 
 
IDEAS 157 
 
 The modern asses are great asses. The antique 
 asses, who had reached such a pitch of refinement — 
 Vide Gesneri de antiqua honestate asinorum. 
 
 (In comment. Götting. T. II. p. 32.) 
 
 — would turn in their graves could they hear how people 
 talk about their descendants. Once "Ass" was an honor- 
 able title, signifying as much as " Court Counselor " " Baron," 
 " Doctor of Philosophy." — Jacob compared his son Issachar 
 to one, Homer his hero Ajax, and now we compare Mr. 
 von — — to the same ! 
 
 Madame, while speaking of such asses I could sink deep 
 into literary history, and mention all the great men who ever 
 were in love, for example Abelardus, Picus Mirandola, Bor- 
 bonius, Curtesius, Angelus Politianus, Raymondus Lullius 
 and Henricus Heineus. While on Love I could mention all 
 the great men who never smoked tobacco, as for instance 
 
 Cicero, Justinian, Goethe, Hugo, I myself, by chance 
 
 it happens that we are all five a sort of half and half lawyers 
 
 — Mabillion could not for an instant endure the piping of 
 another, for in his " Itinere Germanico," he complains as re- 
 garded the German taverns, " quod molestus ipsi fuent tabaci 
 grave olentis foetor." On the other hand very great men 
 have manifested an extraordinary partiality for tobacco. 
 
 Raphael Thorus wrote a hymn in its praise Madame, 
 
 you may not perhaps be aware that Isaac Elzevir published 
 it in 1628, at Leyden, in quarto — and Ludovicus Kinschot 
 wrote an oration in verses on the same subject. Grsevius has 
 even composed a sonnet on the soothing herb, and the great 
 Boxhornius also loved tobacco. Bayle in his " Diet. Hist, et 
 Critiq." remarks of him that in smoking he wore a hat with a 
 broad brim, in the fore part of which he had a hole, through 
 which the pipe was stuck that it might not hinder his studies. 
 Apropos of Boxhornius, I might cite all the great literati who 
 were threatened with bucks' horns, and who ran away in 
 terror. But I will only mention Joh. Georg Martius : de fuga 
 literatorum, et cetera, etc., etc. , If we go through history, 
 Madame, we find that all great men have been obliged to run 
 away once in their lives : Lot, Tarquin, Moses, Jupiter, 
 Madame de Staei, Nebuchadnezzar, Benjowsky, Mahomet, 
 the whole Prussian army, Gregory VII., Rabbi Jizchak Abar- 
 
153 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 banel, Rousseau to which I could add very many other 
 
 names, as for instance those whose names stand on the Black 
 Board of the Exchange. 1 
 
 So, Madame, you see that I am not wanting in well-grounded 
 erudition and profundity. Only in Systematology am I a 
 little behindhand. As a genuine German, I ought to have 
 begun this book with a full explanation of its title, as is usual 
 in the holy Roman Empire, by custom and by prescription. 
 Phidias, it is true, made no preface to his Jupiter, as little to 
 the Medicean Venus — I have regarded her from every point 
 of view, without finding the slightest introduction — but the 
 old Greeks were Greeks, and when a man is a decent, honest, 
 honorable German, he cannot lay aside his German nature, 
 and I must accordingly " hold forth " in regular order, on the 
 title of my book. 
 
 Madame, I shall consequently proceed to speak 
 
 I. Of Ideas. 
 
 A. Of Ideas in general. 
 a. Of reasonable Ideas. 
 
 B. Of unreasonable Ideas. 
 a. Of ordinary Ideas. 
 
 ß. Of Ideas covered with green leather. 
 
 These are again divided into as will appear in 
 
 due time and place. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Madame, have you on the whole an idea of an idea ? What 
 is an idea ? " There are some good ideas in the build of this 
 coat," said my tailor to me as he with earnest attention gazed 
 on the overcoat, which dates in its origin from my Berlin 
 dandy days, and from which a respectable, quiet dressing- 
 gown is now to be manufactured. My washerwoman com- 
 plains that the Reverend Mr. S has been putting " ideas " 
 
 into the head of her daughter, which have made her foolish 
 and unreasonable. The coachman, Pattensen, grumbles out 
 on every occasion, " That's an idea! that's an idea! " Yes- 
 
 1 In some German cities the names of absconding bankrupts are perma- 
 nently placarded on the Exchange. 
 
IDEAS 159 
 
 terday evening he was regularly vexed when I inquired what 
 sort of a thing he imagined an idea to be ? And vexedly did 
 he growl, " Nu, nu, — an idea is an idea ! — an idea is any 
 
 d d nonsense that a man gets into his head." It is in this 
 
 signification that the word is used as the title of a book, by the 
 Court Counselor Heeren in Göttingen. 
 
 The coachman, Pattensen, is a man who can find his way 
 through night and mist over the broad Lüneburger Heath ; — 
 the Court Councilor Heeren is one who, with equally cunning 
 instinct, can discover the ancient caravan road to the East, and 
 plods on thither as safely and as patiently as any camel of 
 antiquity. We can trust such people, and follow them with- 
 out doubt, and therefore I have entitled this book " Ideas." 
 
 But the title of the book signifies, on that account, as little 
 as the title of its author. It was chosen by him under any 
 inspiration save that of pride, and should be interpreted to 
 signify anything but vanity. Accept, Madame, my most 
 sorrowful assurance that I am not vain. This remark — as 
 you yourself were about to remark — is necessary. My friends, 
 as well as divers more or less contemptible contemporaries, 
 have fully taken care of that in advance of you. You know, 
 Madame, that old women are accustomed to take children 
 down a little when any one praises their beauty, lest praise 
 might hurt the little darlings. You remember, too, Madame, 
 that in Rome, when any one who had gained a military triumph 
 and rode like a god, crowned with glory and arrayed in purple, 
 on his golden chariot with white horses, from the Campus 
 Martius, amid a festal train of lictors, musicians, dancers, 
 priests, slaves, elephants, trophy-bearers, consuls, senators, 
 soldiers : then behind him the vulgar mob sang all manner of 
 mocking songs. — And you know, Madame, that in our 
 beloved Germany there are many old women and a very 
 great vulgar mob. 
 
 As I intimated, Madame, the ideas here alluded to are as 
 remote from those of Plato as Athens from Göttingen, and 
 you should no more form undue expectations as to the book 
 than as to its author. In fact, how the latter could ever have 
 excited anything of the sort is as incomprehensible to me as 
 to my friends. The Countess Julia explains the matter by 
 assuring us, that when he says anything really witty and orig- 
 
160 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 inal, he only does it to humbug the world, and that he is in 
 fact as stupid as any other mortal. That is false — I do not 
 humbug at all — I sing just as my bill grows. I write in all 
 innocence and simplicity whatever comes into my head, and 
 it is not my fault if that happens to be something dashed with 
 genius. At any rate, I have better luck in writing than in the 
 Altona Lottery — I wish that it was the other way — and 
 there come from my pen many heart stunners — many choirs 
 of thought — all of which is done by the Lord; for He who 
 has denied to the most devoted psalm makers and moral poets 
 all beautiful thoughts and all literary reputation, lest they 
 should be praised too much by their earthly fellow creatures, 
 and thereby forget heaven, where the angels have already 
 engaged board for them in advance ; — He, I say, provides 
 us other profane, sinful, heretical authors, for whom heaven 
 is as good as nailed up, all the more with admirable ideas and 
 earthly fame, and this indeed from divine grace and mercy, 
 so that the poor souls, since they are really here, be not 
 altogether wanting, and that they may at least enjoy upon 
 earth some of that joy which is denied to them in heaven. 
 
 Vide Goethe and the tract writers. 
 
 You consequently see, Madame, that you can, without dis- 
 trust, read my writings, as they set forth the grace and mercy 
 of God. I write in blind reliance on his omnipotence. I am 
 in this respect a true Christian author, and, to speak like 
 Gubitz, even in this present paragraph do not know exactly 
 how I am going to bring it to an end, and to effect it I trust 
 entirely to the aid of the Lord. And how could I write with- 
 t out this pious reliance ? — for lo ! even now there stands 
 before me the devil from LanghofP s printing-office, waiting 
 for copy, and the new-born word wanders warm and wet to 
 the press, and what I at this instant think and feel, may to- 
 morrow be waste paper. 
 
 It is all very fine, Madame, to remind me of the Horatian 
 "nonum prematur in annum." This rule, like many others, 
 may be very pretty in theory, but is worth little in practise. 
 When Horace gave to the author that celebrated precept, to 
 let his works lie nine years in the desk, he should also have 
 given with it a receipt for living nine years without food. 
 While Horace was inventing this advice, he sat, in all proba- 
 
IDEAS l6l 
 
 bility, at the table of Maecenas eating roast turkey with 
 truffles, pheasant puddings with venison sauce, ribs of larks 
 with mangled turnips, peacocks' tongues, Indian bird's-nests, 
 and the Lord knows what all, and everything gratis at that. 
 But we, the unlucky ones, born too late, live in another sort 
 of times. Our Maecenases have an altogether different set of 
 principles ; they believe that authors, like medlars, are best 
 after they have lain some time on straw, they believe that 
 literary hounds are spoiled for hunting similes and thoughts if 
 they are fed too high, and when they do take it into their 
 heads to give to some one a feed it is generally the worst dog 
 who gets the biggest piece, — some fawning spaniel who licks 
 the hand, or diminutive " King Charles " who knows how to 
 cuddle up into a lady's perfumed lap, or some patient puppy 
 of a poodle, who has learned some bread-earning science, 
 and who can fetch and carry, dance and drum. While I 
 write this my little pug-dog behind me begins to bark. Be 
 still there, Ami ! I did not mean you, for you love me, and 
 accompany your master about, in need and danger, and you 
 would die on my grave, as true-heartedly as many other 
 German dogs, who, turned away, lie before the gates of Ger- 
 many, and hunger and whine — excuse me, Madame, for di- 
 gressing, merely to vindicate the honor of my dog : — I now 
 return to the Horatian rule and its inapplicability in the 
 Nineteenth Century, when poets are compelled to make 
 cream-pot love to the Muses — ma foi, Madame, I could 
 never observe that rule for four and twenty hours, let alone 
 nine years, my belly has no appreciation of the beauties of im- 
 mortality. I have thought the matter over and concluded that 
 it is better to be only half immortal and altogether fat, and if 
 -Voltaire was willing to give three hundred years of his eter- 
 nal fame for one good digestion, so would I give twice as 
 much for the dinner itself. And oh, what lovely beautiful 
 eating there is in this world ! The philosopher Pangloss is 
 right, it is the best world ! But one must have money in this 
 best of worlds. Money in the pocket, not manuscripts in the 
 desk. Mr. Marr, mine host of the " King of England," is 
 himself an author and also knows the Horatian rule, but I do 
 not believe that if I wished to put it into practise he would 
 feed me for nine years. 
 
 12 
 
1 62 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 And why in fact should I practise it ? I have so much 
 which is good to write of, that I have no occasion to fritter 
 away time over "tight papers." So long as my heart is full 
 of love, and the heads of my fellow mortals full of folly, I 
 shall never be hot pressed for writing material. And my 
 heart will ever love so long as there are women : should it 
 cool over one, it will immediately fire up over another ; and as 
 the King never dies in France, so the Queen never dies in 
 my heart, where the word is, la reine est morte, vive'la reine ! 
 And in like manner the folly of my fellow mortals will live 
 forever. For there is but one wisdom, and it hath its fixed 
 limits, but there are a thousand illimitable follies. The 
 learned casuist and carer for souls, Schupp, even saith that 
 in the world are more fools than human beings. 
 
 Vide Schupp's "Instructive Writings," p. 1121. 
 
 If we remember that the great Schuppius lived in Ham- 
 burg, we may find that his statistical return was not exagger- 
 ated. I am now in the same place, and may say that I really 
 become cheerful when I reflect that all these fools whom I 
 see here, can be used in my writings, they are cash down, 
 ready money. I feel like a diamond in cotton. The Lord 
 hath blessed me, the fool crop has turned out uncommonly 
 well this year, and like a good landlord I consume only a few 
 at a time, and lay up the best for the future. People see me 
 out walking, and wonder that I am jolly and cheerful. Like 
 a rich, plump merchant who rubbing his hands with genial 
 joy wanders here and there amid chests, bales, boxes, and 
 casks, even so do I wander around among my people. Ye 
 are all mine own ! Ye are all equally dear to me, and I love 
 ye, as ye yourselves love your own gold, and that is more 
 than a little. Oh ! how I laughed from my heart when I 
 lately heard that one of my people had asserted with concern 
 that he knew not how I could live — or what means I had — 
 and yet he himself is such a first-rate fool that I could live 
 from him alone as on a capital. Many a fool is, however, to 
 me not only ready money, but I have already determined in 
 my own mind what is to be done with the cash which I intend 
 to write out of him. Thus, for instance, from a certain, well- 
 lined, plump millionaire, I shall write me a certain, well-lined, 
 plump armchair, of that sort which the French call "chaise 
 
IDEAS 163 
 
 percee." From his fat millionairess I will buy me a horse. 
 When I see the plump old gentleman — a camel will get into 
 heaven before that man would ever go through the eye of a 
 needle — when I see him waddling along on the Promenade, 
 a wondrous feeling steals over me, I salute him involuntarily, 
 though I have no acquaintance with him, and he greets me 
 again so invitingly, that I would fain avail myself of his 
 goodness on the spot, and am only prevented by the sight of 
 the many gaily dressed people passing by. His lady wife is 
 not so bad looking — she has, it is true, only one eye, but 
 that is all the greener on that account, her nose is like the 
 tower which looketh forth towards Damascus, her bosom is 
 broad as the billowy sea, and all sorts of ribbons flutter above 
 it like the flags of the ships which have long since sailed over 
 this ocean bosom — it makes one seasick just to glance at it 
 — -her neck is quite fair and as plumply rounded as — the 
 simile will be found a little further along — and on the violet- 
 blue curtain which covers this comparison, thousands on thou- 
 sands of silkworms have spun away their lives. You see, 
 Madame, what a horse I must have in my mind ! When I 
 meet this lady, my heart rises within me, I feel at once as if 
 I were ready to ride — I flourish my switch, I snap my 
 fingers, I cluck my tongue — I make all sorts of equestrian 
 movements with my legs — hap! — hey — gee up — g'lang ! 
 
 — and the dear lady smiles on me so intelligently, so full of 
 soul, so appreciatingly as if she read my every thought, — 
 she neighs with her nostrils, she coquettes with the crupper 
 
 — she curvets, and then suddenly goes off in a dog-trot. And 
 I stand there, with folded arms, looking pleasedly on her as 
 she goes, and reflect whether I shall ride my steed with a 
 curbed bit or a snaffle-bridle, and whether I shall give her an 
 English or a Polish saddle — etc. People who see me stand- 
 ing thus cannot conceive what there can be in the lady which 
 so attracts me. Meddling, scandal-bearing tongues have al- 
 ready tried to make her husband uneasy, and insinuated that 
 I looked on his wife with the eye of a roue. But my honest, 
 soft leather chaise percee has answered that he regards me as 
 an innocent, even somewhat bashful youth, who looks care- 
 fully, like one desirous of nearer acquaintance, but who is 
 restrained by blushing bashfulness. My noble steed thinks 
 
1 64 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 on the contrary, that I have a free, independent, chivalric air, 
 and that my salutatory politeness only expresses a wish to be 
 invited for once to dinner with her. 
 
 You see, Madame, that I can thus use everybody, and that 
 the city directory is really the inventory of my property. 
 And I can consequently never become bankrupt, for my 
 creditors themselves are my profits, or will be changed to 
 such. Moreover, as I before said, I live economically, — 
 
 d d economically ! For instance, while I write this, I sit 
 
 in a dark, noisy room, on the " Dusty Street"; but I cheer- 
 fully endure it, for I could, if I only chose, sit in the most 
 beautiful garden, as well as my friends and my loves ; for 
 I only need at once realize my schnapps-clients. These, 
 Madame, consist of decayed hair-dressers, broken-down pan- 
 ders, bankrupt keepers of eating-houses, who themselves can 
 get nothing to eat — finished blackguards, who know where 
 to seek me, and who, for the wherewithal to buy a drink 
 (money down), furnish me with all the chronique scandaleuse 
 of their quarter of the town. Madame, you wonder that I 
 do not, once for all, kick such a pack out of doors ? — why, 
 Madame, what can you be thinking of ? — these people are 
 my flowers. Some day I will write them all down in a 
 beautiful book, with the proceeds from which I will buy me 
 a garden, and their red, yellow, blue and variegated counte- 
 nances now appear to me like the flowers of that fair garden. 
 What do I care, if strange noses assert that these flowers 
 smell of aniseed brandy, tobacco, cheese and blasphemy ! 
 My own nose, the chimney of my head, wherein the chimney- 
 sweep of my imagination climbs up and down, asserts the 
 contrary, and smells in the fellows nothing but the perfume 
 of roses, violets, pinks and tuberoses — oh ! how gloriously 
 will I some morning sit in my garden, listening to the song 
 of the birds, and warm my limbs in the blessed sunshine, and 
 inhale the fresh breath of the leaves, and, as I glance at the 
 flowers, think of my old blackguards ! 
 
 At present I sit near the dark " Dusty Street," in my 
 darker room, and please myself by hanging up in it the 
 greatest "obscurity" of the country — "Mais est ce que vous 
 verrez plus clair alors ? " Apparently, Madame, such is the 
 case — but do not misunderstand me — I do not mean that 
 
IDEAS 165 
 
 I hang up the man himself, but the crystal lamp which I in- 
 tend to buy with the money I mean to write out of him. 
 Meanwhile, I believe that it would be clearer through all 
 creation, if we could hang up the " obscurities," not in imagi- 
 nation, but in reality. But if they cannot be hung they must 
 be branded — I again speak figuratively, referring to brand- 
 ing en effigie. It is true that Herr Von White — he is white 
 and innocent as a lily — tried to whitewash over my assertion, 
 in Berlin, that he had really been branded. On account of 
 this, the fool had himself inspected by the authorities, and 
 obtained from them a certificate that his back bore no marks, 
 and he was pleased to regard this negative certificate of arms 
 as a diploma, which would open to him the doors of the best 
 society, and was astonished when they kicked him out — and 
 now he screams death and murder at me, poor devil ! and 
 swears to shoot me wherever he finds me. And what do you 
 suppose, Madame, that I intend doing ? Madame, from this 
 fool — that is, from the money which I intend to write out of 
 him — I will buy me a good barrel of Rudesheimer Rhine 
 wine. I mention this that you may not think it is a malicious 
 joy which lights up my face whenever I meet the Herr Von 
 White in the street. In fact, I only see in him my blessed 
 Rudesheimer, — the instant I set eyes on him I become 
 cheerful and genial hearted, and begin to trill, in spite of 
 myself, "Upon the Rhine, 'tis there our grapes are growing," 
 "This picture is enchanting fair," "Oh, White Lady." Then 
 my Rudesheimer looks horribly sour — enough to make one 
 believe that he was compounded of nothing but poison and 
 gall — but I assure you, Madame, it is a genuine vintage, 
 and though the inspector's mark be not branded on it, the 
 connoisseur still knows how to appreciate it. I will merrily 
 tap this cask, and should it chance to ferment and threaten 
 to fly out dangerously, I will have it bound down with a few 
 iron hoops, by the proper authorities. 
 
 You see, therefore, Madame, that you need not trouble 
 yourself on my account. I can look at ease on all in this 
 world. The Lord has blessed me in earthly goods, and if he 
 has not exactly stored the wine away for me, in my cellar, 
 he at least allows me to work in his vineyard. I only need 
 gather my grapes, press them, barrel them, and there I have 
 
1 66 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 my clear heavenly gift, and if fools do not fly exactly roasted 
 into my mouth, but run at me rather raw, and not even 
 " half baked," still I know how to roast them, baste them, 
 and " give them pepper," until they are tender and savory. 
 Oh, Madame, but you will enjoy it when I some day give 
 a grand fete ! Madame, you shall then praise my kitchen. 
 You shall confess that I can entertain my satraps as pom- 
 pously as once did the great Ahasuerus, when he was king 
 from India even unto the Blacks, over one hundred and 
 seven and twenty provinces. I will slaughter whole heca- 
 tombs of fools. That great Philoschnaps, who came, as 
 Jupiter, in the form of an ox, lusted for favor in the eyes 
 of Europa, will supply the roast beef ; a tragical tragedian, 
 who, on the stage, when it represented a tragical Persian 
 kingdom, exhibited to us a tragical Alexander, will supply 
 my table with a splendid pig's head, grinning, as usual, 
 sourly sweet, with a slice of lemon in his mouth, and shrewdly 
 decked, by the artistic cook, with laurel leaves ; while that 
 singer of coral lips, swan necks, bounding, snowy little arms, 
 little waists, little feet, little kisses, and little assessors, namely, 
 H. Clauren, or, as the pious Berharder girls cry after him on 
 the Frederick's Street, ''Father Clauren! our Clauren!" will 
 supply me with all the dishes which he knows how to describe 
 so juicily in his annual little pocket cook-books, with all 
 the imagination of a lusciously longing kitchen-maid. And 
 he shall give us, over and above, an altogether extra little 
 dish, with a little plate of celery, " for which the little heart 
 bounds with love ! " A shrewd dried-up maid of honor, whose 
 head is the only part of her which is now of any use, will give 
 us a similar dish, namely, asparagus, and there will be no want 
 of Göttingen sausages, Hamburg smoked beef, Pomeranian 
 geese-breasts, ox-tongues, calves' brains, cheek, gudgeons, 
 cakes, small potatoes, and therewith all sorts of jellies, Berlin 
 pancakes, Vienna tarts, comfits — 
 
 Madame, I have already, in imagination, overeaten myself ! 
 The Devil take such gormandizing ! I cannot bear much — 
 the pig's head acts on me as on the rest of the German public 
 — I must eat a Willibald Alexis salad on it — that purges and 
 purifies. Oh, the wretched pig's head ! with the still wretcheder 
 sauce, which has neither a Grecian nor a Persian flavor, but 
 
IDEAS 167 
 
 which tastes like tea and soft soap ! — Bring me my plump 
 millionaire ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Madame, I observe a faint cloud of discontent on your 
 lovely brow, and you seem to ask if it is not wrong that I 
 should thus dress fools, stick them on the spit, carbonado 
 them, lard them, and even butcher many which must lie 
 untouched save by the fowls of the air, while widows and 
 orphans cry for want. 
 
 Madame, c'est la guerre ! But now I will solve you the 
 whole riddle. I myself am by no means one of the wise 
 ones, but I have joined their party, and now for five thousand 
 five hundred and eighty-eight years we have been carrying 
 on war with the fools. The fools believe that they have been 
 wronged by us, inasmuch as they believe that there was once 
 in the world but a certain determined quantity of reason, 
 which was thievishly appropriated — the Lord only knows 
 how — by the wise men, and it is a sin which cries to heaven, 
 to see how much sense one man often gets, while all his 
 neighbors, and, indeed, the whole country for miles around, 
 is fairly befogged with stupidity. This is the veritable secret 
 cause of war, and it is most truly a war of defense. The intel- 
 ligent show themselves, as usual, the calmest, most moderate 
 and most intelligent — they sit firmly fortified behind their 
 ancient Aristotelian works, have much ordnance, and also 
 ammunition, in store — for they themselves were the invent- 
 ors of powder — and now and then they shoot a well-aimed 
 bomb among their foes. But, unfortunately, the latter are 
 by far the most numerous, and their outcries are terrible, and 
 day by day they do the most cruel deeds of torture — for, in 
 fact, every folly is a torture to the wise. Their military strata- 
 gems are often very cunning indeed. Some of the chiefs of 
 the great Fool Army take good care not to admit the secret 
 origin of the war. They have heard that a well-known deceit- 
 ful man, who advanced so far in the art of falsehood, that he 
 ended by writing false memoirs — I mean Fouche — once 
 asserted that " les paroles sont faites pour nous cacher nos 
 
1 68 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 pensees " ; and therefore they talk a great deal in order to 
 conceal their want of thought, and make long speeches, and 
 write big books — and if any one is listening, they praise that 
 only spring of true happiness, namely, wisdom ; and if any 
 one is looking on at them, they work away at mathematics, 
 logic, statistics, mechanical improvements, and so forth — 
 and as a monkey is more ridiculous the more he resembles 
 man, so are these fools more laughable the more reasonably 
 they behave. Other chiefs of the great army are more open- 
 hearted, and confess that their own share of wisdom is not 
 remarkably great, and that perhaps they never had any, but 
 they cannot refrain from asserting that wisdom is a very 
 sour, bitter affair, and, in reality, of but little value. This 
 may perhaps be true, but, unfortunately, they have not wis- 
 dom enough to prove it. They therefore jump at every 
 means of vindication, discover new powers in themselves, 
 explain that these are quite as effectual as reason, and, in 
 some cases, much more so — for instance, the feeling, faith, 
 inspiration — and with this surrogate of wisdom, this Poll- 
 parrot reason, they console themselves. I, poor devil, am 
 especially hated by them, as they assert that I originally 
 belonged to their party, that I am a runaway, a fugitive, a 
 bolter — a deserter, who has broken the holiest ties; — yes, 
 that I am a spy, who secretly reveals their plans, in order to 
 subsequently give point to the laughter of the enemy, and 
 that I myself am so stupid as not to see that the wise at the 
 same time laugh at me, and never regard me as an equal. 
 And there the fools speak sensibly enough. 
 
 It is true that my party do not regard me as one of them- 
 selves, and often laugh at me in their sleeves. I know that 
 right well, though I pretend not to observe it. But my heart 
 bleeds within me, and when I am alone, then my tears flow. 
 I know right well that my position is a false one, that all I 
 do is folly to the wise and a torment to the fools. They hate 
 me, and I feel the truth of the saying, " Stone is heavy and 
 sand is a burden, but the wrath of a fool is heavier than 
 both." And they do not hate me without reason. It is per- 
 fectly true, I have torn asunder the holiest bands, when I 
 might have lived and died among the fools, in the way of 
 the law and of God. And oh ! I should have lived so com- 
 
IDEAS 169 
 
 fortably had I remained among them ! Even now, if I would 
 repent, they would still receive me with open arms. They 
 would invite me every day to dinner, and in the evening ask me 
 to their tea-parties and clubs, and I could play whist with them, 
 smoke, talk politics, and if I yawned from time to time, they 
 would whisper behind my back, "What beautiful feelings ! " 
 "A soul inspired with such faith!" — permit me, Madame, 
 that I hereby offer up a tear of emotion — ah ! and I could 
 drink punch with them, too, until the proper inspiration came, 
 and then they would bring me in a hackney-coach to my 
 house, anxiously concerned lest I might catch cold, and one 
 would quickly bring me my slippers, another my silk dressing- 
 gown, a third my white nightcap, and finally they would 
 make me a " professor extraordinary," a president of a society 
 for converting the heathen, or head calculator or director of 
 Roman excavations ; and then I would be just the man for 
 ail this, inasmuch as I can very accurately distinguish the 
 Latin declensions from the conjugations, and am not so apt 
 as other people to mistake a postilion's boot for an Etruscan 
 vase. My peculiar nature, my faith, my inspiration, could, 
 besides this, effect much good during the prayer-meeting — 
 viz., for myself — and then my remarkable poetic genius 
 would stand me in good stead on the birthdays and at the 
 weddings of the great, nor would it be a bad thought if I, 
 in a great national epic, should sing of all those heroes, of 
 whom we know, with certainty, that from their moldering 
 bodies crept worms, who now give themselves out for their 
 descendants. 
 
 Many men who are not born fools, and who were once 
 gifted with reason, have on this account gone over to the 
 fools and lead among them a real pays du Cocägne life, and 
 those follies which at first so pained them have now become 
 second nature — yes, they are in fact no longer to be regarded 
 as hypocrites, but as true converts. One of these, in whose 
 head utter and outer darkness does not as yet entirely pre- 
 vail, really loves me, and lately, when I was alone with him, 
 he closed the door, and said, with an earnest voice, " O 
 Fool ! you who play the wise man and have not after all as 
 much sense as a recruit in his mother's belly ! know you not 
 that the great in the land only elevate those who abase them- 
 
17° PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 selves, and esteem their own blood less worthy than that of 
 the great ? And now you would ruin all among the pious ! 
 Is it then such a difficult thing to roll up your eyes in a holy 
 rapture, to hide your arms crossed in faith in your coat sleeve, 
 to let your head hang down like a lamb of God's, and to mur- 
 mur Bible sayings got by heart ! Believe me, no Gracious 
 Highness will reward you for your godlessness, the men of 
 Love will hate, abuse, and persecute you, and you will never 
 make your way either in this world, or in the next ! " 
 
 Ah, me ! it is all true enough ! But I have unfortunately 
 contracted this unlucky passion for Reason ! I love her 
 though she loves me not again. I give her all, she gives 
 me naught again. I cannot tear myself from her. And as 
 once the Jewish king Solomon in his canticles sang the Chris- 
 tian Church and that too under the form of a black, love- 
 insatiate maiden, so that his Jews might not suspect what he 
 was driving at, so have I in countless lays sung just the con- 
 trary, that is to say, reason, and that under the form of a white 
 cold beauty, who attracts and repels me, who now smiles at 
 me, then scorns me, and finally turns her back on me. This 
 secret of my unfortunate love gives you, Madame, some 
 insight into my folly. You doubtless perceive that it is of 
 an extraordinary description, and that it rises, magnificently 
 rises over the ordinary follies of mankind. Read my Rad- 
 cliffe, my Almanzor, my lyrical Intermezzo — reason ! reason ! 
 nothing but reason ! — and you will be terrified at the immen- 
 sity of my folly. In the words of Agur, I can say, " I am 
 the most foolish of all mankind, and the wisdom of man is not 
 in me." 
 
 High in the air rises the forest of oaks, high over the oaks 
 soar the eagle, high over the eagle sweep the clouds, high 
 over the clouds gleam the stars, — Madame, is not that too 
 high ? eh bien — high over the stars sweep the angels, high 
 over the angels rises — no, Madame, my folly can bring it no 
 higher than this. It soars high enough ! It grows giddy 
 before its own sublimity. It makes of me a giant in seven- 
 mile boots. At noon I feel as though I could devour all the 
 elephants of Hindustan, and then pick my teeth with the 
 spire of Strasburg cathedral ; in the evening I become so 
 sentimental that I would fain drink up the Milky Way with- 
 
IDEAS 171 
 
 out reflecting how indigestible I should find the little fixed 
 stars, and by night there is the Devil himself broke loose in 
 my head and no mistake. For then there assemble in my 
 brain the Assyrians, Egyptians, Medes, Persians, Hebrews, 
 Philistines, Frankfurters, Babylonians, Carthaginians, Ber- 
 liners, Romans, Spartans, Flatheads, and Chuckleheads — 
 Madame, it would be too wearisome should I continue to 
 enumerate all these people. Do you only read Herodotus, 
 Livy, the Magazine of Haude and Spener, Curtius, Cornelius 
 Nepos, the "Companion." — Meanwhile, I will eat my break- 
 fast, this morning I do not get along very well with my writ- 
 ing, the blessed Lord leaves me in the lurch — Madame, I 
 even fear — yes, yes, you remarked it before I did myself — 
 yes — I see. This morning I have not had any of the real 
 regular sort of divine aid. Madame, I will begin a new chap- 
 ter, and tell you how after the death of Le Grand I came to 
 Godesberg. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 When I arrived at Godesberg I sat myself once more at 
 the feet of my fair friend — and near me lay her brown hound 
 — and we both looked up into her lovely eyes. 
 
 Ah, Lord ! in those eyes lay all the splendor of earth, and 
 an entire heaven besides. I could have died with rapture as 
 I gazed into them, and had I died at that instant my soul 
 would have flown directly into those eyes. Oh ! they are 
 indescribable. I must borrow some poet, who went mad for 
 love, from a lunatic asylum, that he may from the uttermost 
 abyss of his madness fish up some simile wherewith to com- 
 pare those eyes. — (Between you and me, reader, it seems to 
 me that I must be mad enough myself, to want any help in 
 such a business.) " God damn it ! " said an English gentle- 
 man, "when she looks at a man quietly from head to foot, 
 she melts his coat buttons and heart, all into a lump ! " 
 " F — e ! " said a Frenchman. " Her eyes are of the largest 
 caliber, and when she shoots one of her forty-two pound 
 glances — crack! — there you are in love!" There was a 
 red-headed lawyer from Mayence, who said that her eyes 
 
172 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 resembled two cups of coffee — without cream. He wished 
 to say something sweet, and thought that he had done it — 
 because he always sugared his coffee to death. Wretched, 
 wretched comparisons ! I and the brown hound lay quietly 
 at the feet of the fair lady, and gazed and listened. She 
 sat near an old iron-gray soldier, a knightly looking man 
 with cross-barred scars on his terrible brow. They both 
 spoke of the Seven Mountains painted by the evening red, 
 and the blue Rhine which flooded its way along in sublime 
 tranquillity. What did we care for the Seven Mountains 
 and the blue Rhine, and the snowy sailboats which swam 
 thereon, and the music which rang from one particular boat, 
 or the jackass of a student who, seated in it, sang so melt- 
 ingly and beautifully. I and the brown hound both gazed 
 into the eyes of our fair friend, and looked at the face which 
 came forth rosy pale from amid its black braids and locks, 
 like the moon from dark clouds. The features were of the 
 noblest Grecian type, the lips boldly arched, over which 
 played melancholy, rapture, and childlike fantasy ; and when 
 she spoke, the words were breathed forth almost sighingly, 
 and then again shot out impatiently and rapidly — and when 
 she spoke, and her speech fell softly as snow, yet like a warm 
 genial flower shower from her lovely mouth — oh, then the 
 crimson of evening fell gently over my soul, and through it 
 flitted with ringing melody the memories of childhood ; but, 
 above all, like a fairy bell there pealed within the voice of 
 the little Veronica — and I grasped the fair hand of my lady 
 friend, and pressed it to my eyes, till the ringing in my soul 
 had passed away — and then I leaped up and laughed, and 
 the hound bayed, and the brow of the old general wrinkled 
 up sternly, and I sat down again and clasped and kissed the 
 beautiful hand, and told and spoke of little Veronica. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Madame — you wish me to describe the appearance of the 
 little Veronica? But I will not. You, Madame, cannot be 
 compelled to read more than you please, and I on the other 
 
IDEAS 173 
 
 hand have the right to write exactly what I choose. But I 
 will now tell what the lovely hand was like, which I kissed in 
 the previous chapter. 
 
 First of all I must confess — that I was not worthy to kiss 
 that hand. It was a lovely hand — so tender, so transparent, 
 so perfumed, brilliant, sweet, soft, beautiful — by my faith, I 
 must send to the apothecary for twelve shillings' worth of 
 adjectives. 
 
 On the middle finger there sat a ring with a pearl — I never 
 saw a pearl which played a more sorrowful part — on the mar- 
 riage finger she wore a ring with a blue antique 1 have 
 
 studied archeology in it for hours — on the forefinger she 
 wore a diamond — it was a talisman, as long as I looked at it 
 I was happy, for wherever it was, there too was the finger 
 with its four friends — and she often struck me on the mouth 
 with all five of them, Since I was thus manipulated I believe 
 fast and firm in animal magnetism. But she did not strike 
 hard, and when she struck I always deserved it by some god- 
 less speech, and as soon as she had struck me, she at once 
 repented it, and took a cake, broke it in two, and gave me 
 one half and the brown hound the other half, and smiled, and 
 said, " Neither of you have any religion, and you will never 
 be happy, and so you must be fed with cakes in this world, 
 for there will be no table spread for you in Heaven." And 
 she was more than half right, for in those days I was very 
 irreligious, and read Thomas Paine, the " Systeme de la 
 Nature," the " Westphalian Advertiser," and Schleiermacher, 
 letting my beard and my reason grow together, and had 
 thoughts of enrolling myself among the Rationalists. But 
 when that soft hand swept over my brow, my " reason " stood 
 still, and sweet dreams came into my soul, and I again dreamed 
 that I heard gentle songs of the Virgin Mother, and I thought 
 on the little Veronica. 
 
 Madame, you can hardly imagine how beautiful little Veron- 
 ica looked as she lay in her little coffin. The burning candles 
 as they stood around cast a glow on the white smiling little 
 face, and on the red silk roses and rustling gold spangles 
 with which the head and the little shroud were decked — 
 good old Ursula had led me at evening into the silent cham- 
 ber, and as I looked at the little corpse laid amid lights and 
 
174 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 flowers on the table, I at first believed that it was a pretty- 
 saint's image of wax. But I soon recognized the dear face, 
 and asked, smilingly, why little Veronica lay so still ? And 
 Ursula said, "Because she is dead, dear! " 
 
 And as she said, "Because she is dead — " But I will go 
 no further to-day with this story, it would be too long, besides 
 I should first speak of the lame magpie which hopped about 
 the castle courtyard, and was three hundred years old, and 
 then I could become regularly melancholy. A fancy all at 
 once seizes on me to tell another story, which is a merry 
 one, and just suits this place, for it is really the history itself 
 which I propose to narrate in this book. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Night and storm raged in the bosom of the knight. The 
 poniard blows of slander had struck to his heart, and as he 
 advanced sternly along over the bridge of San Marco, the 
 feeling stole over him as though that heart must burst and 
 flow away in blood. His limbs trembled with weariness — 
 the noble quarry had been fiercely hunted during the live- 
 long summer day — the drops fell from his brow, and as he 
 entered the gondola, he sighed heavily. He sat unthinkingly 
 in the black cabin of the gondola — unthinkingly the soft 
 waves shook him and bore him along the well-known way to 
 the Brenta — and as he stepped out before the well-known 
 palace, he heard that the "Signora Laura was in the Garden." 
 
 She stood leaning on the statue of the Laocoön, near the 
 red rose tree, at the end of the terrace, near the weeping wil- 
 lows, which hung down mournfully over the water. There 
 she stood, smiling, a pale image of love, amid the perfume of 
 roses. At the sight he suddenly awaked as from some ter- 
 rible dream, and was at once changed to mildness and long- 
 ing. " Signora Laura," said he, " I am wretched and tormented 
 with hatred and oppression and falsehood" — and here he 
 suddenly paused and stammered, — "but I love you" — and 
 then a tear of joy darted into his eye, and with palpitating 
 heart he cried, — " be my own love and love me ! " . . . 
 
IDEAS 175 
 
 There lies a veil of dark mystery over that hour, no mortal 
 has ever known what Signora Laura replied, and when they 
 ask her guardian angel in Heaven what took place, he hides 
 his face, and sighs, and is silent. 
 
 Solitary and alone stood the knight by the statue of the 
 Laocoon — his own face was not less convulsed and deathly 
 pale, unconsciously he tore away the roses from the rose-tree 
 — yes, he plucked even the young buds. Since that hour 
 the rose-tree never bore another floweret — far in the dim 
 distance sang an insane nightingale — the willows whispered 
 in agony, mournfully murmured the cool waves of the Brenta, 
 night rose on high with her moon and stars — and one star, 
 the loveliest of all, fell adown from Heaven ! 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Vous pleurez, Madame ? 
 
 Oh, may the eyes which shed such lovely tears long light 
 up the world with their rays, and may a warm and loving 
 hand close them in the hour of death? A soft pillow, 
 Madame, is also a very convenient thing when dying, and I 
 trust that you will not be without it; and when the fair, 
 weary head sinks down, and the black locks fall in waves 
 over the fast-fading face, oh, then, may God repay those 
 tears which have fallen for me — for I myself am the knight 
 for whom you wept — yes, I am the erring errant Knight of 
 Love, the Knight of the Fallen Star ! 
 
 Vous pleurez, Madame ! 
 
 Oh, I understand those tears ! Why need I longer play a 
 feigned part ? You, Madame, you yourself are that fair lady, 
 who wept so softly in Godesberg, when I told the sad story 
 of my life. Like drops of pearly dew over roses, the beauti- 
 ful tears ran over the beautiful face — the hound was silent, 
 the vesper chimes pealed far away in Königswinter, the 
 Rhine murmured more gently, night covered the earth with 
 her black mantle, and I sat at your feet, Madame, and looked 
 on high into the starry heaven. At first I took your eyes also 
 for two stars ? But how could any one mistake such eyes for 
 
176 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 stars ? Those cold lights of heaven cannot weep over the 
 misery of a man who is so wretched that he cannot weep. 
 
 And I had a particular reason for not mistaking those 
 lovely eyes — for in them dwells the soul of little Veronica. 
 
 I have reckoned it up, Madame, you were born on the very 
 day on which Veronica died. Johanna, in Andernach, told 
 me that I would find little Veronica again in Godesberg — 
 and I found her and knew her at once. That was a sad 
 chance, Madame, that you should die, just as the beautiful 
 game was about to begin. Since pious Ursula said to me, 
 "It is death, dear," I have gone about solitary and serious in 
 great picture-galleries, but the pictures could not please me 
 as they once did — they seemed to have suddenly faded — 
 there was but a single work which retained its color and bril- 
 liancy — you know, Madame, to which piece I refer: 
 
 It is the Sultan and Sultaness of Delhi. 
 
 Do you remember, Madame, how we stood long hours 
 before it, and how significantly good Ursula smiled, when 
 people remarked that the faces in that picture so much 
 resembled our own ? Madame, I find that your likeness is 
 admirably taken in that picture, and it passes comprehension 
 how the artist could have so accurately represented you, even 
 to the very garments which you then wore. They say that 
 he was mad and must have dreamed your form. Or was 
 there perhaps a soul in the great holy monkey who waited on 
 you, in those days, like a page? — in that case he must cer- 
 tainly remember the silver-gray veil, on which he once spilled 
 red wine, and spoiled it. I was glad when you lost him, he 
 did not dress you remarkably well, and at any rate, the 
 European dress is much more dressy than the Indian — not 
 but that beautiful women are lovely in any dress. Do you 
 remember, Madame, that a gallant Brahmin — he looked for 
 all the world like Ganesa, the god with an elephant's trunk, 
 who rides on a mouse — once paid you the compliment that 
 the divine Maneka, as she came down from Indra's golden 
 hill to the royal penitent Wiswamitra, was not certainly fairer 
 than you, Madame ? 
 
 What — forgotten it already ! — Why, it cannot be more 
 than three thousand years since he said that, and beautiful 
 women are not wont to forget delicate flattery so quickly. 
 
IDEAS 177 
 
 However, for men, the Indian dress is far more becoming 
 than the European. O my rosy-red lotus-flowered panta- 
 loons of Delhi ! had I worn ye when I stood before the 
 Signora Laura and begged for love — the previous chapter 
 would have rung to a different tune ! Alas ! alas ! I wore 
 straw-colored pantaloons, which some sober Chinese had 
 woven in Nankeen — my ruin was woven with them — the 
 threads of my destiny — and I was made miserable. 
 
 Often there sits in a quiet old German coffee-house a 
 youth, silently sipping his cup of Mocha; and, meanwhile, 
 there blooms and grows in far distant China, his ruin, and 
 there it is spun and woven, and despite the high wall of 
 China, it knows how to find its way to the youth who deems 
 it but a pair of Nankeen trousers, and all unheeding, in the 
 gay buoyancy of youth, he pulls them on, and is lost forever ! 
 And, Madame, in the little breast of a mortal, so much misery 
 can hide itself, and keep itself so well hid there, that the 
 poor man himself for days together does not feel it, and is as 
 jolly as a piper, and merrily dances and whistles and trolls — 
 lalarallala, lalarallala la la la. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 She was amiable and he loved her, but he was not worthy of love, and she did 
 not love him. — Old Play, 
 
 And for this nonsensical affair you were about to shoot 
 yourself ? 
 
 Madame, when a gentleman desires to shoot himself, he 
 generally has ample reason for it — you may be certain of 
 that. But whether he himself knows what these reasons are 
 is another question. We mask even our miseries, and while 
 we die of bosom wounds, we complain of the toothache. 
 
 Madame, you have, I know, a remedy for the toothache ? 
 
 Alas ! I had the toothache in my heart. That is a weary- 
 ing pain, and requires plugging — with lead, and with the 
 tooth-powder invented by Berthold Schwartz. 
 
 Misery gnawed at my heart like a worm, and gnawed — 
 13 
 
1/8 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the poor devil of a Chinese was not to blame, I brought the 
 misery with me into the world. It lay with me in the cradle, 
 and when my mother rocked me, she rocked it with me, and 
 when she sang me to sleep, it slept with me, and it awoke 
 when I opened my eyes. When I grew up, it grew with me, 
 
 until it was altogether too great and burst my . 
 
 Now we will speak of other things — of virgins' wreaths, 
 
 masked balls, of joy and bridal pleasure lalarallala, lala- 
 
 rallala, lalaral la la la. 
 
A NEW SPRING 
 
 Motto : A pine-tree stands alone 
 
 In the north — — — 
 
 He is dreaming of a palm 
 Which afar — — — 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 O 
 
 FT in galleries of Art 
 
 On a pictured knight we glance, 
 Who to battle will depart, 
 
 Armed well with shield and lance. 
 
 But young Cupids mocking round him, 
 Bear his lance and sword away, 
 
 And with rosy wreaths they've bound him, 
 Though he strives as best he may. 
 
 Thus to pleasant fetters yielding, 
 
 Still I turn the idle rhyme, 
 While the brave their arms are wielding 
 
 In the mighty strife of Time. 
 
 When 'neath snow-white branches sitting, 
 Far thou hearest the wild-wind chiding, 
 
 Seest the silent clouds above thee, 
 In their wintry garments hiding ; 
 
 Seest that all seems cold and deathlike, 
 W r ood and plain lie shorn before thee, 
 
 E'en thy heart is still and frozen, 
 Winter round and winter o'er thee. 
 179 
 
180 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 All at once ad own come falling 
 
 Pure white flakes, and then thou grievest, 
 
 That the weary, dreary winter 
 Should return, as. thou believest. 
 
 But those are not snowflakes falling, 
 
 Soon thou mark'st with pleasant wonder 
 
 That they all are perfumed blossoms, 
 From the tree thou sittest under. 
 
 What a thrilling sweet amazement ! 
 
 Winter turns to May and pleasure ; 
 Snow is changed to lovely spring flowers, 
 
 And thou find'st a new heart's treasure. 
 
 In the wood all softly greeneth, 
 As if maidenlike 'twould woo thee ; 
 
 And the sun from Heaven smileth : 
 
 " Fair young spring, a welcome to thee ! " 
 
 Nightingale ! I hear thy singing, 
 As thou flutest, sweetly moving, 
 
 Sighing long-drawn notes of rapture, 
 And thy song is all of loving. 
 
 The lovely eyes of the young spring night, 
 
 So softly down are gazing — 
 Oh, the love which bore thee down with might, 
 
 Erelong will thy soul be raising. 
 
 All on yon linden sits and sings, 
 
 The nightingale soft trilling ; 
 And as her music in me rings, 
 
 My soul with love is thrilling. 
 
 I love a fair flower, but I know not its name ; 
 
 Oh, sorrow and smart ! 
 I look in each flower cup — my luck is the same 
 
 For I seek for a heart 
 
A NEW SPRING l8l 
 
 The flowers breathe their perfumes — in evening's red shine, 
 
 The nightingale trills. 
 I seek for a heart which is gertle as mine, 
 
 Which as tenderly thrills. 
 
 The nightingale sings, and I know what she says 
 
 In her beautiful song : 
 We both are love weary and lorn in our lays, 
 
 And oh ! sorrow is long. 
 
 Sweet May lies fresh before us, 
 To life the young flowers leap, 
 
 And through the Heaven's blue o'er us 
 The rosy cloudlets sweep. 
 
 The nightingale is singing, 
 
 Adown from leafy screen, 
 And young white lambs are springing 
 
 In clover fresh and green. 
 
 I cannot be singing and springing, 
 
 I lie on the grassy plot, 
 I hear a far-distant ringing, 
 
 I dream and I know not what. 
 
 Softly ring and through me spring, 
 The sweetest tones to-day ; 
 
 Gently ring, small song of spring, 
 Ring out and far away. 
 
 Ring and roam unto the home, 
 
 Where violets you see, 
 And when unto a rose you come, 
 
 Oh, greet that rose for me. 
 
 The butterfly long loved the beautiful rose, 
 
 And flirted around all day ; 
 While round him in turn with her golden caress, 
 
 Soft fluttered the sun's warm ray. 
 
1 82 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 But who was the lover the rose smiled on, 
 Dwelt he near the sweet lady or far? 
 
 And was it the clear-singing nightingale, 
 Or the bright distant Evening Star ? 
 
 I know not with whom the rose was in love, 
 But I know that I loved them all. 
 
 The butterfly, rose, and the sun's bright ray, 
 The star and the bird's sweet call. 
 
 Yes — all the trees are musical 
 Soft notes the nests inspire ; 
 
 Who in the greenwood orchestra 
 Leads off the tuneful choir ? 
 
 Is it yon gray old lapwing, 
 
 Who nods so seriously ; 
 Or the pedant who cries " cuckoo " 
 
 In time, unweariedly? 
 
 Is it the stork who sternly 
 As though he led the band, 
 
 Claps with his legs, while music 
 Pipes sweet on either hand ? 
 
 No — in my heart is seated 
 The one who rules those tones, 
 
 As my heart throbs he times them, 
 And love's the name he owns. 
 
 " In the beginning sweetly sang 
 
 The nightingale in love's first hours, 
 
 And as she sang, grew everywhere 
 Blue violets, grass, and apple flowers. 
 
 " She bit into her breast — out ran 
 
 The crimson blood, and from its shower 
 
 The first red rose its life began, 
 
 To which she sings of love's deep power. 
 
A NEW SPRING 183 
 
 " And all the birds which round us trill, 
 Are saved by that sweet blood they say ; 
 
 And if the rose song rang no more, 
 Then all were lost and passed away." 
 
 Thus to his little nestlings spoke 
 
 The sparrow in the old oak-tree ; 
 Dame sparrow oft his lecture broke, 
 
 Throned in her brooding dignity. 
 
 She leads a kind, domestic life, 
 
 And nurses well with temper good ; 
 To pass his time, the father gives 
 
 Religious lessons to his brood. 
 
 The warm, bewildering spring night air 
 Wakes flow'rets on the plain ; 
 
 And oh, my heart, beware, beware, 
 Or thou wilt love again. 
 
 But say — what flower on hill, or dale, 
 Will snare this willing heart? 
 
 I'm cautioned by the nightingale 
 Against the lily's art. 
 
 Trouble and torment — I hear the bells ring? 
 
 And oh ! to my sorrow, I've lost my poor head ! 
 Two beautiful eyes, and the fresh growing spring, 
 
 Have plotted to capture me, living or dead. 
 
 The beautiful spring, and two lovely young eyes, 
 
 Once more this poor heart in their meshes have got. 
 
 The rose and the nightingale — yonder she flies, 
 Are deeply involved in this terrible plot. 
 
 Ah me, for tears I'm burning, 
 Soft, sorrowing tears of love, 
 
 Yet I fear this wild, sad yearning 
 But too well my heart will move, 
 
1 34 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Ah ! love's delicious sorrow, 
 And love's too bitter joy 
 
 With its heavenly pains, ere morrow 
 Will my half-won peace destroy. 
 
 The spring's blue eyes are open, 
 Up from the grass they look ; 
 
 I mean the lovely violets, 
 Which for a wreath I took. 
 
 I plucked the flowers while thinking, 
 And my thoughts in one sad tale, 
 
 To the breezes were repeated, 
 By the listening nightingale. 
 
 Yes — every thought she warbled, 
 
 As from my soul it rose, 
 And now my tender secret, 
 
 The whole green forest knows. 
 
 When thou didst pass beside me, 
 Thy soft touch thrilled me through, 
 
 Then my heart leaped up and wildly 
 On thy lovely traces flew. 
 
 Then thou didst gaze upon me, 
 With thy great eyes looking back, 
 
 And my heart was so much frightened, 
 It scarce could keep the track. 
 
 The graceful water-lily 
 
 Looks dreamily up from the lake, 
 And the moon looketh lovingly on her, 
 
 For light love keeps fond hearts awake. 
 
 Then she bows her small head to the water, 
 Ashamed those bright glances to meet, 
 
 And sees the poor, pale lily lovers 
 All lying in love at her feet. 
 
A NEW SPRING 185 
 
 If thou perchance good eyesight hast, 
 
 When with my works thou'rt playing, 
 Thou'lt see a beauty up and down 
 
 Among the ballads straying. 
 
 And if perchance good ears are thine, 
 
 Oh, then thou may'st rejoice, 
 And thy heart may be bewildered, 
 
 With her laughing, sighing voice. 
 
 And well I ween with glance and word 
 
 Full sore she'll puzzle thee, 
 And thou'lt go dreaming round in love 
 
 As once it chanced to me. 
 
 What drives thee around in the warm spring night, 
 Thou hast driven the flowers half crazy with fright ; 
 
 The violets no longer are sleeping, 
 The rose in her night-dress is blushing so red, 
 The lilies — poor things — sit so pale in their bed 
 
 They are crying and trembling and weeping. 
 
 Ah, dearest moon ! how gentle and good 
 
 Are all these fair flowers — in truth I've been rude ; 
 
 I've been making sad work with my walking : 
 But how could I know they were lurking around, 
 When bewildered with love I strayed over the ground, 
 
 And to the bright planets was talking ? 
 
 When thy blue eyes turn on me, 
 And gaze so soft and meek, 
 
 Such dreamy moods steal o'er me, 
 That I no word can speak. 
 
 I dream of those blue glances, 
 
 When we are far apart, 
 And a sea of soft blue memories 
 
 Comes pouring o'er my heart. 
 
1 86 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Once again my heart is living, 
 And old sorrows pass away ; 
 
 Once again the tenderest feelings 
 Seem reviving with the May. 
 
 Evening late and morning early 
 Through the well-known paths I rove, 
 
 Peeping under every bonnet, 
 Looking for the face I love. 
 
 Once again I'm by the river, 
 On the bridge as in a trance ; 
 
 What if she came sailing by me, 
 What if I should meet her glance ! 
 
 Now once more 'mid falling water, 
 Gentle wailings seem to play, 
 
 And my heart in beauty catches 
 All the snow-white waters say. 
 
 And once more I dreaming wander 
 Through the greenwood dark and cool, 
 
 While the birds among the bushes 
 Mock me — poor enamored fool. 
 
 The rose breathes perfumes — but if she has feeling 
 Of what she breathes, or if the nightingale 
 
 Feels in herself what through our souls is stealing 
 When her soft notes are quivering through the vale 
 
 I do not know — yet oft we're discontented 
 With Truth itself ! and nightingale and rose, 
 
 Although their feelings be but lies invented, 
 Still have their use, as many a story shows. 
 
 Because I love thee 'tis my duty 
 To shun thy face — nay, anger not ; 
 
 Would it agree — that dream of beauty 
 With my pale face so soon forgot? 
 
A NEW SPRING 1 87 
 
 But ere I leave thee, let me tell thee, 
 
 'Twas all through love this hue I got, 
 And soon its pallor must repel thee, 
 
 And so I'll leave 
 
 Amid the flowers I wander, 
 And blossoms as they blow ; 
 
 I wander as if dreaming, 
 Uncertain where I go. 
 
 Oh, hold me fast, thou dearest — 
 I'm drunk with love, d'ye see? 
 
 Or at your feet I'll fall, love, 
 And yonder is company. 
 
 As the moon's reflection trembles 
 In the wild and wavering deeps, 
 
 While the moon herself in silence, 
 O'er the arch of heaven sweeps ; 
 
 Even so I see thee — loved one, 
 Calm and silent, and there moves 
 
 But thine image in my bosom, 
 For my heart is thrilled and loves. 
 
 When both our hearts together, 
 The holy alliance made ; 
 
 They understood each other, 
 And mine on thine was laid. 
 
 But oh — the poor young rosebud, 
 Which lay just underneath, 
 
 The minor, weaker ally, 
 
 Was almost crushed to death. 
 
 Tell me who first invented the clocks 
 Classing the hours and the minutes in flocks ? 
 That was some shivering, sorrowful man — 
 Deep into midnight his reveries ran, 
 
1 88 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 While he counted the nibbling of mice 'round the hall, 
 And the notes of the deathwatch which ticked in the wall. 
 
 Tell me who first invented a kiss ? 
 Oh, that was some smiling young mouth, full of bliss, 
 It kissed without thinking and still kissed away. 
 'Twas all in the beautiful fresh month of May, 
 Up from the earth the young blossoms sprung, 
 The sunbeams were shining, the merry birds sung. 
 
 How the sweet pinks breathe their perfumes, 
 How the stars, a wondrous throng, 
 
 Like gold bees o'er the blue heaven, 
 Brightly shining, pass along. 
 
 From the darkness of the chestnuts 
 Gleams the farmhouse white and fair ; 
 
 I can hear its glass doors rustle, 
 And sweet voices whispering there. 
 
 Gentle trembling — sweet emotion, 
 
 Frightened white arms round me cling, 
 
 And the sweet young roses listen, 
 While the nightingales soft sing. 
 
 Have I not dreamed this selfsame dream 
 
 Ere now in happier hours ? 
 Those trees the very same do seem, 
 
 Love glances, kisses, flowers. 
 
 Was it not here that calm and cold, 
 The moon looked down in state ? 
 
 Did not these marble gods then hold 
 Their watch beside the gate? 
 
 Alas ! I know how sadly change 
 These all-too-lovely dreams ; 
 
 And as with snowy mantle strange 
 All chill enveloped seems. 
 
A NEW SPRING 189 
 
 So we ourselves grow calm and cold, 
 
 Break off and live apart ; 
 Yes, we — who loved so well of old 
 
 And kissed with heart to heart. 
 
 Kisses which we steal in darkness 
 And in darkness give again ; 
 
 Oh, such kisses — how they rapture 
 A poor soul in living pain. 
 
 Half foreboding, half remembering 
 Thoughts through all the spirit roam ; 
 
 Many a dream of days long vanished, 
 Many a dream of days to come. 
 
 But to thus be ever thinking, 
 Is unthinking, when we kiss ; 
 
 Rather weep, thou gentle darling, 
 For our tears we never miss. 
 
 There was an old, old monarch, 
 
 His head was gray, and sad his life ; 
 
 Alas, the poor old monarch, 
 He married a fair young wife. 
 
 There was a handsome stripling, 
 
 Blonde were his locks, and light his mien ; 
 He bore the train — the silken train, 
 
 All of the fair young queen. 
 
 Know'st thou the old, old ballad, 
 
 It ringeth like a passing bell ; 
 The queen and page must die — alas ! 
 
 They loved — and all too well. 
 
 Again in my memory are blooming, 
 Fair pictures long faded away ; 
 
 Oh, where in thy voice is the mystery, 
 Which moves me so deeply to-day? 
 
190 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Oh, say not, I pray, that thou lov'st me, 
 The fairest that Nature can frame ; 
 
 The springtime — and with it the spring love, 
 Must end in warm passion and shame. 
 
 Oh, say not, I pray, that thou lov'st me, 
 And kiss and be silent, I pray, 
 
 And smile when I show thee to-morrow 
 The roses all faded away. 
 
 Linden blossoms drunk with moonlight, 
 Melt away in soft perfume ; 
 
 And the nightingales with carols 
 Thrill the air amid the bloom. 
 
 Oh, but is't not sweet, my loved one, 
 Thus 'neath linden boughs to sit, 
 
 While the golden flashing moon-rays, 
 Through the perfumed foliage flit ? 
 
 Every linden leaf above us, 
 Like a heart is shaped we see, 
 
 Therefore, dearest, lovers ever 
 Sit beneath the linden-tree. 
 
 But thou smilest as if wandering 
 In some distant, longing dream ; 
 
 Tell me, dearest, — with what visions 
 Doth thy busy fancy teem? 
 
 Gladly will I tell thee, dear one, 
 What I fancied — I would fain 
 
 Feel the North wind blowing o'er us 
 And the white snow fall again — 
 
 And that we in furs warm folded 
 
 In a sleigh sat side by side, 
 Bells wild ringing — whips loud crackim 
 
 As o'er flood and fields we glide. 
 
A NEW SPRING 191 
 
 In the moonshine — through the forest, 
 
 Once I saw the fairies bounding, 
 Heard their elfin bells soft ringing, 
 
 Heard their little trumpecs sounding. 
 
 Every snow-white steed was bearing 
 
 Golden stag-horns, and they darted 
 Headlong on, like frighted wild fowl, 
 
 From their far companions .parted. 
 
 But the Elf Queen smiled upon me, 
 
 Sweetly as she passed before me ; 
 Was't the omen of a new love, 
 
 Or a sign that death hangs o'er me ? 
 
 I'll send thee violets to-morrow, 
 
 Fresh dripping from the dewy showers ; 
 
 At eve again I'll bring thee roses, 
 
 Which I have plucked in twilight hours. 
 
 And know'st thou what the lovely blossom 
 To thee — sub rosa — fain would say ? 
 
 They mean that thou through night shouldst love me, 
 Yet still be true to me by day. 
 
 Thy letter, fickle rover, 
 Will cause no tearful song ; 
 
 Thou sayest that all is over, 
 And the letter is overtone. 
 
 l ö" 
 
 Twelve pages filled completely, 
 A perfect book, my friend ; 
 
 Oh, girls don't write so neatly 
 When they the mitten send. 
 
 Do not fear lest I, unconscious, 
 Tell my love to those around — 
 
 Though my songs with many a figure 
 Of thy beauty still abound. 
 
192 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 In a wondrous flowering forest 
 Lies well hidden, cowering low, 
 
 All the deeply burning mystery, 
 All its secret, silent glow. 
 
 If suspicious flames should quiver 
 'Mid the roses — let them be ; 
 
 No one now believes in flames, love, 
 But they call them — poetry. 
 
 As by daylight, so at midnight, 
 
 Spring thoughts in my soul are teeming, 
 Like a verdant echo, ever 
 
 In me ringing, in me beaming. 
 
 Then in dreams as in a legend, 
 
 Songs of birds are round me trilling, 
 
 Yet far sweeter, wild in passion, 
 Violet breath the air is filling. 
 
 Every rose seems ruddier blushing 
 'Neath a glory, childlike golden, 
 
 As in glowing Gothic pictures, 
 Worn by angels fair and olden. 
 
 And I seem as if transformed 
 
 To a nightingale, soft singing, 
 While unto a rose — my loved one — 
 
 Dream-like, strange, my notes are ringing. 
 
 Till the sun's bright glances wake me, 
 
 Or the merry jargoning 
 Of those other pleasant warblers 
 
 Who before my window sing. 
 
 With their small gold feet the planets 
 Step on tiptoe soft and light, 
 
 Lest they wake the earth below them 
 Sleeping on the breast of night. 
 
A NEW SPRING 193 
 
 Listening stand the silent forests, 
 
 Every leaf a soft green ear, 
 While the mountain as if dreaming, 
 
 Holds its arms to cloudlets near. 
 
 But what calls me ? In my bosom 
 
 Rings a soft and flute-like wail, 
 Was't the accents of the loved one, 
 
 Was it but the nightingale ? 
 
 Ah, spring is sad, and there is sadness 
 In all its dreams, the flower-decked vale 
 
 Seems sorrowful. I hear no gladness 
 E'en from the singing nightingale. 
 
 Smile not so brightly then, my dearest, 
 Ah, do not smile so sweet to-day, 
 
 Or rather weep — but if thou fearest 
 I'm cold — I'll kiss those tears away. 
 
 And from the heart I loved so dearly, 
 
 By cruel fate I'm torn away 
 From that dear heart I loved so dearly, 
 
 Ah, knowest thou how fain I'd stay. 
 
 The coach rolls on — the bridges thunder, 
 Beneath I see the dark flood swell, 
 
 I'm parted from that loveliest wonder 
 That heart of hearts I love so well. 
 
 14 
 
 Our sweetest hopes rise blooming, 
 And then again are gone, 
 
 They bloom and fade alternate, 
 And so it goes rolling on. 
 
 I know it, and it troubles 
 My life, my love, my rest, 
 
 My heart is wise and witty, 
 
 And it bleeds within my breast. 
 
194 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Like an old man stern in feature, 
 Heaven above me seems to glare, 
 
 His burning eyes surrounded 
 With grisly cloudy hair. 
 
 And when on earth he's gazing, 
 Flower and leaf must wilt away, 
 
 Love and song must wither with them 
 In man's heart — ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 With bitter soul my poor sad heart still galling, 
 I go aweary through this world so cold, 
 Lo, autumn endeth and the mists enfold 
 
 The long dead landscape as with heavy walling. 
 
 Loud pipe the winds, as if in frenzy calling 
 
 To the red leaves which here and there are rolled, 
 The lorn wood sighs, fogs clothe the barren wold, 
 
 And worst of all, I think the rain is falling. 
 
 Late autumnal cloud-cold fancies, 
 Spread like gauze o'er dale and hill, 
 
 And no more the green leaf dances 
 On the branches — ghostlike still. 
 
 And amid the grove there's only 
 
 One sad tree, as yet in leaf, 
 Damp with sorrow's tears and lonely, 
 
 How his green head throbs with grief. 
 
 Ah, my heart is all in keeping 
 
 With yon scene — the one tree there - 
 Summer-green, yet sadly weeping, 
 
 Is thine image lady fair. 
 
 Gray and week-day looking Heaven ! 
 
 E'en the city looks dejected ; 
 Grum as if no plans had thriven, 
 
 In the Elbe it stands reflected. 
 
A NEW SPRING 195 
 
 Snubbed noses — snubbing, sneezing, 
 
 Are ye cut as once — and cutting ? 
 Are the saints still mild appearing, 
 
 Or puffed up and proudly strutting? 
 
 Lovely South, how bright and towering, 
 Seem thy heavens and gods together, 
 
 Now I see this vile offscouring 
 
 Of base mortals and their weather. 
 
ITALY 
 
 " Hafiz and Ulrich Hütten, too, 
 
 Must don their arms, and get to blows, 
 Against the cowls, both brown and blue, 
 
 — My fate like other Christians' goes." — Goethe. 
 
 JOURNEY FROM MUNICH TO GENOA 
 
 " A noble soul never comes into your reckoning ; and it is that which to-day 
 has foundered your wisdom. (He opens his desk, and takes out two pistols, of 
 which he loads one and lays the other on the table.)" — Robert's Power of Cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 I AM the politest man in the world. I enjoy myself in the 
 reflection that I have never been rude in this life, where 
 there are so many intolerable scamps, who take you by 
 the button, and drawl out their grievances, or even declaim 
 their poems — yes, with true Christian patience have I ever 
 listened to their misereres, without betraying, by a glance, 
 the intensity of ennui, and of boredom, into which my soul 
 was plunged. Like unto a penitential martyr of a Brahmin, 
 who offers up his body to devouring vermin, so that the 
 creatures (also created by God) may satiate their appetites, 
 so have I, for a whole day, taken my stand, and calmly lis- 
 tened as I grinned and bore the chattering of the rabble, and 
 my internal sighs were only heard by Him who rewards 
 virtue. 
 
 But the wisdom of daily life enjoins politeness, and forbids 
 a vexed silence or a vexatious reply, even when some chuckle- 
 headed " Commercial Councilor," or barren-brained cheese- 
 monger, makes a set at us, beginning a conversation common 
 to all Europe with the words, " Fine weather to-day." No 
 one knows but that we may meet that same Philistine again, 
 when he may wreak bitter vengeance on us for not politely 
 
 196 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 197 
 
 replying, " It is very fine weather." Nay, it may even happen, 
 dear reader, that thou mayest, some fine day, come to sit by 
 the Philistine aforesaid, in the inn at Cassel, and at the table 
 d'höte — even by his left side, when he is exactly the very 
 man who has the dish with a jolly brown carp in it, which he 
 is merrily dividing among the many ; — if he now chance to 
 have some ancient grudge against thee, he pushes away the 
 dish to the right, so that thou gettest not the smallest bit of 
 tail — and therewith canst not carp at all. For, alas ! thou 
 art just the thirteenth at table, which is always an unlucky 
 thing when thou sittest at the left hand of the carver, and 
 the dish goes around to the right. And to get no carp is a 
 great evil ; perhaps, next to the loss of the national cockade, 
 the greatest of all. The Philistine, who has prepared this 
 evil, now mocks thee with a heavy grin, offering thee the 
 laurel leaves which lie in the brown sauce — alas ! what avail 
 laurels, if you have no carp with them ! — and the Philistine 
 twinkles his eyes, and snickers, and whispers, " Fine weather 
 to-day ! " 
 
 Ah ! dear soul, it may even happen to thee that thou wilt, 
 at last, come to lie in some churchyard next to that same 
 Philistine, and when, on the Day of Judgment, thou hearest 
 the trumpet sound, and sayest to thy neighbor, " Good friend, 
 be so kind as to reach me your hand, if you please, and help 
 me to stand up — my left leg is asleep with this damned long 
 lying still ! " — then thou wilt suddenly remember the well- 
 known Philistine laugh and wilt hear the mocking tones of 
 " Fine weather to-day ! " 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 " Foine wey-ther to-day — " 
 
 Oh, reader, if you could only have heard the tone — the 
 incomparable trouble-bass — in which these words were 
 uttered, and could have seen the speaker himself — the arch- 
 prosaic, widow's-saving-bank countenance, the stupid-cute 
 eyelets, the cocked-up, cunning, investigating nose — you 
 would have at once said, " This flower grew on no common 
 sand, and these tones are in the dialect of Charlottenburg, 
 
198 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 where the tongue of Berlin is spoken even better than in Berlin 
 itself. 
 
 I am the politest man in the world. I love to eat brown 
 carps, and I believe in the resurrection. Therefore I replied, 
 " In fact, the weather is very fine." 
 
 When the Son of the Spree heard that, he grappled boldly 
 on me, and I could not escape from his endless questions, to 
 which he himself answered; nor, above all, from his com- 
 parisons between Berlin and Munich, which latter city he 
 would not admit had a single good hair growing on it. 
 
 I, however, took the modern Athens under my protection, 
 being always accustomed to praise the place where I am. 
 Friend reader, if I did this at the expense of Berlin, you will 
 forgive me, when I quietly confess that it was done out of 
 pure policy, for I am fully aware that if I should ever begin 
 to praise my good Berliners, my renown would be forever at 
 an end among them. For they would begin at once to shrug 
 their shoulders, and whisper to one another, " The man 
 must be uncommonly green — he even praises us!" No 
 town in the world has so little local patriotism as Berlin. A 
 thousand miserable poets have, it is true, long since celebrated 
 Berlin, both in prose and in rhyme, yet no cock in Berlin 
 crowed their praise and no hen was cooked for them, and 
 "under the Lindens" they were esteemed miserable poets as 
 before. On the other hand, as little notice is taken when 
 some doggerel poet lets fly in parabasa 1 directly at Berlin. 
 But let any one dare to write anything against Polknitz, 
 Innsbruck, Schiida, Posen, Krähwinkel, or other capital cities ! 
 How the patriotism of the said places would bristle up ! The 
 reason of which is : Berlin is no real town, but simply a place 
 where many men, and among them men of intelligence, assem- 
 ble, who are utterly indifferent as to the place ; and these 
 persons form the intelligent world of Berlin. The stranger 
 who passes through sees but the far-stretching, uniform look- 
 ing houses, the long, broad streets, built by the line and level, 
 and, very generally, by the will of some particular person, but 
 which afford no clue to the manner of thinking of the multi- 
 
 1 Par abäsen — rrapaßadi^. In the ancient comedy, a passage addressed 
 directly to the audience. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 1 99 
 
 tude. Only Sunday children 1 can ever guess at the private 
 state of mind of the dwellers therein, when they behold the 
 long rows of houses, which, like the men themselves, seem 
 striving to get as far apart as possible, as if they were star- 
 ing at each other with mutual vindictiveness. Only once 
 — one moonlight night — as I returned home late from Lu- 
 ther and Wegener, I observed that the harsh, hard mood had 
 melted into mild sorrow, and that, in reconciliation, they would 
 fain leap into each other's arms ; so that I, poor mortal, who 
 was walking through the middle of the street, feared to be 
 squeezed to death. Many would have found this fear laugh- 
 able, and I myself laughed at it when I, the next morning, 
 wandered soberly through the same scene, and found the 
 houses yawning as prosaically at each other as before. It is 
 true that it requires several bottles of poetry, if a man wishes 
 to see anything more in Berlin than dead houses and Berliners. 
 Here it is hard to see ghosts. The town contains so few 
 antiquities, and is so new; and yet all this "new" is already 
 so old, so withered and dead. For, as I said, it has grown, in 
 a great degree, not from the intellect of the people, but from 
 that of individuals. Frederick the Great is of course the 
 most eminent among these. What he discovered was the 
 firm foundation, and had nothing been built in Berlin since 
 his death, we should have had a historic monument of the 
 soul of that prosaic, wondrous hero, who, with downright 
 German bravery, set forth in himself the refined insipidity 
 and flourishing freedom of intelligence, the shallowness and 
 the excellence of his age. Potsdam, for instance, seems to 
 be such a monument ; amid its deserted streets we wander 
 among the writings of the philosopher of "Sans Souci" — it 
 belongs to his ceuvres posthumes, and though it is now but 
 petrified waste paper, and looks ridiculous enough, we still 
 regard it with earnest interest, and suppress an occasional 
 smile, when it rises, as if we feared a sudden blow across our 
 backs from the Malacca cane of " old Fritz." But such feel- 
 ings never assail us in Berlin ; we there feel that old Fritz 
 and his Malacca cane have lost their power, or else there 
 
 1 Sunday children. — Those who are born on Sunday are supposed, in 
 Germany, to be better able to see ghosts, and to have a greater insight into 
 spiritual mysteries than other people. 
 
200 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 would not peep so many a sickly, stupid countenance from 
 the old enlightened windows of the healthy town of reason, 
 nor would so many stupid, superstitious houses have settled 
 down among the old skeptical, philosophical dwellings. I 
 would not be misunderstood, and expressly remark that I am 
 not here in any wise snapping at the new Werder Church — 
 that Gothic temple in revived proportions — which has been 
 put, out of pure irony, between modern buildings, in order to 
 indicate allegorically how childish and stupid it would appear 
 if any one were desirous of reviving the long obsolete institu- 
 tions of the Middle Ages among the new formations of a 
 modern day. 
 
 The above remarks are applicable only to the exterior of 
 Berlin, and if any one wishes to compare Munich, in this 
 relation, to Berlin, he may safely assert that it forms its very 
 opposite. For Munich is a town built by the people in per- 
 son, and by one generation after another, whose peculiar 
 spirit is still visible in their architectural works ; so that we 
 behold there, as in the witch scene in " Macbeth," a chronologi- 
 cal array of ghosts, from the dark red specter of the Middle 
 Ages, who, in full armor, steps forth from some ecclesiastical 
 Gothic doorway, down to the accomplished and light-footed 
 sprite of our own age, who holds out to us a mirror, in which 
 every one complacently beholds himself reflected. In all 
 these scenes there is something which reconciles our feelings ; 
 that which is barbaric does not disturb us, and the old-fash- 
 ioned does not seem repugnant, when we are brought to re- 
 gard it as a beginning to that which comes after, and as a 
 necessary transition state. We are cast into an earnest, but 
 not unpleasant, state of mind, when we gaze upon that bar- 
 baric cathedral, which rises, like a colossal bootjack, over 
 the entire city, and hides in its bosom the shadows and ghosts 
 of the Middle Ages. With as little impatience — yes, with 
 quizzical ease — we regard the brick-in-their-hat-looking cas- 
 tles of a later period — those plump German imitations of 
 polished French unnaturalness, the stately dwellings of taste- 
 lessness, madly ornamental and flourishing from without, 
 and still more filagreeishly decorated within with screamingly 
 variegated allegories, gilt arabesques, stuccoes, and those 
 paintings wherein the late nobility, of happy memory, are 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 201 
 
 represented — the cavaliers with red, tipsy-sober faces, over 
 which the long wigs fall down like powdered lion's manes — 
 the ladies with stiff toupees, steel corsets, which pressed their 
 hearts together, and immense traveling jackets, which gave 
 them an all the more prosaic continuation. As remarked, 
 this view does not untune us ; it contributes all the more to 
 make us rightly appreciate the present, and, when we behold 
 the new works near the old, we feel as if a heavy wig had 
 been lifted from our heads, and steel links unbound from 
 about our hearts. I here speak only of the genial temples 
 of art, and noble palaces, which in bold splendor have 
 bloomed forth from the spirit of the great master, Klenze. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 But after all, between you and me, reader, when it comes to 
 calling the whole town " a new Athens," the designation is a 
 little absurd, and it costs me not a little trouble to represent 
 it in this light. This went home to my very heart in the 
 dialogue with the Berlin Philister, who, though he had con- 
 versed for some time with me, was unpolite enough to find an 
 utter want of the first grain of Attic salt in the new Athens. 
 
 " That," he cried, tolerably loudly, " is only to be found in 
 Berlin. There, and there only, is wit and irony. Here they 
 have good white beer — but no irony." 
 
 " No — we haven't got irony," cried Nannerl, the pretty, 
 well-formed waiting-maid, who at this instant sprang past us 
 — "but you can have any other sort of beer." 
 
 It grieved me to the heart that Nannerl should take irony 
 to be any sort of beer, were it even the best brew of Stettin, 
 and to prevent her from falling in future into such errors, I 
 began to teach her after the following wise : " Pretty Nannerl, 
 irony is not beer, but an invention of the Berlin people — the 
 wisest folks in the world — who were awfully vexed because 
 they came too late into the world to invent gunpowder, and 
 therefore undertook to find out something which should 
 answer as well. Once upon a time, my dear, when a man 
 had said or done something stupid, how could the matter be 
 
202 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 helped? That which was done could not be undone, and 
 people said that the man was an ass. That was disagreeable. 
 In Berlin, where the people are shrewdest, and where the 
 most stupid things happen, the people soon found out the 
 inconvenience. The government took hold of the matter 
 vigorously — only the greater blunders were allowed to be 
 printed, the lesser were simply suffered in conversation — 
 only professors and high officials could say stupid things in 
 public, lesser people could only make asses of themselves in 
 private — but all of these regulations were of no avail — sup- 
 pressed stupidities availed themselves of extraordinary oppor- 
 tunities to come to light — those below were protected by 
 those above, and the emergency was terrible, until some 
 one discovered a reactionary means, whereby every piece of 
 stupidity could change its nature, and even be metamorphosed 
 into wisdom. The process is altogether simple and easy, and 
 consists simply in a man's declaring that the stupid word or 
 deed, of which he has been guilty, was meant ironically. So, 
 my dear girl, all things get along in this world — stupidity 
 becomes irony, toadyism, which has missed its aim, becomes 
 satire, natural coarseness is changed to artistic raillery, real 
 madness is humor, ignorance real wit, and thou thyself art 
 finally the Aspasia of the modern Athens." 
 
 I would have said more, but pretty Nannerl, whom I had 
 up to this point held fast by the apron-string, broke away 
 loose by main force, as the entire band of assembled guests 
 began to roar for " a beer — a beer ! " in stormy chorus. But 
 the Berliner himself looked like irony incarnate as he re- 
 marked the enthusiasm with which the foaming glasses were 
 welcomed, and after pointing to a group of beer drinkers who 
 toasted their hop nectar, and disputed as to its excellence, he 
 said, smiling, " Those are your Athenians ! " 
 
 The remarks which he availed himself of this opportunity 
 to shove in, fairly vexed me, as I must confess that at heart I 
 cherish not a little love for our modern Athens, and I accord- 
 ingly improved the occasion to intimate to my headstrong 
 faultfinder that the idea had only recently occurred to us, 
 that we were as yet raw hands at modern Athens making, and 
 that our great minds, as well as the better educated public, are 
 not yet so far advanced that it will bear looking at too closely. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 203 
 
 All as yet is in the beginning and far from completion. Only 
 the lower lines of business have as yet been taken up, " and 
 it can scarcely have escaped your observation that we have 
 plenty of owls, sycophants and Phrynes. Only the higher 
 characters are wanting, and therefore many a man must 
 assume different parts ; for instance, our poet who sings the 
 delicate Greek boy love, has also taken on him Aristophanic 
 coarseness ; but he is capable of anything, and possesses 
 everything which a great poet should, except a few trifles, 
 such as wit or imagination, and if he had much money he 
 would be a rich man. But what we lack in quantity is assur- 
 edly made up to us in quality. We have but one great 
 sculptor, — but he is a ' Lion.' We have but one great orator, 
 but I believe from my soul that Demosthenes could not thun- 
 der so loudly over a malt tax in Attica. And if we have never 
 poisoned a Socrates, it was not because we lack poison. And 
 if we have as yet no actual Demos, no entire populace of 
 demagogues, at least we could supply a show sample of the 
 article in a demagogue by profession, who in himself out- 
 weighs a whole pile of twaddlers, muzzlers, poltroons and 
 similar blackguards — and here he is in person ! " 
 
 I cannot resist the temptation to describe the figure which 
 here presented itself. I leave the question open to discussion, 
 whether this figure could with justice assert that its head had 
 anything human in it, and whether it could on that account 
 legally ask to be considered as human. I should myself 
 have taken this head for that of an ape, only out of courtesy, 
 I will let it pass for a man's. Its cover was a cloth cap, 
 shaped like Mambrino's helmet, below which hung down 
 long, stiff, black hair, which was parted in front a l'enfant. 
 On that side of this head which gave itself out for a face, the 
 Goddess of Vulgarity had set her seal, and that with so much 
 force that the nose had been mashed flat ; the depressed eyes 
 seemed to be seeking this nose in vain, and to feel grieved 
 because they could not find it; an unpleasantly smelling smile 
 played around the mouth, which was altogether enchanting, 
 and by its extraordinary likeness might have inspired our 
 Greek doggerel poet to the most delicate " Gazelles." The 
 clothes were firstly an old German coat somewhat modified, 
 it is true, by the most pressing requisitions of modern Euro- 
 
204 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 pean civilization, but still in its cut recalling that worn by 
 Arminius, in the Teutobergian forests, the primitive form of 
 which has been as mysteriously and traditionally preserved by 
 a patriotic tailors' union, as was once Gothic architecture by 
 a mystical Freemasons' guild. A whitewashed collar which 
 deeply and significantly contrasted with the bare old German 
 neck, covered the collar of this famous coat — from the long 
 sleeves hung long dirty hands, and between these appeared 
 a long, slow body, beneath which waddled two short, lively 
 legs — the entire form was a drunken-sick-dizzy parody of the 
 Apollo Belvidere. 
 
 "And that is the Demagogue of the Modern Athens!" 
 cried the Berliner, with a mocking laugh. " Good Lard ! can 
 that be a countryman of mine ! I can hardly believe mee 
 own eyes ! — that is the one who — no, that is the fact ! " 
 
 "Yea, ye deluded Berliners," I exclaimed — not without 
 excitement — " ye recognize not your own geniuses, and 
 stone your prophets. But we can make use of all ! " 
 
 " And what will you do with this unlucky insect ? " 
 
 "He can be used for anything where jumping, creeping, 
 sentiment, gormandizing, piety, much old German, a little 
 Latin, and no Greek at all is needed. He can really jump 
 very well over a cane ; makes tables of all sorts of all possible 
 leaps, and lists of all possible ways of reading old German 
 poetry. Withal he represents a Fatherland's love without 
 being in the least dangerous. For every one knows that he 
 left the old German demagogues, among whom he accidentally 
 once found himself very suddenly, when he found that there 
 was danger afoot, which by no means agreed with the Chris- 
 tian-like feelings of his soft heart. But since the danger has 
 passed away, the martyrs suffered for their opinions, and 
 even our most desperate barbers have doffed their old Ger- 
 man coats ; the blooming season of our prudent rescuer of 
 the Fatherland has really begun. He alone has still retained 
 the demagogue costume and the phrases belonging to it, he 
 still exalts Arminius the Cheruscan, and Thusnelda, as though 
 they were blood relations, he still preserves his German patri- 
 otic hatred for the Latin Babeldom against the invention of 
 soap, against Thiersch's heathen " Greek Grammar," against 
 Quintilius Varus, against gloves, and against all men who 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 205 
 
 have decent noses ; — and so he stands there, the wandering 
 monument of a passed-away time, and like the last of the 
 Mohicans, so too does he remain the last of the Demagogues 
 — of all that mighty horde. You therefore see how we in 
 our modern Athens, where demagogues are entirely wanting, 
 can use this man. We have in him a very good demagogue, 
 who is so tame as to lick any boot, and eat from the hand 
 hazelnuts, chestnuts, cheese, sausages - — in short, will eat 
 anything given to him, and as he is the only one of his sort, 
 we have the further advantage that when he has kicked the 
 bucket, we can stuff him and keep him — hide and hair — 
 for posterity, as a specimen of the Last Demagogue. But, I 
 pray you, say nothing of all this to Professor Lichtenstein, in 
 Berlin, or he will reclaim him for the Zoological Museum, 
 which might occasion a war between Prussia and Bavaria, as 
 nothing would ever induce us to give him up. Already the 
 English are on the qui vive, and bid two thousand seven hun- 
 dred and seventy guineas for him ; already the Austrians 
 have offered a giraffe for him ; but our ministry has expressly 
 declared that the Last of the Demagogues shall not be sold 
 at any price — he will one day be the pride of our cabinet of 
 natural history, and the ornament of our town." 
 
 The Berliner appeared to listen somewhat distractedly — 
 more attractive objects had drawn his attention, and he finally 
 interrupted me with the words, " Excuse me, if you please, if 
 I interrupt you, but will you be so kind as to tell me what 
 sort of a dog that is which runs there ? " 
 
 " That is another puppy." 
 
 "Ah, you don't understand me. I refer to the great white 
 shaggy dog without a tail." 
 
 " My dear sir, that is the dog of the modern Alcibiades." 
 
 " But," exclaimed the Berliner, " where is then the modern 
 Alcibiades himself ? " 
 
 "To tell the plain truth," I replied, "the office is not as 
 yet occupied, and we have so far only his dog." 
 
206 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The place where this conversation occurred is called Bogen- 
 hausen, or Neuburghausen, or Villa Hompesch, or the Mont- 
 gelas Garden, or the Little Castle — but there is no need of 
 mentioning its name, for if any one undertakes to ride out 
 of Munich, the coachman understands us by a certain thirsty 
 twinkle of the eyes — by well-known noddings of the head, 
 anticipatory of enjoyment, and by grimaces of the same fam- 
 ily. The Arab has a thousand expressions for a sword, the 
 Frenchman for love, the Englishman for hanging, the Ger- 
 man for drinking, and the modern Athenian for the place 
 where he drinks. The beer is in the place aforesaid really 
 very good, even in the Prytaneum, vulgo " Bokskeller," it is 
 no better, and it tastes admirably, especially on that stair 
 terrace, where we have the Tyrolese Alps before our eyes. 
 I often sat there during the past winter, gazing on the snow- 
 covered mountains, which gleaming in the sun-rays seemed 
 like molten silver. 
 
 In those days it was also winter in my soul. Thoughts 
 and feelings seemed, as it were, snowed in, and my soul was 
 dried up and dead. To this was added political vexations, 
 grief for a dearly loved lost child, and an old source of grief 
 with a bad cold. Moreover, I drank much beer, having been 
 assured that it made light blood. But the best Attic Breihahn 
 profited not by me, who had previously in England accustomed 
 myself to porter. 
 
 At last came the day when all changed. The sun burst forth 
 from the heaven and suckled the earth, that ancient child, with 
 her gleaming milk, the hills trembled with joy, and their snow 
 tears ran down mighty in their power. The ice on the lakes 
 cracked and broke, the earth opened her blue eyes, the dear 
 flowers and the ringing woods ran forth from her bosom, the 
 green palaces of the nightingales and all nature laughed, and 
 this laughter was spring. In my soul there began also a new 
 spring, new flowers sprouted from my heart, feelings of free- 
 dom like roses shot up, and therewith secret longings, like 
 young violets amid which were many useless nettles. Hope 
 again drew her cheerful green covering over the graves of 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 207 
 
 my desires, even the melodies of poetry came again to me 
 like birds of passage who have gone with winter to the warm 
 south, and who now again seek their abandoned nests in the 
 north, and the neglected northern heart rang and bloomed as 
 of old — only I knew not how all this happened. Was it a 
 brown or a blonde sun which awoke spring once more in my 
 heart, and kissed awake all the sleeping flowers in my bosom, 
 and laughed up the nightingales ? Was it elective nature 
 herself which sought its echo in my breast, and gladly mir- 
 rored herself therein with her fresh spring gleam ? I know 
 not, but I believe that the terrace at Bogenhausen, in view 
 of the Tyrolese Alps, gave my heart a new enchantment. 
 When I sat there deeply buried in thought, it often seemed 
 to me as though I saw the countenance of a wondrous lovely 
 youth, peeping over the mountains, and I longed for wings 
 that I might hasten to his homeland, Italy. Often did I feel 
 myself surrounded by the perfumes of orange and lemon 
 groves, which blew from the hills, enticing and calling me 
 to Italy. Once even in the golden twilight I saw the young 
 Spring God large as life standing on the summit of an Alp. 
 Flowers and laurels surrounded his joyful head, and with 
 smiling eyes and merry mouth he cried: "I love thee — 
 seek me in Italy ! " 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 My glance may have quivered somewhat longingly, as I, 
 in doubt over the unattainable dialogue of the Philistines, 
 gazed at the lovely Tyrolese Alps, and sighed deeply. My 
 Berlin Philister, however, saw in this glance and sigh fresh 
 subject for conversation, and sighed with me. "Ah, yes — 
 I too would now be so glad to be in Constantinople ! Have 
 you visited St. Petersburg ? " I admitted that I had not, and 
 begged him to narrate something of it. But it was not he 
 himself, but his brother-in-law, the Court Chamber Counselor, 
 who had been there, and it was an altogether particular sort 
 of a town. " Have you seen Copenhagen though ? " Having 
 replied in the negative, I also requested some sketch of the 
 latter place, when he laughed very significantly, nodding his 
 
208 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 head here and there right pleasantly, assuring me upon his 
 honor that I could form no sort of idea of the town if I had 
 not been there. "That," I replied, "cannot just at present be 
 the case. I am now thinking over another journey, which first 
 came into my head this spring — I intend traveling in Italy." 
 
 As the man heard these words, he suddenly leaped from 
 his chair, pirouetted three times on one foot, and trilled : 
 "Tirili! tirili! tirili ! " 
 
 That was the last spur. " To-morrow I start ! " was my 
 determination on the spot. I will delay no longer. 1 will 
 at once see that land, the mere mention of which so inspires 
 the dryest and most commonplace of mortals, that he at 
 once, in ecstasy, trills like a quail. While I at home packed 
 my trunk, that " tirili " rang constantly in my ears, and my 
 brother, Maximilian Heine, who the next day accompanied 
 me as far as the Tyrol, could not comprehend why it was 
 that, on the whole way, I did not speak a single sensible 
 word, and constantly tirili-ed. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Tirili ! tirili ! I live ! I feel the sweet pain of existence ! 
 I feel all the joys and sorrows of life ! I suffer for the salva- 
 tion of the whole human race ! I atone for their sins — but 
 I also enjoy them. 
 
 And I also feel, not only with humanity, but with the world 
 of plants. Their thousand green tongues narrate the sweet- 
 est, gentlest tales to me — they know that I have not selfish 
 human pride, and that I converse as willingly with the lowliest 
 meadow floweret as with the loftiest pines. Ah ! I know how 
 it is with those pines ! They shoot heaven-high from the 
 depth of the valley, and well-nigh range over the boldest 
 mountain rocks. But how long does their glory last ? At 
 the utmost a few miserable centuries, when, weary with age, 
 they break down and rot on the ground. Then, by night, 
 the treacherous cat comes stealing quickly, and mocks them : 
 " Ha, ye strong pines — ye who hoped to vie with the rocks — 
 now ye lie broken, adown there, and the rocks stand unshaken 
 as before." 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 209 
 
 The eagie who sits on his favorite lonely rocks, and listens 
 to this scorn, must feel pity in his soul — for he then thinks 
 on his own destiny. For even he knows not how deeply he 
 may some day be bedded. But the stars twinkle so sooth- 
 ingly, the forest streams ripple so consolingly, and his own 
 soul leaps so proudly over all petty thoughts, that he soon 
 forgets them. When the sun comes forth, he feels as before 
 as he flies upwards to it, and when near it, sings his joy and 
 his pain. His fellow creatures, especially men, believe that 
 the eagle cannot sing, and know not that he only lifts his 
 voice in music when far from the realm which they inhabit, 
 and that in his pride he will only be heard by the sun. And 
 he is right, for it might occur to some of the feathered rnob 
 down below there to criticize his song. I myself have heard 
 such critics; — the hen stands on one leg and clucks that the 
 singer has no " soul " ; the turkey gobbles that he needs 
 "earnest feeling"; the dove coos that he cannot feel true 
 love ; the goose quacks that he is " ignorant of science " ; the 
 capon chuckles out that he is " immoral " ; the martin twitters 
 that he is irreligious ; the sparrow pipes that " he is not suf- 
 ficiently prolific"; hoopoos, popinjays, and screech-owls, all 
 cackling, and gabbling, and yelling; — only the nightingale 
 joins not in the noise of these critics. Caring naught for her 
 contemporaries, the red rose is her only thought, and her only 
 song ; deep lost in desire, she flutters around that red rose, 
 and wild with inspiration she leaps among the loved thorns, 
 and sings and bleeds. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 There is an eagle in the German Fatherland, whose sun 
 song rings so powerfully that it may also be heard here 
 below, and even the nightingales cease to sing, in spite of all 
 their melodious pains. Thou art that eagle, Karl Immer- 
 mann, and I often think of thee in that land of which thou 
 hast sung so sweetly. How could I travel through the Tyrol 
 without thinking of the " Tragedy " ? 
 
 Now, of course, I have seen things in another light ; but I 
 wonder that the poet, who created from the fulness of his 
 15 
 
210 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 soul, should have approached so near the reality, which he 
 had never seen. I was most pleased with the reflection that 
 " The Tragedy in the Tyrol " was prohibited. I thought of the 
 words which my friend Moser wrote me, when he said that 
 the second volume of the " Pictures of Travel " was forbid- 
 den : " It was needless for government to put the book under 
 the ban — people would have read it without that." 
 
 In Innsbruck, in the " Golden Eagle," where Andreas Hofer 
 had lodged, and where every corner is still filled with his 
 portraits and mementoes, I asked the landlord, Herr Nieder- 
 kirchner, if he knew anything of the " Sandwirth." Then 
 the old gentleman boiled over with eloquence, and confiden- 
 tially informed me, with divers winks, that the whole story 
 had at last come out in a book, which was, however, alto- 
 gether prohibited; and having led me to a dark chamber, 
 where he carefully preserved his relics of the Tyrolese war, 
 unrolled from a dirty blue paper a well-thumbed, green- 
 looking book, which I found, to my astonishment, was Im- 
 mermann's "Tragedy in the Tyrol." I told the landlord, 
 not without pride, that the man who had written it was my 
 friend. Herr Niederkirchner would fain know as much as 
 possible of him. I said that he was one who had seen service, 
 a man of good stature, very honorable, and very gifted in 
 writing, so that he seldom found his like. But Herr Nieder- 
 kirchner would not believe that he was a Prussian, and ex- 
 claimed, with a compassionate smile, " Oh, get out ! " He 
 insisted on believing that Immermann was a Tyroler, and 
 that he had fought in the war — "How else could he have 
 known all about it ? " 
 
 Strange fancies these of the multitude ! They seek their 
 histories from the poet and not from the historian. They 
 ask not for bare facts, but those facts again dissolved in the 
 original poetry from which they sprang. This the poets well 
 know, and it is not without a certain mischievous pleasure 
 that they mold at will popular memories, perhaps in mockery 
 of pride-baked historians and parchment-minded keepers of 
 state documents. Greatly was I delighted when, amid the 
 stalls of the last fair, I saw the history of Belisarius hanging 
 up in the form of coarsely colored engravings, and those not 
 according to Procopius, but exactly as described in Schenk's 
 


 INNSBRUCK. 
 
 Photogravure from a photograph. 
 
 <v 
 
 , 
 
 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 211 
 
 tragedy. " So history is falsified ! " exclaimed a pedantic 
 friend who accompanied me, " it knows nothing of a slan- 
 dered wife, an imprisoned son, a loving daughter, and the like 
 modern fictions of the heart ! " But is this really an error ? 
 Must suit be at once brought against the forger? No, I 
 deny the accusation ! For they give the sense in all its 
 truthfulness, though it be clothed in inverted form and circum- 
 stance. There are races whose whole history has only been 
 handed down in this poetic wise, such as the Hindus. For 
 such lays as the " Mahabharata" give the sense and spirit of 
 Indian history far more accurately than any writer of com- 
 pendiums could with all his chronology. From the same 
 point of view, I would assert that Walter Scott's romances 
 give, occasionally, the spirit of English history far more 
 truthfully than Hume has done ; at least, Sartorius was very 
 much in the right when he, in his supplement to Spittler, 
 places those romances among English historical works. 
 
 It is with poets as with dreamers, who in sleep disguise 
 those internal feelings which their souls experience from 
 real external causes, since they at once assign on the spot, 
 by dreaming, to the latter altogether different causes from 
 the real, which, however, in one respect, amount to the same 
 thing, in that they bring forth the same feelings. So, in 
 Immermann's " Tragedy," many dramatic attributes are rather 
 arbitrarily added, but the hero himself, the central point of 
 feeling, is accurately dreamed, and if this dream-form seems 
 visionary, it is still truthful. Baron Hormayr, who is the 
 most competent judge of this matter, turned my attention to 
 this circumstance, when I on a recent occasion had the pleas- 
 ure of conversing with him. Immermann has very accu- 
 rately set forth the mystical individual life, the superstitious 
 piety, and the epic character of the man. He symbolized to 
 the life that true-hearted dove, who with a glittering sword in 
 the bill swept so heroically like martial love true over the hills 
 of Tyrol, until the bullets of Mantua penetrated her heart. 
 
 But what is most honorable to the poet, is the equally 
 accurate description of the opponent, whom he has not 
 described as a raging Gessler, merely to exalt his adversary. 
 If the one be a dove with the sword, the latter is not less an 
 eagle with the olive branch. 
 
212 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 In the public room of the inn of Herr Niederkirchner, at 
 Innsbruck, hang side by side in peaceful unison the por- 
 traits of Andreas Hofer, Napoleon Bonaparte, and Louis of 
 Bavaria. 
 
 Innsbruck itself is an uninhabitable, stupid town. It may, 
 perhaps, appear more intelligent and agreeable in winter 
 when the high mountains with which it is surrounded are 
 covered with snow, and the avalanches thunder and ice cracks 
 and glitters all around. 
 
 I found the summits of those mountains covered with clouds 
 as with gray turbans. There we see the Martinswand, 
 the" theater of the pleasantest imperial legends, since it is 
 especially in the Tyrol that the memories of the knightly 
 Max flourish and ring. 
 
 In the Hofkirche — royal church — stand the celebrated 
 full-length statues of the princes and the princesses of the 
 House of Austria, with their ancestors ; among whom are 
 many, who doubtless wonder even at the present day how 
 they came by the honor. They stand in mighty life-size, cast 
 in iron, around the tomb of Maximilian. But as the church 
 is small and roof low, they put one in mind of figures of black 
 wax in a booth in a fair. On the pedestal of most we can 
 also read the names of those whom they represent. As I 
 looked at these statues, an English party entered ; the leader 
 being a lean man with a gaping countenance, his thumbs 
 hooked into the armholes of his white vest, and holding be- 
 tween his teeth a leathern "Guide des Voyageurs." Behind 
 him came his tall companion for life, a lady no longer young, 
 who had apparently both lived and loved herself out, but 
 still quite good-looking. Behind them came a red porter face 
 in powder-white trimmings, treading stiffly along in a ditto 
 coat — his wooden hands fully freighted with my lady's gloves, 
 Alpine flowers, and a poodle. 
 
 The trinity walked straight as a plumb line -to the upper 
 end of the church, where the son of Albion explained the 
 statue to his wife, and that from his guide-book, in which he 
 read at full length the descriptions. The first statue is that 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 213 
 
 of King Clodevig of France, the next that of King Arthur of 
 England, the third Rudolph of Hapsburg, and so forth. But 
 as the poor Englishman began by mistake the row from above 
 instead of from below, as his guide-book directed, he fell into 
 the most exquisite blunders, which were still more comic when 
 he came to some lady's statue, which he mistook for that of 
 a man, and vice versa, so that he could not comprehend why 
 Rudolph of Hapsburg wore petticoats, or why Queen Maria 
 had donned steel breeches, and had a much too long beard. 
 I, who was willing to help him out with my learning, casually 
 remarked that that was probably the fashion in those days, 
 and it might have also been a peculiar freak of those digni- 
 taries, so that people dared not for their lives cast them other- 
 wise. So if it came into the head of the then emperor to have 
 himself "run" in petticoats or swaddling bands, who dared 
 object to his fancy ? 
 
 The poodle barked critically, the lackey stared, the gentle- 
 man rubbed his face with his handkerchief, and my lady said : 
 "A fine exhibition, very fine, indeed ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Brixen was the second great town of the Tyrol which I 
 entered. It lies in a valley, and as I arrived there it was cov- 
 ered over with mist and the shadows of evening. Twilight, 
 silence, melancholy ding-donging of bells, sheep trotting to 
 their sheds, human beings to churches, everywhere an oppres- 
 sive smell of ugly saints' images and dry hay. 
 
 "The Jesuits are in Brixen." So I had read not long 
 before in Hesperus. I looked everywhere around the streets 
 to find them, but saw nobody who looked like a Jesuit, unless 
 it were a fat man in a clerical three-cornered hat and a 
 priestly-cut black coat, rather old and worn out, which con- 
 trasted strangely with his shining new black breeches. 
 
 "That can be no Jesuit," said I finally to myself — for I 
 have always pictured Jesuits to myself as rather lean. But 
 are there really any Jesuits ? It often seems to me that their 
 existence is only a chimera, as though it were only a fear of 
 
214 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 them which still goes ghosting about in our heads, long after 
 the peril is over; and all the zeal still manifested against 
 Jesuits puts me in mind of people who, long after it has ceased 
 to rain, go walking about with opened and lifted umbrellas. 
 Yes — I often think that the Devil, Nobility, and Jesuits exist 
 only as long as we believe in them. We know it in truth of 
 the Devil, for only the believers have ever seen him. Also 
 as regards the nobility, we shall soon experience that the 
 bonne societe has ceased to exist so soon as the good citizen 
 takes it into his head not to regard them any longer as the 
 bonne societe. But the Jesuits! At least they no longer 
 wear the old breeches. The old Jesuits lie in their graves 
 with their old breeches, their longings, their world plans, their 
 ranks, distinctions, reservations, and poisons, and what we 
 now see slipping through the world in new shining breeches, 
 is not as much their spirit as their specter, an awkward, silly, 
 weak-minded specter, which daily seems striving by word and 
 deed to convince us how little there is terrible in it ; and 
 indeed it reminds us of a similar ghost in the Thuringian 
 forest, which freed those who were terrified at it from all 
 terror, by taking its skull from its shoulders and showing all 
 the world that it was hollow and empty. 
 
 I cannot refrain from mentioning, by the way, that I acci- 
 dentally learned more of the man in the shining new breeches, 
 and ascertained that he was no Jesuit, but only one of the 
 common sort of the Lord's cattle. For I met him in the pub- 
 lic room of my inn, where he was taking supper in company 
 with a long, lean man, entitled " Excellency," who resembled 
 the old bachelorly country squire, described by Shakespeare, 
 as closely as if Nature had plagiarized him from the great 
 author. Both enjoyed their meals, while they persecuted the 
 girl who waited on them with caresses, which seemed to dis- 
 gust to the last degree the charming, beautiful creature, until 
 she finally broke from them by main force, when the one 
 clapped her smartly behind, while the other sought to embrace 
 her in front. Then they began with the lewdest jests, which 
 the maiden, as they well knew, could not help hearing, as she 
 was obliged to remain in the room and wait on the company, 
 and spread my table. But when, finally, their language 
 became literally intolerable, she at once left everything stand- 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 21 5 
 
 ing and disappeared through the door. When she returned, 
 which was not for some minutes, it was with a little child on 
 her arm, which she continued to hold during the time that she 
 remained in the room, though it greatly impeded her move- 
 ments. But the two companions — the clerical as well as the 
 noble gentleman — did not venture any more 10 insult the 
 girl, who now without manifesting any ill feeling, but still 
 with singular seriousness, waited on them until the end. 
 Their language took another direction — both conversed on 
 the usual subjects of conspiracies against the throne and the 
 altar, they agreed on the necessity of strong measures, and 
 often clasped in turn the hand of holy alliance. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The works of Joseph von Hormayr are indispensable to 
 him who would study the history of the Tyrol, while for its 
 more recent records, he himself is the best, and in many 
 respects the only source. He is for the Tyrol what John von 
 Müller is for Switzerland ; a comparison which frequently sug- 
 gests itself. They are like next neighbors — both are inspired 
 in early youth for the Alps of their birth — both are industri- 
 ous, searching minds, of historical feeling and training. John 
 von Müller, of an epic turn, cradling his soul in histories of 
 the past. Joseph von Hormayr, quick and earnest in his feel- 
 ings, is, on the other hand, impelled more energetically into 
 the future, unselfishly venturing his life for that which was 
 dear to him. 
 
 Bartholdy's "War of the Tyrolese Peasantry in the Year 
 1809" is an intelligent and well-written work, and if it has its 
 defects it is because its writer, as is natural for a noble soul, 
 was prejudiced in favor of the weaker party, and because he 
 still had gunpowder smoke in his eyes when he wrote. 
 
 Many remarkable events of that time have never been 
 written down, and exist as yet only in the memory of the peo- 
 ple, who do not willingly speak of them, as they awaken 
 hopes which were deceived. The poor Tyrolese were obliged 
 to go through many harsh experiences, and if you ask them 
 
2l6 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 now if they obtained, as a reward for their fidelity, all which 
 was promised them, they good-naturedly shrug their shoul- 
 ders, and answer, naively, that perhaps things were not meant 
 quite so much in earnest as they thought — that the emperor 
 has a great deal to think of — and that much passes unnoticed 
 through his head. 
 
 Console yourselves, poor rogues ! Ye are not the only 
 ones to whom something was promised. It often happens, 
 on board great slave-ships, in terrible storms, and amid dan- 
 gers, that they break the chains of the blacks, and promise 
 them their freedom if they save the vessel. The silly negroes 
 rejoice at the light of day, they hurry to the pumps, they 
 stamp in their strength, aid where they can, leap, haul, coil 
 the cables, and work until the peril is past. Then, of course, 
 as any one might suppose, they are put again into the hold, 
 chained nicely down, and left in their darkness to make dem- 
 agogical reflections on the promises of slave dealers, whose 
 only care is, the danger being over, to swindle some more 
 souls into their power. 
 
 " O navis referent in mare te novi 
 Fluctus ? " 
 
 When my old teacher used to explain this ode of Horace, 
 in which the senate is compared to a ship, he was in the 
 habit of making all sorts of political reflections, which he 
 abruptly suspended after the battle of Leipzig had been 
 fought, and the whole class was suddenly broken up. 
 
 My old teacher knew it all beforehand. When we first 
 heard of the battle, he shook his gray head. Now I know 
 what that shaking meant. Soon we had more accurate intel- 
 ligence, and in secret people showed one another pictures, in 
 which we saw, in varied and instructive form, how the higher 
 leaders of the armies knelt on the field of battle and thanked 
 God. 
 
 "Yes — they might thank God," said my teacher, and 
 smiled as he was accustomed to do when he commented on 
 Sallust. " The Emperor Napoleon has rapped them so often 
 on the head, that they must eventually learn something." 
 
 Then came the Allies, and the miserable poems of the Lib- 
 eration, Hermann and Thusnelda, Hurrah and the Female 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 21 7 
 
 Union, and the Fatherland's Acorns, and the everlasting 
 boasting of the battle of Leipzig, and once again the battle 
 of Leipzig, and no end thereof. 
 
 " It is with these people," remarked my teacher, " as with 
 the Thebans, when they finally, at Leuctra, overcame the 
 mighty Spartans, and continually boasted of it, so that Antis- 
 thenes compared them to boys who can, having once beaten 
 their master, never cease their rejoicings. My dear youths 
 — it would have been better for us had we ourselves got the 
 whipping." 
 
 Soon after the old man died. Prussian grass now grows 
 over his grave, and there also are pastured the horses of our 
 renewed nobility. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Tyrolese are handsome, cheerful, honorable, brave, 
 and of inscrutable narrowness of mind. They are a healthy 
 race, perhaps because they are too stupid to be sick. I 
 would also call them a noble race, because they evince much 
 discrimination in their food, and keep their houses very clean, 
 only they entirely lack the feeling of personal dignity. The 
 Tyrolese has a sort of laughing, humorous servilism, which 
 wears an almost ironical air, but which is intended to be thor- 
 oughly honorable. The girls in the Tyrol greet you so ami- 
 ably, and the men press your hand so severely, and behave 
 themselves with such ornamental earnestness, that you can 
 almost believe that they treat you like a near relation, or at 
 least like one of themselves — but you are wide of the mark; 
 they never forget that they are but common people, and that 
 you are a gentleman, who likes to see common people speak 
 to him without shyness. And in this their instincts are true 
 to nature, for the stiffest aristocrats are pleased when they 
 can find an opportunity of laying aside their dignity, for it is 
 by the descent that they realize how high they are placed. 
 At home the Tyrolese exercise this servility gratis — when 
 abroad, they use it to enrich themselves. They set a price 
 on their personality and nationality. These dealers in varie- 
 gated table-covers — these jolly Tyrolese fellows — whom we 
 
218 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 see traveling about in their national costume, willingly let 
 you crack a joke on them — but you must buy something of 
 them. The Rainer family, who were in England, understood 
 the business, and had good advisers into the bargain, who 
 well understood the spirit of the English nobility. This was 
 the cause of their gracious reception in that foyer of Euro- 
 pean aristocracy, the West End of London. When I stood, 
 last summer, in the brilliant concert halls of the London fash- 
 ionable world, and saw those Tyrolese singers, in their na- 
 tional costume, mount the stage, and listened to those lays 
 which are yodeled with such good and naive expression, and 
 which ring so pleasantly in our Northern German heart — it 
 all ate with bitter discontent into my soul, the gratified laugh- 
 ter of aristocratic lips stung me like serpents — it seemed as 
 though I saw the purity of the German tongue profaned, and 
 the sweetest mysteries of German spirit life degraded before 
 a foreign mob. I could not applaud this shameless traffick- 
 ing in the most reserved feelings, and a Swiss, who, inspired 
 with the same feelings, left the hall with me, very truly re- 
 marked : " We Swiss trade for money the best things we 
 have — our cheese and our best blood — but we cannot hear 
 the Alpine horn blown in foreign lands — much less play on 
 it ourselves, for monev." 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Tyrol is very beautiful, but the most beautiful landscapes 
 cannot enchant us when darkened by gloomy weather and 
 similar causes of mental excitement. This is always the case 
 with me, and when there is bad weather without, I invariably 
 find bad weather within. I only occasionally dared put my 
 head out of the wagon, and then I beheld mountains high 
 as the Heaven, which looked earnestly down on me, and 
 nodded to me with their monstrous heads and cloud-beards, 
 a pleasant journey. Here and there I beheld a far blue hill, 
 which seemed traveling along on foot, and to peep inquisi- 
 tively over the heads of other hills, as if to look at me. Every- 
 where crashed the forest streams, which leaped as if mad 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 219 
 
 from the mountains, and met in the whirlpools of the valleys. 
 The inhabitants lay snug in their neat, clean little cottages, 
 which for the greater part lie scattered on the steepest cliffs, 
 and on the very edge of precipices, and these neat, clean 
 little cottages are generally ornamented with long balcony- 
 like galleries, which in turn are bedecked with lmen, images 
 of saints, flower-pots, and pretty girls. These cottages are 
 also prettily painted, mostly with white and green, as if they 
 too had a fancy to wear the national costume of green sus- 
 penders over a white shirt. When I beheld these houses far 
 away amid the lonely rain, my heart would fain climb up to 
 them, and to their inhabitants, who beyond doubt sat dry and 
 jolly enough, within. " In these," thought I, "they must 
 live pleasantly and domestically enough, and beyond doubt 
 the old grandmother tells the most confidential tales." While 
 the coach went on without mercy, I often looked back to 
 see the little blue pillars of smoke climbing from the chim- 
 neys, and then it rained harder than ever, both without and 
 within, until the tear-drops ran out of my eyes. 
 
 But my heart often rose and climbed in spite of the weather 
 to the men who dwell high up on the mountains, and perhaps 
 hardly come down once in a lifetime, and learn but little of 
 what is passing here below. Yet they are not on that account 
 less good or happy. They know nothing of politics, save that 
 they have an emperor who wears a white coat and red breeches, 
 as they have learned from an old uncle who had learned it him- 
 self in Innsbruck, from Black Joe, who had been in Vienna. 
 And when the patriots climbed up to them, and told them with 
 oratory that they now had a prince who wore a blue coat and 
 white breeches, they grasped their rifles, and kissed wife and 
 child, and went down the mountain and offered up their lives 
 in defense of the white coat and the dear old red breeches. 
 
 After all it amounts to about one and the same thing, for 
 what we die, if we only die for something we love, and a 
 warm true-hearted death like this is better than a cold false 
 life. The very songs of such a death warm our hearts, with 
 their sweet rhymes and bright words, when damp clouds and 
 pressing sorrows would fain render it dark and gloomy. 
 
 Many such songs rang in my heart as I crossed the Tyrolese 
 mountains. The confiding fir-trees rustled many forgotten 
 
220 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 love words back into my memory. Particularly when the 
 great blue mountain lakes gazed on me, with such endless 
 longing did I recall "the two king's children" who loved so 
 dearly and died together. It is an old, old story, which 
 nobody believes now, and of which I myself only remember 
 
 a few rhymes. 
 
 " They both were monarch's children, 
 And loved right well, I ween, 
 But never could come together, 
 For water was rolling between. 
 
 " Dear heart, canst thou swim hither, 
 Dear heart, so swim to me, 
 I'll light thee from my window, 
 It shall thy beacon be ! " 
 
 These words began to ring in my heart, as I, on an opposite 
 lake, beheld on one side a little boy, and on the other a little 
 girl, both prettily dressed in their variegated national costume, 
 with little ribboned green taper hats on their heads, wafting 
 greetings to one another — 
 
 " But never could come together, 
 For water was rolling between." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 In Southern Tyrol, the weather cleared up, the sun of Italy 
 made itself felt, even at a distance the hills became warmer 
 and brighter, I saw vines rising on them, and I could lean 
 oftener out of the carriage windows. But when I thus leaned 
 out there leaned with me my heart, and with my heart all its 
 love, sorrow, and folly. And it often happened that the poor 
 heart was torn by the thorns when it leaned towards the rose- 
 bushes by the wayside — and the roses of Tyrol are not ugly. 
 When I rode through Steinach and saw the market-place where 
 Immermann represents the " Sand Landlord," Hof er, as coming 
 boldly forth with his companions, I found that the spot was 
 too small for an insurgent meeting, but large enough to fall 
 in love in. There are only a few white houses there, and 
 from a small window there peeped out a little Sand Landlady, 
 
TYROL SCENERY. 
 Photogravure from a photograph. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 221 
 
 aiming and shooting from great eyes — if the coach had not 
 traveled by so quickly, and had she had time to load again, 
 I should have been shot dead for certain. I called out, " Go 
 ahead, coachman — there is no joking with such a 'fair Elsie ' 
 — such eyes would set fire to the house over one's head ! '* 
 As an experienced traveler, I must confess that the landlady 
 in Sterzing is really an old woman — but she has two young 
 daughters whose eyes warm the heart of the traveler as he 
 steps out of the coach, in a most beneficial manner. But I 
 cannot forget thee, thou fairest of all, thou lovely spinner on 
 the marches of Italy ! Oh, hadst thou given to me as Ari- 
 adne gave to Theseus the thread of thy spinning to lead me 
 through the labyrinth of life, I had long since conquered the 
 Minotaur, and I would love thee, and kiss thee, and never 
 leave thee ! 
 
 " It is a good sign when women laugh," says a Chinese 
 author, and a German writer was of precisely the same opin- 
 ion when in Southern Tyrol, just where Italy begins, he 
 passed a mountain, at whose base on a low foundation he 
 passed one of those neat little houses which look so lovely 
 with their snug gallery and naive paintings. On one side 
 stood a great wooden crucifix, supporting a young vine, so 
 that it looked horribly cheerful, like life twining around death, 
 to see the soft green branches hanging around the bloody 
 body and crucified limbs. On the other side of the cottage 
 was a round dove-cote whose feathered population flew here 
 and there, while one very gentle white dove sat on the pretty 
 gabled roof, which, like a pious niche over a saint, rose over 
 the head of the lovely spinner. She, the fair one, sat on the 
 little gallery and spun — not according to the German method, 
 but in that world-old manner, by which a distaff is held under 
 the arm, and the thread descends with the loose spindle. So 
 of old spun kings' daughters in Greece — so at the present 
 day spin the fates and all Italian women. She spun and 
 laughed, the dove sat still over her head, while far over house 
 and all rose the mountains, their snowy summits glittering 
 in the sun, so that they seemed like giants with polished hel- 
 mets on their heads. 
 
 She spun and smiled ; and I believe that she spun my heart 
 fast, as the coach went along somewhat more slowly, on ac- 
 
222 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 count of the broad stream of the Eisach. The dear features 
 remained all day in my memory — everywhere I beheld 
 nothing save a lovely face, which seemed as though a Gre- 
 cian sculptor had carved it from the perfume of a white rose, 
 in such breath-like delicacy, such beatific nobility, that I could 
 believe he had dreamed it of a spring night. But those eyes ! 
 — ah, no Greek could ever have imagined or comprehended 
 them. But I saw and comprehended those romantic stars 
 which so magically illumined the glory of the antique. All 
 day long I saw them, and all night long I dreamed of them. 
 There she sat again, smiling, the doves fluttering around like 
 angels of love, even the white dove over her head mystically 
 flapped its wings ; behind her rose mightier than ever the 
 helmet warriors, before her roared along more stormily the 
 brook, the vine branches climbed in wilder haste the crucified 
 wooden image, which quivered with pain, and the suffering 
 eyes opened, and the wounds bled, and — she, however, sat 
 still and spun, and on the thread of her distaff, like a dancing 
 spindle, hung my own heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 While the sun gleamed ever lordlier and lovelier from 
 heaven, clothing mountain and castle with golden veils, it 
 still became hotter and livelier in my heart, once more my 
 whole bosom was full of flowers, which shot forth sprouting 
 mightily over my head, and through the flowers from my 
 heart smiled heavenly fair the face of the lovely spinner. 
 Imprisoned in such dreams — myself a dream — I came to 
 Italy, and as I during the journey had entirely forgotten that 
 I was traveling, I was well-nigh terrified when all at once 
 all the great Italian eyes opened on me, and the variegated, 
 tangled life of Italy came leaping towards me, real, warm, 
 and humming ! 
 
 All of this happened to me, however, in the city of Trent, 
 one fine Sunday afternoon, at the hour when the heat goes 
 to sleep, and the Italians wake up and go walking about the 
 streets. This town lies, old and broken, amid a broad circle 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 223 
 
 of blooming green hills, which like eternal young gods look 
 down on the ancient broken works of man. Broken and 
 brittle too, near the latter lies the high castle which once 
 ruled the town, a daring building of a daring time, with 
 spires, pinnacles, battlements, and a broad round tower in- 
 habited by owls and Austrian invalids. Even the town itself 
 is wildly built, and at the first glance it produces a wonderful 
 effect, with its awfully old houses, with their faded frescos 
 and cracked saints' images — with their towers, porticoes, 
 barred windows, and those projecting roofs which rest like 
 balconies on old gray pillars which seem themselves to re- 
 quire support. Such a sight would have been all too sorrow- 
 ful had not nature refreshed the dead stones with new life, 
 had not sweet vine leaves lovingly and tenderly embraced 
 the broken old pillars, as youth embraces age, and still 
 sweeter maidens' faces had not peeped from the melancholy 
 old arched windows, and smiled on the German stranger, 
 who like a sleep-wandering dreamer walked strangely here 
 and there among the blooming ruins. 
 
 I was really as in a dream, and one of those dreams, too, 
 wherein we strive to recall something we have dreamed long 
 ago. I looked in turn at the houses and at the people, and I 
 was inclined to think that I had been acquainted with those 
 houses in their better days, when they wore bran new paint- 
 ings, when the gilt ornaments on their window friezes were 
 not as yet so black, and when the marble Madonna bearing 
 the child on her arm still had her beautiful head, which those 
 iconoclasts, age and wind, had broken away, in such a vulgar, 
 Jacobinical manner. The faces of the elderly dames seemed 
 familiar to me as though they had been cut from the old 
 Italian pictures I had seen in the Düsseldorf Gallery when a 
 boy. In like manner the old men seemed well known and 
 long forgotten, and gazed at me as though from the depth of 
 a thousand years. Even the brisk young girls had something 
 of that which had been dead a thousand years in their faces, 
 and yet of revived bloom, so that almost a terror stole over 
 me, a sweet, gentle terror such as I once felt when in the 
 lonely midnight my lips pressed those of Maria, a wondrous 
 lovely lady, whose only fault was that she was dead. But 
 then again I laughed as the idea came into my head that the 
 
224 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 whole town was nothing but a pretty novel, which I had once 
 read — yes — which I myself had written, and that I now was 
 enchanted by my own work, and was terrified by sprites of 
 my own raising. "Perhaps, too," thought I, "all is but a 
 dream," and I would gladly have given a dollar for a few 
 boxes on the ear, just to learn whether I was asleep or awake. 
 They were at hand, and I might have got them at a cheaper 
 rate, as I stumbled over an old fruit woman. She contented 
 herself with throwing a real box (of figs) at my ears, and I 
 thus came suddenly to the conviction that I was, in the most 
 actual of realities, in the middle of the market-place of Trent, 
 near the great fountain, from whose copper Tritons and dol- 
 phins the silver clear waters welled out pleasant and reviving. 
 To the left stood an old palace, whose walls were painted with 
 many colored allegorical figures, and on whose terrace several 
 gray Austrian soldiers were being drilled into heroism ; to the 
 right stood a Gothic Lombard, capricious-looking house, from 
 which a sweet, fluttering maiden's voice came trilling so 
 dashingly and merrily, that the widowed old walls trembled 
 either with pleasure or from decay, while above there looked 
 from the arch window a black labyrinthine-curled comedian- 
 looking wig, under which projected a sharply cut thin face, 
 which was rouged, but only on the left cheek, and which 
 consequently looked like a pancake baked only on one side. 
 But before me, in the midst, stood the ancient cathedral, not 
 great, not gloomy, but like a cheerful old man, confiding and 
 inviting by his age. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 As I drew aside the green-silk curtain which covered the 
 entrance to the cathedral, and entered the house of the Lord, 
 I was agreeably refreshed in body and soul by the pleasant 
 perfume which greeted me, by the tranquilizing magic light 
 which flowed through the many colored windows on the pray- 
 ing assembly within. They were mostly women, kneeling in 
 long rows on the low prayer benches, they prayed only with 
 a light movement of their lips, fanning themselves constantly 
 meanwhile with great green fans, so that nothing could be 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 225 
 
 heard save an incessant, mysterious whispering, and nothing 
 seen but moving fans and waving veils. The creaking tread 
 of my boots disturbed many a fine prayer, and great Catholic 
 eyes stared at me half inquisitively, half willingly, as if they 
 would fain advise me to kneel and enjoy with them a siesta of 
 the soul. 
 
 Truly such a cathedral, with its subdued light and its cool- 
 ness, is an agreeable resting-place, when we have out-of-doors 
 flaring sunshine and oppressive heat ; we have no idea of this 
 in our Protestant North Germany, where the churches are not 
 built so comfortably, and where the light comes shooting so 
 saucily through the uncolored, common-sense window-panes, 
 which do not protect even the cold, harsh sermon from the 
 heat. People may say what they will, Catholicism is a good 
 religion — for summer. There is such good lying round on 
 the benches of this old cathedral, we enjoy on them such a 
 cool piety, such a holy dolce far niente, one can pray, and 
 dream, and sin together in thought ; the Madonnas wink so 
 forgivingly from their niches, — woman-like, they forgive us 
 even when we have entangled their lovely features in the sin- 
 ful current of our wanton imaginations, while as a superfluity 
 there stands in every corner a brown, pierced chair of con- 
 science, where we can ease ourselves of our sins. 
 
 In such a chair sat a young monk of earnest mien ; but 
 the face of the lady who confessed to him her sins was 
 concealed from me, partly by her white veil and partly 
 by the side of the confessional, yet there came to view a 
 hand, which at once held me fast. I could not help looking 
 at it ; its blue veins, and the aristocratic gleam of its white 
 fingers were so strangely familiar to me, and all the power of 
 dreams in my soul was stirred into life to shape a face to 
 match this hand. It was a lovely hand, not that of a young 
 girl who, half lamb and half rose, has only thoughtless, 
 vegetable-animal hands — this hand on the contrary had 
 something spiritual in it, something exciting past associations, 
 like the hands of handsome human beings who are highly 
 refined and accomplished, or who have greatly suffered ; and 
 there was something so touchingly innocent in this hand, that 
 it seemed as if it had no occasion to confess with the rest of 
 the lady, and would not even hear what its fair proprietress 
 16 
 
226 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 said, and therefore waited without, till she was ready. But 
 this lasted a long time, the lady must have had a terrible 
 amount of sin to narrate. I could not wait any longer, my 
 soul pressed an invisible parting kiss on the fair hand, which 
 closed convulsively at the same instant, and that in the same 
 peculiar manner in which the hand of the dead Maria was 
 accustomed to close when I touched it. " In God's name," 
 thought I, " what is the dead Maria doing in Trent? " — and 
 I hastened from the cathedral. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 When I again crossed the market-place, the fruit woman 
 of whom I have spoken greeted me right amiably and con- 
 fidently, as though we were old friends. " It is all one," 
 thought I, " how we make an acquaintance, provided that it 
 be but made/' A box on the ear — or a box hurled at it — 
 is not in faith a first-class introduction ; — but then the fruit 
 woman and I looked at one another in as friendly a wise as 
 though we had just mutually handed over tiptop letters, 
 " introducing," etc., from our best friends. And the fruit 
 woman was by no means bad to look at. She was, it is true, 
 already in that age when time stamps a fatal certificate on 
 our brow of the active service we have done in youth ; but 
 this had made her all the more corpulent, and what she had 
 lost in youth she had won in weight. Moreover her face 
 still bore the traces of great beauty, and there was plainly 
 written on it, as on old-fashioned vases, " To be loved, and as 
 loving live, is the best joy that earth can give." But what 
 gave her her most exquisite charm was the style in which 
 her hair was dressed — the carefully curled wig-like locks, 
 thickly stiffened with pomatum and idyllically entwined with 
 white bellflowers. I gazed on this woman with the same 
 rapt attention with which an antiquary would pore over a 
 newly disinterred torso — yes, I could detect far more on this 
 living human ruin — I could see on her traces of all the civ- 
 ilization of Italy — the Etruscan, the Roman, the Gothic, the 
 Lombard down to our own powdered modern age, and right 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 227 
 
 interesting to me was the civilized manner of this old woman, 
 in contrast to her business and to her passionate habits. 
 Nor was I less interested by her stock in trade — the fresh 
 almonds which I saw for the first time in their green original 
 packages, and the fresh, sweet-smelling figs, which lay piled 
 up in heaps as common as pears with us. I was also de- 
 lighted with the great baskets full of fresh oranges and 
 lemons, and — delightful sight! — in one of the latter lay a 
 child, beautiful as a picture, holding a little bell in its hand, 
 and as the great bell of the cathedral began to sound, 
 between every stroke the boy rang his little bell, and smiled 
 so forgetful of all worldly things up into the blue heaven, 
 that the drollest child's fancies came into my own head, and 
 like a child I placed myself before the basket and began to 
 eat and gossip with the fruit woman. 
 
 From my broken Italian she at first took me for an Eng- 
 lishman, but I confessed that I was only a German. She at 
 once instituted a series of geographical, economic, horti- 
 cultural, and meteorological questions as to Germany, greatly 
 marveling when I confessed to her that no lemons grew in 
 our country — that we were obliged to squeeze very tightly 
 the few which went in among us from Italy, and that in our 
 despair we were obliged to make up our want of juice with 
 "a little more rum." "Ah, my dear woman," said I, "in our 
 land it is very frosty and foggy — our summer is only a 
 green-washed winter, even the sun there is obliged to wear a 
 flannel jacket to keep from catching cold, and what with this 
 flannel sunshine our fruits get along very poorly — in fact — 
 between you and me and the bedpost — the only ripe fruits 
 we have are baked apples. As for figs, they come to us like 
 oranges and lemons from distant lands, and by the time they 
 arrive no one would give a fig for them ; only the worst of 
 them ever reach us fresh, and these are so very bad that any 
 one who is induced to take them for nothing always brings 
 an action for damages against the giver. As for almonds x 
 we have only the inflamed and swollen sort. In short we 
 are wanting in all the nobler fruits, and have nothing but 
 gooseberries, pears, hazelnuts, and similar canaille. 
 
 1 The word "almond" is applied in German as in English, not only to 
 the fruit ofthat name, but to the tonsils. 
 
228 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 I was really delighted to have made a good acquaintance 
 so soon after arriving in Italy, and had not deeper feelings 
 drawn me to the South, I should have remained in Trent by 
 the good fruit woman, by the good figs and almonds, by the 
 little bell ringer, and, to tell the truth, by the beautiful girls 
 who streamed by in hordes. I do not know if other travelers 
 would here admit the use of the word "beautiful," but the 
 Trent females pleased me most unexceptionably. They were 
 just the sort which I love; — and I love those pale elegiac faces 
 from which great black eyes gaze forth in love-sickness ; I 
 love the dark hue of those proud necks which Phoebus too 
 has loved and kissed brown; I love those overripe necks 
 with purple dots in them, which seem as if wanton birds had 
 been picking at them ; but above all I love that genial warm- 
 blooded gait, that silent music of the whole body, those limbs 
 which undulate in the sweetest measures, voluptuous, pliant, 
 divinely lewd, dying in breathless idleness — and then once 
 more ethereally sublime and ever highly poetical. I love such 
 women as I love Poetry itself, and these melodiously moving 
 forms, this human orchestra as it rustled musically past me 
 found echo in my heart, and awoke in it its sympathetic 
 tones. 
 
 It was now no longer the magic power of a first surprise, 
 the legend-like mystery of some wild and wondrous apparition 
 
 — it had become that tranquil spirit which studied those 
 female forms as they passed along, just as a true critic reads 
 a poem. And by observing in this wise, we discover much 
 
 — much that is sad and strange, the wealth of the past, the 
 poverty of the present, and the great pride which still re- 
 mains. Gladly would the daughters of Trent bedeck them- 
 selves in silk and in satin as in the days of the Council, when 
 their city bloomed in velvets and satin — but the Council did 
 nothing for them ; the velvet is shabby, the satin in rags, and 
 nothing remains to the poor children save an empty tawdry 
 show, which they carefully preserve during the week, and 
 with which they attire themselves only on Sunday. But 
 many have not even these remains of bygone luxury, and 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 229 
 
 must get along as they best can with the plain and cheaper 
 manufactures of the present day. Therefore there is many 
 a touching contrast between body and garment, the ex- 
 quisitely carved mouth seems formed to command, and is 
 itself scornfully overshadowed by a wretched hat with crum- 
 pled paper flowers, the proudest breasts heave and palpitate 
 in a frizzle of coarse woolen imitation lace, and the most 
 spiritual hips are embraced by the stupidest cotton. Sorrow, 
 thy name is cotton — and brown-striped cotton at that ! For, 
 alas, nothing produced in me such sorrowful feelings as the 
 sight of a fair Trent girl, who in form and complexion 
 resembled a marble goddess, and who wore on this antique 
 noble form a garment of brown-striped cotton, so that it 
 seemed as though the petrified Niobe had suddenly become 
 merry, and had disguised herself in our modern small-souled 
 garb, and now swept in beggarly pride and superbly helpless 
 through the streets of Trent. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 When I returned to the Locanda dell' Grande Europa, 
 where I had ordered a good pranzo, I was really so dispirited 
 that I could not eat, and that is saying a great deal for me. 
 I sat down before the door of the neighboring Bottega, 
 refreshed myself with sherbet, and spoke thus : — 
 
 " Whimsical, blue-deviled heart ! now thou art in Italy — 
 why art thou not tiri-liring ? Have perhaps the little serpents 
 which twined so closely within, come with thee to Italy, and 
 do they now rejoice, and does their common rejoicing awaken 
 in thy bosom that picturesque sorrow which so strangely 
 stings, and dances, and pipes, as in the olden time ? And why 
 should not the old sorrows also rejoice in their turn ? Here in 
 Italy all is so beautiful, in these ruined marble palaces, sighs 
 reecho far more romantically than in our neatly tiled little 
 houses ; we can weep far more voluptuously beneath those 
 laurels than under our ill-natured angular fir-trees, and is it 
 not far sweeter to yearn and long away our souls deep into 
 the ideal cloudy forms of the heavenly blue of Italy, than into 
 
230 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the ashy gray of a German week-day heaven, where even the 
 clouds only cut honest, common, citizen grimaces, and stu- 
 pidly gape down ? Remain in my breast, ye sorrows ! Ye 
 will not find after all a better lodging-place. Ye are dear, 
 and worth keeping, and nobody knows how to take better 
 care of you than I, and I confess that ye are a great pleasure. 
 And after all, what is pleasure ? At best an intensely exqui- 
 site, convulsive pain !" 
 
 I believe that the music which without exciting my atten- 
 tion rang before the Bottega and attracted a crowd of listeners, 
 had melodramatically accompanied this monologue. It was 
 a singular trio, consisting of two men and a young harp girl. 
 One of the men, clad as if for winter, in a white overcoat, 
 was a powerful figure, with a full, red, bandit face, which 
 blazed out from among the black hair of his head and beard 
 like a threatening comet. He held between his legs a mon- 
 strous bass viol, on which he sawed away as furiously as 
 though he had, in the Abruzzi, conquered some poor traveler, 
 and was desperately cutting his throat. The other was a 
 tall, meager old man, whose lean limbs tottered in a wornout 
 black dress, and whose snow-white hair contrasted sorrow- 
 fully with his buffo song and his crazy caperings. It is sad 
 enough when an old man must, from poverty, lay aside the 
 dignity of age and give himself up to pranks and tricks ; but 
 how much sadder is it when he must do this before his own 
 child ! — and that girl was the daughter of the old buffo, and 
 she accompanied on the harp his low jests, or laying it aside 
 sang with him a comic duet in which he played the enamored 
 old man, and she the mocking young amante. Moreover, the 
 girl appeared to have hardly entered her teens — yes, it seemed 
 as though they had rudely made a woman of her ere she had 
 come to maidenhood — and not a virtuous woman at that. 
 Hence came that green-sickly withering, and that shrinking 
 displeasure of the fair face, whose proudly thrown traits 
 seemed to scorn all pity ; hence that secret vexedness of the 
 eyes which gleamed defiantly under their black triumphal 
 arches ; hence the deep tone of sorrow which contrasted so 
 unnaturally with the fair and laughing lips which it escaped ; 
 hence the sickliness of the all too delicate limbs, which a 
 short and painfully violet-blue silk fluttered around, so far as 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 23 1 
 
 possible. Many colored and violently contrasted satin ribbons 
 waved like flags around her old straw hat, and her breast was 
 symbolically ornamented by a just opening rosebud, which 
 seemed rather to have been pulled open than to have natu- 
 rally unfolded itself from among its fresh verdant moss. 
 Meanwhile there was perceptible in the poor girl — in this 
 spring over which death had already breathed — an inde- 
 scribable charm, a grace which expressed itself in every glance 
 and motion and tone, and which did not disappear even when, 
 with her body thrown forwards, she danced with mocking 
 lasciviousness towards the old man, who, quite as immodestly, 
 tottered towards her in the same attitude. The more shame- 
 lessly she acted, the deeper was the pity she awoke in my 
 bosom, and when her song welled forth sweet and wondrous 
 from her breast, as if imploring forgiveness — oh, then the 
 little serpents leaped up in ecstasy within me, and bit into 
 their own flesh for joy. Even the rose seemed to gaze im- 
 ploringly on me — yes, once I saw it even tremble and grow 
 pale, but at that instant the trills of the girl's voice rose so 
 much more merrily on high, the old man bleated, goat-like, 
 so much more passionately, and the red comet-face martyred 
 his bass viol so much more savagely, that there came forth 
 the most terrifically funny tones, and the audience rejoiced 
 more madly than ever. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 It was a real Italian composition, from some favorite comic 
 opera, of that strange sort which gives the fullest scope to 
 Humor, and in which the latter can abandon himself to all 
 his mad joy, his crazy feelings, his laughing sorrow, and his 
 life-longing death inspiration. It was altogether in the man- 
 ner of Rossini, as displayed in the " Barber of Seville." The 
 scorners of the Italian school, who would fain destroy the 
 character of this sort of music, will not escape their well- 
 deserved punishment in hell, and are perhaps damned in 
 advance to hear through all eternity nothing but the fugues 
 of Sebastian Bach. It grieves me to think that so many of 
 my friends will not escape this punishment, and that among 
 
232 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 them is Rellstab, who will be damned with the rest, unless 
 before his death he is converted to the true faith of Rossini. 
 Rossini S divino Maestro ! Helios of Italy, who spreadest 
 forth thy rays over the world, pardon my poor countrymen 
 who slander thee on writing and on printing paper ! I how- 
 ever rejoice in thy golden tones, in thy melodious rays, in 
 thy gleaming butterfly dreams which so merrily played around 
 me and kissed my heart as with the lips of the graces. Di- 
 vino Maestro — forgive my poor countrymen who do not see 
 into thy depth, because thou coverest it with roses, and to 
 whom thou dost not seem sufficiently profound, because thou 
 soarest so lightly as on divine wings ! It is true, that to love 
 the Italian music of the present day, and to arrive through 
 love at its comprehension, one should have the people them- 
 selves before his eyes — their heaven, their character, their 
 glances, their joys, their sorrows ; in short, their entire his- 
 tory from Romulus, who founded the holy Roman realm, 
 until that later time when it perished under Romulus Augus- 
 tulus II. Even the use of speech is forbidden to poor en- 
 slaved Italy, and she can only express by music the feelings 
 of her heart. All her resentment against foreign dominion, 
 her inspiration of liberty, her rage at the consciousness of 
 weakness, her sorrow at the memories of past greatness, her 
 faint hopes, her watching and waiting in silence, her yearn- 
 ing for aid — all is masked in those melodies which glide from 
 an intense intoxication of animal life into elegiac weakness, 
 and in those pantomimes which dart from flattering caresses 
 into threatening rage. 
 
 This is the esoteric sense of the comic opera. The exo- 
 teric sentinel, in whose presence they are sung and acted, 
 does not surmise the inner meaning of those jovial love 
 stories, love longings, and love mockeries beneath which the 
 Italian hides his deadliest thoughts of freedom, as Har- 
 modius and Aristogeiton hid their daggers in wreaths of 
 laurel. " It is all nonsensical stuff," says the exoteric sen- 
 tinel, and it is well that he sees it not. For if he did, then 
 the impresario with his prima donna and primo uomo would 
 soon be compelled to walk those planks which now set forth 
 a festival, a commission of inquiry would soon be instituted, 
 all treasonable trills and revolutionary roulades would be 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 233 
 
 protocolled ; they would arrest innumerable Harlequins who 
 are involved in extensive ramifications of horrible plots, even 
 Tartaglia, Brighella, and the suspicious old Pantaloon would 
 be locked up, the papers of the Dottore of Bologna would be 
 put under seal, and under all these family troubles Columbine 
 would weep her eyes red. But I myself think tha t there is little 
 danger of this coming to pass, for the Italian demagogues 
 are far shrewder than our poor Germans, who with a similar, 
 intention have also disguised themselves like black fools with 
 black fools' caps, but who appeared so disagreeably melan- 
 choly, and seemed so dangerous by their deep earnest clown- 
 leaping, which they call "turning," and made up such serious 
 faces, that they finally attracted the attention of government 
 and got themselves into prison. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 The little harp girl must have remarked that I, while she 
 sang and played, often looked at the rose on her bosom, and 
 when I laid on the plate, when it went round, a piece of money 
 which was not altogether too small, she slyly laughed and 
 mysteriously asked in a whisper, " If I would like to have 
 her rose ? " 
 
 Now I am the politest man in the world, and would not 
 for all the world slander a rose, even though it be a rose which 
 has already wasted some of its perfume! "And if," thought 
 I, " it no longer smells perfectly fresh, and no longer breathes 
 the odor of sanctity and virtue, like the Rose of Sharon, 
 what is that to me who have such a devil of a cold in my 
 head ? And it is only mankind who are so particular in 
 these little matters. The butterfly asks not of the rose, 
 ' Hath another already kissed thee ? ' Nor does the rose 
 inquire, 'Hast thou ere this fluttered around another?' 
 And it happened about this time that night came stealing 
 on, "and by night," thought I, "all flowers are black — the 
 sinfullest rose quite as much so as the most virtuous parsley." 
 Well and good — without hesitation I said to the little harp 
 girl : " Si, Signora, . . ." 
 
234 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Gentle reader — form no evil fancies. It had grown dark 
 and the stars shone clear and holily into my heart, while in 
 the heart itself trembled the memory of the dead Maria. 
 I recalled that night when I stood before the bed whereon 
 lay the beautiful pale corpse with soft, silent lips. I thought 
 again on the strange glance which the old dame, who was to 
 watch the body, cast on me, when for some hours I was to re- 
 lieve her of the task. I thought again of the night violet which 
 stood in a glass on the table, and which smelt so strangely. 
 And a suspicion shuddered through my veins, as to whether 
 it were really a draft of air which extinguished the lamp ? 
 Or was there really no third person in the chamber ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 I went early to bed, and quickly fell to sleep, losing my- 
 self in the wildest dreams. I dreamed myself a few hours 
 back, I came again into Trent, I was again in amazement as 
 before, and all the more so, because I saw nothing but 
 flowers instead of human beings walking in the streets. 
 
 There were wandering glowing pinks, who voluptuously 
 fanned themselves, coquettish balsamines, hyacinths, with 
 pretty empty bell heads, and behind them a party of mus- 
 tached narcissuses and disorderly larkspurs. At one corner 
 two loosestrifes 1 were quarreling and scolding. From the 
 windows of a sickly-looking old house peered a spotted 
 stock-gillyflower, decked off in ridiculous wise, while from 
 within pealed a delicately perfumed violet voice. On the 
 balcony of the great palazzo in the market-place, all the 
 nobility were assembled, all the high noblesse, viz. : the lilies, 
 who toil not neither do they spin, although Solomon in all 
 his glory was not arrayed like one of them. I even thought 
 that I saw the plump fruit wife, though when I looked more 
 closely, it was indeed the fruit wife no longer, but a wintry 
 sassafras, who at once burst out on me — " What d'ye want, 
 you green top ? You pickled cowcumber ! You're a blos- 
 som now, arn't ye ! Wait till I water you ! " In terror I 
 ran into the cathedral, and almost ran over an old lame 
 1 Loosestrife — Lysimachia stricta. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 235 
 
 motherwort, whose prayer-book was carried for her by a little 
 coxcomb. But in the cathedral all was right pleasant — 
 there in long rows were the tulips, piously nodding their 
 heads. In the confessional sat a dark monk's hood, and be- 
 fore him kneeled a flower, whose face was not visible. But 
 it breathed forth a perfume so strangely familiar, that I 
 shuddered as I thought of the night violet, which stood in 
 the chamber where the dead Maria lay. 
 
 As I again left the cathedral, I met a funeral procession of 
 nothing but roses with black " weeds," and white handker- 
 chiefs, and, ah ! — on the bier lay the early plucked rose with 
 which I had become acquainted on the bosom of the little 
 harp maiden. She now looked far gentler, but all snow- 
 white — a white-rose corpse. They set down the coffin in a 
 little chapel, where there was nothing but weeping and 
 sighing, and finally an old hell'e'bore got up and delivered a 
 long funeral sermon, in which he said much of the virtues of 
 the departed, of this earthly vale of tears which availeth 
 naught, of a better being, of Love, Hope, and Faith, all in a 
 nasal singing tone, a well-watered oration, and so long and 
 long-winded, that I at last awoke. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 My vetturino had harnessed his horses in advance of Phoe- 
 bus, and we reached Ala before dinner time. Here the vet- 
 turini are accustomed to stop a few hours and change horses. 
 
 Ala is a real Italian nest of a place. It is picturesquely 
 situated on the slope of a mountain, a river ripples past it, 
 and pleasant green vines flourish here and there, amid the 
 stuck-together beggar palaces, which hang one over the 
 other. On a corner of the warped market house, no bigger 
 than a hencoop, is inscribed in great imposing letters : "Piazza 
 di San Marco." On the stone fragment of a massive coat of 
 arms of an ancient, noble family, sat a little boy, manifesting 
 in his need anything but respect for the relic. The clear 
 sunlight shone on his naive nudity, and he held in his hand a 
 picture of a saint, which he devoutly kissed. A little girl — 
 
236 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 beautiful as a statue, stood by in rapt attention, blowing at 
 times an accompaniment on a penny trumpet. 
 
 The tavern where I dined was thoroughly Italian. Above 
 on the first story was a full gallery looking towards the court- 
 yard, in which lay broken wagons and yearning piles of ma- 
 nure, and wherein were turkeys with ridiculous red wattles, 
 and beggarly proud peacocks, besides half a dozen ragged 
 sunburnt children, who were aiding in the mutual improve- 
 ment of their capillary attractions after the Bell and Lancas- 
 terian methods. By means of this balcony, I passed by the 
 broken iron balustrade into a broad, echoing chamber. The 
 floor was of marble, in the midst stood a great bed on which 
 fleas were consummating their nuptials, while on every side 
 was all the magnificence of dirt. The host leaped here and 
 there to fulfil my commands. He wore a violently green 
 frock coat, and a manifoldly moving countenance in which 
 was a humpbacked nose, on the center of which sat a red 
 wart, which reminded me of a red-coated monkey on a 
 camel's back. He sprang hither and thither, and it seemed 
 to me as though the red monkey were leaping about in like 
 manner. He was an hour in bringing anything, and when I 
 rated him soundly for it, he assured me on his word that I 
 spoke Italian admirably. 
 
 I was obliged to content myself for a long time with the 
 agreeable perfume of roast meat, which was wafted towards 
 me from the doorless kitchen just opposite, in which the 
 mother and daughter sat side by side, singing and plucking 
 chickens. The first was remarkably corpulent, with breasts 
 which sprang boldly outward and yet were still diminutive as 
 compared to the colossal antitype, so that the one reminded 
 me of the " Institutes " of the Roman Law, while the other 
 seemed their enlargement in the " Pandects." The daughter, 
 a by no means very large but still stoutly built person, was 
 also inclined to corpulency, but her rosy fatness was by 
 no means to be compared to the ancient tallow of the mother. 
 Her features were not soft, not enchanting with the charms 
 of youth, but still beautifully cut, noble and antique ; the 
 eyes and hair of brilliant black. The mother on the con- 
 trary had flat stumpy features, a rosy-red nose, blue eyes 
 which looked like violets boiled in milk and lily-white pow- 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 237 
 
 dered hair. Now and then il Signor padre came leaping 
 in and asked for this or that dish or implement, when he was 
 advised in calm recitative to look for it himself. Then he 
 smacked with his tongue, hunted in the drawer, tasted from 
 the boiling pot, burned his mouth, and hopped again out, 
 and with him his camel nose and the red monkey on it. 
 And behind him rang forth merry trills, like pleasant mockery 
 and family joking. 
 
 But a thunder-stroke suddenly interrupted this agreeable 
 and almost idyllic family scene, as a square-built fellow with 
 a lowering murderous face leaped in, and screamed some- 
 thing that I did not understand. As both the women made 
 emphatic gestures of denial, he became insane with rage, 
 spitting fire and flame like an ill-natured young Vesuvius. 
 The landlady seemed to be in trouble, and whispered assua- 
 ging words, which had however a contrary effect, so that the 
 raging wretch seized an iron shovel, smashed divers unfortu- 
 nate plates and bottles, and would have struck down the 
 unfortunate woman, had not the daughter grasped a long 
 kitchen knife and threatened to run him through, unless he 
 at once vanished. 
 
 It was a beautiful sight — that of the girl standing there 
 sallow and pale, and petrified with rage, like a marble statue, 
 her very lips pale, the eyes deep and deathlike, a blue swol- 
 len vein crossing her brow, the black locks twining around it 
 like snakes, a bloody knife in her hand, — I trembled with 
 delight, for I fancied that I saw before me the image of 
 Medea, as I have often dreamed her in my youthful nights 
 when I have fallen to sleep on the dear bosom of Melpom- 
 ene, the darkly beautiful goddess. 
 
 While all this was going on, the Signor padre never once 
 ran off his track, but with habitual busy calmness picked up 
 the shards from the soil, collected the plates which yet re- 
 mained alive, and brought me first, soup with Parmesan 
 cheese, roast meat hard and solid as German honesty, crabs 
 red as love, spinach green as hope, with eggs ; and for des- 
 sert, onions which brought tears of emotion to my eyes. 
 "It's nothing — it's only Pietro's way," said he, as I glanced 
 in wonder towards the kitchen ; and in fact after the great 
 cause of all the difficulty had made himself scarce, it seemed 
 
238 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 as if nothing had happened, mother and daughter singing 
 calmly as before, as they sat and plucked chickens. 
 
 The bill convinced me that the Signor padre also under- 
 stood the sublime art of " plucking," and when I in addition 
 to his demand also gave him a buono mano, he bowed in such 
 ecstatic delight that the red monkey nearly fell from its seat. 
 Then I nodded in a friendly manner into the kitchen, received 
 as friendly a salute in return, quickly jumped into the coach, 
 drove rapidly along the plains of Lombardy, and arrived 
 about evening in the ancient, world-renowned town of Verona. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 The varied power of new appearances moved me only 
 dimly and forebodingly in Trent, like the tremor of a legend ; 
 but, in Verona, I was seized by a mighty feverish dream full 
 of hot colors, accurately designed forms, ghostly trumpet 
 clang, and the far-away roar of weapons. Many a dark old 
 palace stared on me as though it would confide to me some 
 ancient secret, and withheld it only on account of the offi- 
 cious crowd of every-day mortals, begging me to come again 
 by night. Yet, despite the tumult of the throng and the wild 
 sun which cast over me its red light, here and there some 
 dark old tower whispered to me some deeply significant 
 word ; here and there I overheard the murmurings of broken 
 columns, and as I passed along a small flight of steps which 
 led to the Piazza de Signori, the stones narrated to me a 
 fearfully bloody story, and I read on the corner the words : 
 " Scala Mazzanti." 
 
 Verona, the ancient world-renowned city, situated on both 
 sides of the Adige, has been in all ages the first halting 
 place for the great German emigrations of tribes who left 
 their cold Northern forests and crossed the Alps, to rejoice 
 in the golden sunshine of pleasant Italy. Some went further 
 on — others were well enough pleased with the place itself, 
 and made themselves at home and comfortable in it, and 
 put on their silk dressing-gowns and promenaded cheerfully 
 among flowers and cypresses, until newcomers, who still 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 239 
 
 had on their iron garments, arrived from the North and 
 crowded them away — an oft-repeated tale, and one called by 
 historians the emigration of races. If we wander through 
 the district of Verona, we find startling traces of those days, 
 as well as relics of an earlier and of a later age. The amphi- 
 theater and the triumphal arch remind us of the Roman 
 age, the fabulous relics of so many Romanesque ante-Gothic 
 buildings, recall Theodoric, that Dietrich of Bern, of whom 
 Germans yet sing and tell ; mad fragments bring up Alboin 
 and his raging Longobardi ; legendary monuments speak of 
 Carolus Magnus, whose paladins are chiseled on the gate 
 of the cathedral with the same frank roughness which char- 
 acterized them in life ; it all seems as though the town were 
 a great tavern, and as people in inns are accustomed to write 
 their names on walls and windows, so have the races who 
 have traveled through Verona left in it traces of their pres- 
 ence; frequently, it is true, not in the most legible hand, 
 since many a German tribe had not then learned to write, 
 and was obliged to smash something by way of leaving its 
 mark, which was also very well in its way, as these ruins 
 which they made speak more intelligibly than the most elabo- 
 rate writing. And the barbarians who now dwell in the old 
 hostelry will not fail to leave similar tokens of their pres- 
 ence, having neither poets nor sculptors to hand down their 
 memory to posterity. 
 
 I remained but one day in Verona, constantly marveling 
 at novelties, gazing at one time on the ancient buildings, at 
 another on the human beings who thronged past in myste- 
 rious haste, and finally at the divinely blue heaven which 
 limited the whole strange scene like a costly frame, and 
 seemed to make of it a painting. But it is right queer when 
 a man sticks himself into a picture which he has just been 
 looking at, and is occasionally laughed at by his fellow fig- 
 ures, and by the female ones at that, as happened to me very 
 pleasantly in the Piazza delle Erbe. This place is the vegeta- 
 ble market, and there I found abundance of delightful forms, 
 women and girls, longing, great-eyed faces, among whom 
 one could dwell very comfortably, excitingly brunette-col- 
 ored, naively dirty beauties, much better adapted to night 
 than to day. The white or black veils which the city women 
 
240 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 wear, were so cunningly entwined around their breasts that 
 they displayed more of the beautiful forms than they con- 
 cealed. The girls wore their hair in chignons, pierced with 
 one or more golden arrows or silver rods terminated by an 
 acorn. The peasant women generally wore small straw hats 
 shaped like plates, with coquettish flowers on one side of the 
 head. The dress of the men differed less from that of our 
 own, and only the immense black beard which came like 
 bushes over their cravats was to me a little startling. 
 
 If we study these people more attentively, the men as well 
 as the women, we find in their features as well as in their 
 whole being the traces of a civilization which differs from our 
 own in this, that it is evidently derived from the Roman times, 
 and has only modified itself according to the character of the 
 casual rulers of the land. Civilization has with them no new 
 and startling features as among us, where the oaken trunk was 
 first sawn, as it were, but yesterday, and where everything 
 smells of varnish. It seems as though this race in the Piazza 
 delle Erbe has during the course of time only changed 
 clothes and language, while the spirit of their customs has 
 undergone but little modification. The buildings which sur- 
 round the place do not appear to have adapted themselves 
 so well to the change of circumstances, but they do not look 
 on us the less pleasantly, and their glance strangely moves 
 the soul. There stand the high old palaces in Venetian- 
 Lombard style, with countless balconies and smiling frescos ; 
 in the midst rises a single monumental column, a fountain 
 and the stone image of a saint; here we see a whimsical 
 white and red striped Podesta, who rises behind a vast pillar 
 gate — there we behold an old four-cornered church tower, 
 on which the hand of the clock is broken, and its figures half 
 obliterated, so that even time seems destroying itself — and 
 over all rests that romantic enchantment which breathes so 
 pleasantly over us from the fantastic poems of Ludovico 
 Ariosto, or of Ludovico Tieck. 
 
 Near this place is a house, which on account of a hat which 
 is chiseled in stone over the inner door, is supposed to be 
 the palace of the Capulets. It is now a dirty inn for wagoners 
 and coachmen, and has for a sign a red-painted leaden hat, 
 full of holes. Not far off, in a church, they show the chapel 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 241 
 
 in which, according to the legend, the unfortunate lovers 
 were married. A poet gladly visits such places, even when he 
 himself laughs at the easy superstition of his heart. I found 
 in this chapel a solitary woman, — a careworn, faded being, — 
 who, after long kneeling and praying, arose, sighing, gazed 
 strangely on me with a sickly, silent glance, and finally 
 tottered weakly away. 
 
 The tombs of the Scaligeri are also near the Piazza delle 
 Erbe. They are as wonderfully splendid, and it is a pity that 
 they should stand in a narrow corner, where they must crowd 
 together to take up as little room as possible, and where 
 there remains but little space for the visitor to behold them 
 aright. It seems as though we saw in this an historical com- 
 parison. The race of the Scaligeri fills but a small corner in 
 Italian history, but that corner is crowded with deeds of 
 daring, splendid plans, and all the magnificence of pride. 
 And we find them on their monuments as in history — proud 
 iron knights, on iron steeds, and among them, surpassing in 
 splendor, Can Grande, the uncle, and Mastino, the nephew. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Much has been said of the amphitheater of Verona ; it is 
 large enough to give space to many remarks, and there is no 
 remark which may not find a space in it. It is built altogether 
 in that earnest, practical style, whose beauty consists of perfect 
 solidity, and which, like all public buildings of the Romans, 
 breathes out a spirit which is nothing else save the spirit of 
 Rome itself. And Rome ? Who is so soundly ignorant that 
 his heart does not beat at the mention of this name, and 
 whose soul is not at least thrilled by a traditional terror? 
 For myself I confess that my feelings are rather those of 
 fear than pleasure, when I reflect that I shall soon tread on 
 the lair of old Rome itself. " Old Rome is long dead," said 
 I soothingly to myself, " and thou wilt have the pleasure of 
 regarding her fair corpse, without danger." But then the 
 Falstafnan thought came into my head : " What if she were 
 not as yet really dead, and has only feigned to be so, and 
 should suddenly arise — the thought is terrible." 
 17 
 
242 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 When I visited the amphitheater, comedy was being played 
 in it ; a little wooden stage was erected in its midst, on which 
 all sorts of Italian harlequinry was being acted, and the spec- 
 tators sat partly on little chairs and partly on the high stone 
 benches of the ancient amphitheater. There I too sat and 
 saw Brighella's and Tartaglia's mock fighting, on the same 
 spot where the Romans once sat and gazed on their battles 
 of gladiators and wild beasts. The heaven above me with 
 its crystal-blue shell was still the same as of old. Little 
 by little it grew dark, the stars shimmered out, Truffaldino 
 laughed, Smeraldina wailed, and finally Pantaloon came and 
 joined their hands. The multitude clapped their approbation, 
 and went their way rejoicing. The whole play had not cost 
 one drop of blood. But it was only a play. But the plays 
 of the Romans were no plays, these men could never have 
 satiated their souls with mockeries, they lacked that childlike 
 cheerfulness of soul; and according to their stern natures 
 they manifested in their sports the harshest, bloodiest earnest- 
 ness. They were not great men, but by their position they 
 were greater than all the other children of earth — for they 
 stood on Rome. When they descended from the Seven Hills, 
 they were again small. Hence the littleness which we dis- 
 cover in their private life; in Herculaneum and Pompeii, 
 those palimpsests of nature, where the original old stone text 
 is again brought to life, showing the traveler Roman life in 
 little houses, with diminutive rooms, which contrast so singu- 
 larly with those colossal buildings which set forth their public 
 life, and those theaters, aqueducts, fountains, highways, and 
 bridges whose ruins still awake our wonder. And this is 
 just it — the Greeks were great in the idea of Art, the 
 Hebrews in the idea of a holiest God, and the Romans in 
 the idea of their eternal Rome, wherever it was by them 
 fought, written, or built. The greater Rome became the 
 more she extended this idea, the individual was lost in it, 
 the great who rose above it were still borne along by it, and 
 it makes the littleness of the little still more apparent. On 
 this account the Romans were at the same time the greatest 
 heroes and the greatest satirists — heroes while they acted 
 and thought of Rome, satirists if they thought of Rome and 
 judged of the deeds of their contemporaries. Measured by 
 
AMPHITHEA TRE A T VERONA. 
 
 Photogravure from a photograph. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 243 
 
 such an enormous standard as the greatness of Rome, the 
 greatest personality must have appeared dwarf-like and even 
 have attracted mockery. Tacitus is the grimmest of masters 
 in this satire, because he, more than any other, felt in his 
 soul the grandeur of Rome and the littleness of men. He 
 is gloriously in his element whenever he can tell us what 
 slanderous tongues prattled in the Forum over some deed 
 of imperial infamy ; and fiercely delighted when he has an 
 opportunity of detailing some senatorial scandal or some 
 abject flattery which missed its mark. 
 
 I remained walking for a long time on the upper benches 
 of the amphitheater, dreaming my way back into the dim 
 past. As all buildings reveal most clearly in twilight their 
 inner spirit, so did these walls whisper to me in their frag- 
 mentary lapidary style, the most mysterious things — for they 
 spoke of the men of old Rome, and it seemed to me that I 
 beheld their spirits wandering far below me like white shad- 
 ows in the darkened circus. I seemed to see the Greeks 
 with their inspired martyr eyes ! " Tiberius Sempronius ! " 
 cried I, aloud — "I will vote with thee for the Agrarian 
 law ! " And I saw Caesar too, wandering arm in arm with 
 Marcus Brutus. "Are ye again reconciled?" I cried. "We 
 both believed that we were in the right," laughed Caesar up 
 to me. " I knew not that a Roman still existed, and there- 
 fore thought myself justified in putting Rome in my pocket 
 — and because my son Marcus was just this Roman, he 
 thought himself justified in making way with me." Behind 
 the two glided Tiberius Nero with cloud-like limbs and un- 
 determined mien. And there were women too, in the spectral 
 throng ; among them Agrippina, with beautiful imperial fea- 
 tures, like those of an antique statue, on which the traces 
 of pain seemed petrified. " Whom seekest thou, daughter of 
 Germanicus ! " Scarcely had I heard her wail, ere there 
 rolled over all the heavy tones of a vesper-bell, and the hor- 
 rible drumming of the evening roll-call. The proud Roman 
 spirits passed away, and I found myself once more in the 
 Austrian Christian present age. 
 
244 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 As soon as it is dark the beau monde of Verona promenades 
 on the place La Bra, or sits there on little chairs before the 
 cafes, sipping sherbet, and evening air and music. It is right 
 pleasant sitting there — the dreaming heart cradles itself in 
 soft tones, and rings back in echo to them. Often, as if reel- 
 ing with sleep, it trembles when the trumpets reecho and join 
 in with full orchestra. Then the soul is again revived as with 
 fresh sunshine, great flowering feelings, and memories with 
 vast black eyes come blooming up, and over them sweep 
 thoughts like , trains of clouds, proud, and slowly, and eter- 
 nally. 
 
 I wandered until midnight through the streets of Verona. 
 Little by little they were deserted and reechoed strangely. 
 In the half moonlight the buildings and their armaments 
 glimmered strangely, and many a marble face looked pale 
 and painfully upon me. I walked quickly past the tombs 
 of the Scaligeri, for it seemed to me as though Can Grande, 
 courteous as ever towards poets — would descend from 
 his horse and accompany me as guide. "Still where thou 
 art," I cried, " I need thee not. My heart is the best 
 guide and tells all that passes in the nouses, and excepting 
 names and dates tells them truly enough." 
 
 As I came to the Roman triumphal gate, there swept 
 through it a black monk, and far in the distance sounded a 
 rumbling German " Wer da ? " (" Who goes there ? ") " Good 
 friend," answered a laughing soprano. 
 
 But what woman's voice was that which thrilled so strangely 
 sweet through my soul as I ascended the Scala Mazzanti ? 
 It was a song which echoed as if from a dying nightingale — 
 death-delicately — and which seemed to cry to the very stone 
 walls for aid. On this spot Antonio Delia Scala murdered 
 his brother Bartolomeo, as the latter went to meet his lady 
 love. And my heart told me that she sat in her chamber 
 awaiting her beloved, and sang to drown forboding fears. 
 But soon the song and air seemed to me so strangely familiar 
 — I had before heard those silken, fearful, bleeding tones ; 
 they twined around me soft, tearful memories, and — O thou 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 245 
 
 stupid heart, said I to myself, hast thou then forgotten the 
 song of the sick Moorish king sung to thee so often by the 
 dead Maria ? And the voice itself — knowest thou no longer 
 the voice of the dead Maria ? 
 
 The long-drawn notes followed me through every street, 
 into the Hotel Due Torre — into my bedroom — into my 
 dream. And there I saw once more my sweet, dead life, 
 lying beautiful and motionless, the old washerwoman stole 
 away with a meaning side glance, the night violet breathed 
 out its perfume, I again kissed the lovely lips, and the dear 
 corpse slowly arose to offer again a kiss. 
 
 If I only knew what it was that blew out the light ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 "Know'st thou the land where the citron blooms? " 
 
 Knowest thou the song ? All Italy is sketched in it, but 
 in the sighing tones of longing and desire. Goethe in his 
 " Italian Journey " has sung it more in detail, and whenever 
 he paints, he always has the original before his eyes, and we 
 can rely on the truthfulness, both of outline and of coloring. 
 And I find it appropriate to speak here, once for all, of 
 Goethe's "Italian Journey," and I do this the more willingly, 
 since he made the same tour from Verona through the Tyrol. 
 I have already spoken of that work, before I was personally 
 familiar with its subject, and I now find my presentiment as 
 to its merits fully established. Everywhere in it we find a 
 practical comprehension and the calm repose of nature. 
 Goethe holds the mirror up to — or to speak more accurately 
 — is himself the mirror of nature. Nature wished to know 
 how she looked, and therefore created Goethe. He even 
 reflects the thoughts and intentions of nature, and we should 
 not judge harshly of some enthusiastic " Goethian," espe- 
 cially in the dog-days, if he is at times so astonished at the 
 identity of the object mirrored with its original, that he 
 ascribes to the mirror a power of creating similar objects. A 
 certain Mr. Eckermann once wrote a book on Goethe, in 
 
246 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 which he solemnly assures us that if the Lord on creating 
 the world had said to Goethe, " Dear Goethe, I am now, the 
 Lord be praised, at an end. I have created everything except 
 the birds and the trees, and you would oblige me by getting 
 up these trifles for me " — then Goethe would have finished 
 them all in the spirit of the original design, — the birds with 
 feathers, and the trees of a green color. 
 
 There is some truth in all this, and I even believe that in 
 some particulars Goethe could have given the Lord a few 
 valuable hints as to the improvement of certain articles, and 
 would, for instance, have created Herr Eckermann much 
 more correctly by covering him with green feathers. It is 
 at least a pity that a tuft of green feathers does not grow 
 out of Eckermann's head, and Goethe did in fact strive to 
 remedy the defect, as far as possible, by writing to Jena for a 
 doctor's hat, and by placing it with his own hands on his 
 admirer's poll. 
 
 Next to Goethe's " Italian Journey," I would commend 
 Lady Morgan's " Italy," and the " Corinna " of Madame de 
 Stael. What these ladies lack in talent they make up in the 
 manliness of thought, which is wanting in the great poet. 
 For Lady Morgan has spoken like a man — she spoke scor- 
 pions to the hearts of brazen hirelings, and sweet were the 
 notes of this fluttering nightingale of freedom. Of like 
 nature — as many well know — was Madame de Stael, an 
 amiable vivandiere in the liberal army, who ran courageously 
 through the ranks of the combatants with her bits of enthu- 
 siasm, strengthening the weary, and fighting with them too 
 — better than the best. 
 
 As for descriptions of Italian towns, William Müller gave 
 us a review of them some time since in " Hermes." Among 
 the older German writers in this line, the most distinguished 
 in genius or originality are Moritz, Archenholtz, Bartels, the 
 brave Seume, Arndt, Meyer, Benkowitz, and Rehfus. I know 
 but little of the more recent tourists, and I have derived from 
 them but little pleasure or profit. Among these I may men- 
 tion the " Rome, the Romans, and the Roman Women " of 
 the too early deceased W. Müller — ah! he was a German 
 poet! — then the " Journey " of Kephalides — which is a little 
 dry; Lesmann's "Cisalpine Leaves" — which is a little too 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 247 
 
 watery, and finally, the " Tours in Italy, since 1822," of Fred- 
 erick Thiersch, Ludwig Schorn, Edward Gerhardt, and Leo 
 von Klenze. Only the first part of this work has as yet 
 appeared, and it consists principally of contributions from 
 my dear and noble-hearted friend, Thiersch, whose humane 
 glance is evident in every line. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 " Know'st thou the land where the bright lemon blows? 
 'Mid dark green leaves the golden orange glows, 
 A gentle breeze sweeps o'er its happy lands, 
 Calm lies the myrtle — high the laurel stands, 
 Know'st thou it well? 
 
 Oh there, oh there, with thee, 
 How glad were I, loved one, to wander free." 
 
 Only don't go in the beginning of August, when you are 
 liable to be roasted by the sun during the day, and to be de- 
 voured by fleas at night. And I moreover counsel thee, thou 
 best of readers, not to travel from Verona to Milan in the 
 post coach. 
 
 I rode in company with six bandits, in an unwieldy, bump- 
 ing carozza, which on account of the all-prevailing dust was 
 so carefully shut up, that I could see but little of the beauty 
 of the scenery. Only twice ere we gained Brescia did my 
 neighbor lift the side leathern curtain in order to spit. The 
 first time he did this, I saw nothing but some perspiring fir- 
 trees, which in their green, winter overcoats seemed to suffer 
 greatly from the sultry summer heat ; — the second time I 
 saw a fragment of a wondrous clear blue lake, wherein the 
 sun and a lean grenadier mirrored themselves. The latter of 
 the pair — an Austrian Narcissus — gazed admiringly and 
 joyfully at the accuracy with which his reflections imitated 
 all his movements, when he presented, shouldered, or aimed 
 with his gun. 
 
 I have but little to tell of Brescia, as I occupied myself 
 during the time of my "residence" there in eating a good 
 luncheon. No one can blame a poor traveler for satisfying 
 
248 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 bodily hunger in preference to the spiritual. Still I was con- 
 scientious enough, ere I reentered the coach, to inquire a few- 
 particulars relative to the town from a waiter, and learned of 
 him that Brescia contained among other things, forty thou- 
 sand inhabitants, one town hall, twenty-one coffee-houses, 
 twenty Catholic churches, a madhouse, a synagogue, a menag- 
 erie, a house of correction, a hospital, an equally good thea- 
 ter, and a gallows for those thieves who steal less than one 
 hundred thousand dollars. 
 
 I arrived about midnight in Milan, and went to Herr Reich- 
 mann's — a German whose hotel is fitted up entirely in the 
 German manner. It was the best inn in all Italy, said certain 
 friends whom I there met, and who had mournful tales to relate 
 relative to Italian swindling and taking in. Especially did Sir 
 William curse as he assured me that if Europe is the head of 
 the world, Italy is its bump of theft. The poor baronet had 
 been obliged to pay in the Locanda Croce bianco at Padua not 
 less than twelve francs for a poor breakfast, and at Vicenza 
 some wretch of a waiter had demanded a gratuity for picking 
 up for him a glove, just dropped from his coach. His cousin 
 Tom said that all Italians are rogues, except that they do not 
 steal. Had he been more attractive, he might have said the 
 same of their women. The third in the party was a Mr. Liver, 
 whom I had left as a young calf in Brighton, and whom I now 
 found a bceuf a la mode in Milan. He was dressed entirely as 
 a dandy, and I have never met a mortal who better knew how 
 to bring out the corners with his figure. When he stuck his 
 thumbs into his vest armlets he made nothing but angles — 
 his very mouth folded up square as a brick. Withal he had 
 a square head, small behind, pointed above, with a low fore- 
 head, and a very long chin. Among the English acquaint- 
 ances whom I met in Milan was Liver's corpulent aunt, who 
 seemed like an avalanche of fat, which had rolled down from 
 the Alps in company with two snow-white, snow-cold winter 
 geese, Miss Polly and Miss Molly. 
 
 Do not accuse me, dear reader, of Anglomania, should I very 
 frequently speak of English people in this book. They are too 
 numerous in Italy not to be mentioned ; they sweep over the 
 land in swarms, they lodge in every inn, crowd everywhere to 
 see everything, and it is impossible to imagine an Italian orange 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 249 
 
 blossom without thinking of some pretty English girl smelling 
 at it, or a picture-gallery without a mob of Englishmen who, 
 guide-book in hand, go rushing around to make certain that 
 everything is there which is described in their guide-books. 
 When we see this blonde, red-cheeked race with their shining 
 coaches, many-colored lackeys, neighing blood horses, green- 
 veiled chambermaids, and other costly apparatus, inquisitive 
 and ornamented, sweeping over the Alps, and through Italy, 
 we can imagine that we see an elegant invasion. And, in fact, 
 the son of Albion, albeit he wears clean linen and pays cash 
 down for everything, is a civilized barbarian as compared with 
 the Italian, who indicates a civilization now passing into bar- 
 barism. The former shows a suppressed rudeness, the latter 
 a neglected refinement. And even the pale Italian faces, with 
 the suffering white of their eyes, and their sickly delicate lips 
 — how silently aristocratic do they seem as compared to stiff 
 British faces with their vulgar ruddy health. The whole Italian 
 race is internally sick, and sick people are invariably more re- 
 fined than the robust, for only the sick man is really a man, 
 his limbs have a history of suffering, they are spiritualized. 
 I believe that by suffering, animals could be made human ; I 
 have seen a dying hound who in his last agonies gazed on me 
 with the glance of a man. 
 
 The suffering expression of the Italians is most visible when 
 we speak to them of the misfortunes of their country, and in 
 Milan there is plenty of opportunity for that. That is the 
 sharpest wound in the breast of an Italian, and it quivers and 
 twitches when touched ever so lightly. They have on such 
 occasions a peculiar shrug of the shoulders which inspires in 
 me a strange pity. One of my Britons regarded the Italians 
 as being politically indifferent, because they seemed to listen 
 with equanimity when we strangers chatted on the Catholic 
 emancipation and the Turkish war ; and he was unjust enough 
 to say as much, mockingly, to a pale Italian with a jet-black 
 beard. We had the previous evening seen the debut of a new 
 opera in La Scala, and witnessed the tremendous enthusiasm 
 which a first success excites. "You Italians," said the Eng- 
 lishman, " appear to be dead to everything save music, which 
 is the only thing that seems to excite you." "You do us in- 
 justice," said the pale one, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah ! " 
 
250 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 sighed he — " Italy sits elegiacally dreaming on her ruins, and 
 when she is at times suddenly awakened by the melody of a 
 song and springs wildly up, this sudden inspiration is not due 
 to the song itself, but rather to the ancient memories and feel- 
 ings which the song has awakened — which Italy has ever 
 borne in her heart, and which now mightily gush forth — and 
 this is the meaning of the wild tumult which you have heard 
 in La Scala." 
 
 Perhaps this confession also explains the enthusiasm which 
 Rossini's or Meyerbeer's operas have everywhere produced 
 on the other side of the Alps. If I ever in my life saw human 
 madness it was at a representation of the " Crociato in Egitto," 
 when the music frequently underwent a sudden transition from 
 soft wailing tones to wild active pain. Such madness is termed 
 by Italians " furore." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Although I have here, dear reader — the Brera and 
 Ambrosiana being in my way — a glorious opportunity to 
 serve up views on art, I will still suffer this cup to pass 
 away from you, contenting myself with the remark that I 
 have observed the pointed chin, which gives such a senti- 
 mental impression to so many pictures of the Lombard 
 school, on many a pretty Lombardess in the streets of 
 Milan. It has always been marvelously comforting and edi- 
 fying to me when an opportunity presented itself to compare 
 the works of a school with the originals which served as its 
 models ; for thus I more accurately appreciated its character. 
 Thus in the great fair of Rotterdam, the divine geniality of 
 Jan Steen was suddenly revealed to me ; and thus at a later 
 date I learned on Lung l'Arno the truth of form and the 
 effective spirit of the Florentines, while in San Marco I 
 caught the truth of color and the dreamy superficiality of 
 the Venetians. Go to Rome, my dear soul — go to Rome — 
 and there perhaps you may rise to a perception of the ideal 
 and to the appreciation of Raphael. 
 
 However, there is one marvel at Milan — and by long odds 
 the greatest — which I cannot leave unnoted — that is the 
 Cathedral. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 25 I 
 
 From a distance it looks as though cut from white note- 
 paper, and when near it the observer is startled to find that 
 this lace-like scissoring is all of undeniable white marble. 
 The countless images of saints, which cover the entire build- 
 ing, which peep forth under little Gothic baldachins, and 
 which rise from every point, form a petrified multitude which 
 well-nigh bewilders our senses. Yet if we study the entire 
 work a while longer, we find that it is right pretty, colossally 
 neat, a plaything for giant children. But it appears best 
 in the midnight moonshine, for then all the white stone-men 
 come thronging solemnly adown from their height, and sweep 
 together over the place and whisper an old legend in our ear 
 — a strange, secret tale of Galeazzo Visconti, who began the 
 Cathedral, and of Napoleon Bonaparte, who at a later day 
 continued it. 
 
 "D'ye see," — said to me a singular-looking saint who 
 had evidently been but recently manufactured from brand 
 new marble, "d'ye see, my old friends here cannot under- 
 stand why the Emperor Napoleon worked away so industri- 
 ously at the Cathedral. But I flatter myself that I have 
 seen into the matter. He knew perfectly well that this great 
 stone house was at any rate a very useful building, and that 
 it might be used when Christianity shall have gone out of 
 date." 
 
 " When Christianity shall be out of date ! " — I was fairly 
 frightened to hear that there were saints who talked this 
 way in Italy, and that in a place where Austrian sentinels 
 with bearskin caps and knapsacks were marching up and 
 down. Anyhow the old stone chap was right, for the inte- 
 rior of the Cathedral is pleasant and cool in summer and 
 cheerful and agreeable, and will be worth something, do 
 what they will with it. 
 
 The completion of this Cathedral was one of Napoleon's 
 favorite ideas, and he was not wide of the mark when his 
 power came to an end. The Austrians are now carrying it 
 on. They are also working at the celebrated triumphal arch 
 which is to conclude the Simplon road, though of course 
 Napoleon's statue will not be placed on the summit of the 
 arch, as was originally determined. At all events, the great 
 Emperor has left behind him a monument which is better 
 
252 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 and more durable than marble, and which no Austrian can 
 hide from observation. Long after the rest of us ordinary 
 mortals have been mowed down by the scythe of Time, and 
 have been blown away like chaff of the field, that statue 
 monument will remain unscathed ; new races will rise from 
 the earth, will gaze bewildered on the image and pass away 
 again to earth ; — and Time, incapable of injuring the form, 
 will seek to involve it in legendary myths, and its tremendous 
 history will finally be a myth. 
 
 Perhaps after thousands of years some wonderfully shrewd 
 schoolmaster in a fearfully profound dissertation will prove 
 beyond cavil that Napoleon Bonaparte was identical with 
 that other Titan who stole fire from the gods, and who for 
 this trespass was chained to a solitary rock in the midst of 
 the sea, as a prey to a vulture, which day by day gnawed 
 away at his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 My excellent friend and reader, I sincerely hope that you 
 will not mistake me for an unconditional Bonapartist ; my 
 adoration is entirely for the genius and not for the deeds of 
 the man. I love him beyond all limit up to the eighteenth 
 Brumaire — when he betrayed freedom. And this he did, 
 not from necessity, but from a secret predilection for aristoc- 
 racy. Napoleon Bonaparte was an aristocrat, a noble enemy 
 of middle-class equality, and it was an enormous mistake and 
 misunderstanding when the European aristocracy, represented 
 by England, made such deadly war on him ; for although 
 he intended to introduce a few changes into the personnel of 
 this aristocracy, he still wished to uphold the majority of 
 them and their actual principle ; he would have regenerated 
 this aristocracy which now, after its last and certainly final 
 victory, lies exhausted by age, loss of blood and weariness. 
 
 Dear reader ! let us here, once and for all, understand one 
 another. I never praise the deed, but the human soul whose 
 garment the deed is, and history is nothing but the soul's old 
 wardrobe. But love sometimes loves old hats and coats, and 
 even so do I love the cloak of Marengo. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 253 
 
 "We are on the battle-field of Marengo ! " How my heart 
 laughed as the postilion said this. I was in company with a 
 very gentlemanly Lieflander, who rather played the Russian, 
 the evening before we had left Milan, and the next morning 
 we saw the sun rise over the famed field of battle. 
 
 It was here that General Bonaparte drank so mighty a 
 draft from the goblet of renown, that in his intoxication 
 he became Consul, Emperor, World-conqueror, and first grew 
 sober at St. Helena. And it fared no better with us who 
 also got tipsy with him, dreamed the same wild dreams, 
 awoke in the same manner, and now in all the misery of 
 soberness are making all sorts of reasonable reflections. And 
 it often seems to us as if warlike reputation were an old- 
 fashioned, out-of-date sort of pleasure, for under Napoleon a 
 battle attained its acme of significance, and he was perhaps 
 the last of the conquerors. 
 
 It really seems as though more spiritual than material 
 interests were now being fought out, and as though universal 
 history were no longer a robber legend, but a ghost story. 
 The grand lever which ambitious and avaricious princes were 
 once wont to employ so industriously — that is to say, nation- 
 ality, with all its vanity and hatred, is now musty and used 
 up ; day by day the ridiculous prejudices of races are disap- 
 pearing ; all harsh peculiarities are disappearing in the uni- 
 versality of European civilization, there are no longer nations 
 but parties, and it is wonderful to behold how these, despite 
 the most varied colors, recognize each other, and make them- 
 selves mutually intelligible, notwithstanding the difference of 
 language. As there is a material policy of States, so there is 
 also a spiritual party policy ; and as the States' policy would 
 quickly bring to a general, zealous European war the smallest 
 strife which should spring up between the smallest powers, 
 where interest is the governing principle, so on the other 
 hand, the smallest strife could not take place in which, owing 
 to the party policy already alluded to, the general spiritual 
 tendencies and meanings would not be at once understood, 
 and by which the most distant and heterogeneous parties 
 would find themselves compelled to take side pro or contra. 
 
 On account of this party policy, which I call a spiritual policy, 
 because its interests are more spiritual and its ultima rationes 
 
254 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 not metallic, they now form, as if by the medium of the 
 States' policy, two great masses opposed to each other, fight- 
 ing with glance and word. The watchwords and representa- 
 tives of these two great parties change day by day — there is 
 no lack of confusion — the greatest misunderstandings often 
 arise, and these are often rather increased than explained by 
 the authors, who form the diplomatists of the spiritual party ; 
 but though heads may err, hearts still feel what they need, 
 and time presses on with her great question. 
 
 But what is the great question of the age ? 
 
 It is that of emancipation. Not simply the emancipation 
 of the Irish, Greeks, Frankfort Jews, West Indian negroes, 
 and other oppressed races, but the emancipation of the whole 
 world, and especially that of Europe, which has attained its 
 majority and now tears itself loose from the iron leading- 
 strings of a privileged aristocracy. A few philosophical 
 renegades from freedom may forge, if they will, for us the 
 most elaborate chains of conclusions, to prove that millions of 
 men are born to be beasts of burden for a few thousand 
 nobles, but they will never convince us until they make it 
 clear, to borrow the expression of Voltaire, that the former 
 are born with saddles on their backs, and the latter with spurs 
 on their heels. 
 
 Every age has its problem, whose solution advances the 
 world. The earlier inequality established by the feudal sys- 
 tem in Europe was perhaps necessary, or a necessary condi- 
 tion of the advance of humanity ; but now it impedes the 
 latter, and represses the pulsations of the civilized heart. 
 The French, who are preeminently the race of social inter- 
 course, have necessarily suffered most from this inequality 
 which grates so harshly against the principles of sociability, 
 they have sought to force equality by gently nipping off 
 those heads which persisted in rising above the rest, and 
 their revolution was the signal for a war of independence 
 for the whole world. 
 
 Honor to the French ! — they have taken good care of the 
 two greatest needs of human society — of good eating and 
 citizenly equality ; they have made the greatest advances in 
 cookery and in freedom, and if it ever comes to pass that we 
 all hold together one grand dinner of jolly good-fellowship 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 255 
 
 — and on this earth there is nothing better than an assem- 
 bly of peers at a well-spread table — we will give the French- 
 men the first toast. It will be some time I know before this 
 grand feast comes off, and before emancipation is finished 
 up, — but it is bound to come, this blessed time, when we, all 
 reconciled and on a par, will sit together around the same 
 table. Then in union we will fight against other evils of 
 the world, perhaps at last against death itself — death, whose 
 stern system of equality is not, to say the worst, so oppres- 
 sive as the smiling theory of /«equality held by aristocracy. 
 Laugh not, thou later reader. Every age believes that its 
 battle is the most important — this is the true creed of the 
 time in which it lives and dies, and we, too, will live and die 
 in this religion of freedom, which perhaps better deserves 
 the name of religion than the hollow, long-dead soul specter 
 which we have qualified by that name. Our holy battle 
 seems to us to be by far the mightiest ever yet fought on 
 earth, though a historical presentiment tells us that our de- 
 scendants will look down on this strife with perhaps the same 
 indifference with which we regard the combats of the first 
 men who fought against quite as terrible monsters, dragons, 
 and robber giants. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 On the battle-field of Marengo reflections come flying 
 around in such flocks that one can almost believe that they 
 are the same which many travelers have suddenly abandoned 
 there in a hurry, and which now go sweeping about. I love 
 battle-fields ; for, terrible as war is, it still sets forth the spir- 
 itual greatness of man, who has gone so far as to defy his 
 mightiest hereditary enemy — Death. And just so with this 
 battle plain, where Freedom danced on blood roses her wanton 
 bridal measures. For, in those days, France was a bridegroom 
 who had invited all the world to a wedding, and then, as the 
 song says, — 
 
 " Hurrah ! upon the bridal eve, 
 
 In merry joke, for pots, they broke 
 
 Aristocratic heads." 
 
256 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 But, alas ! every inch which humanity advances costs streams 
 of blood ; and is not that paying rather dear ? Is not the life 
 of the individual worth as much as that of the entire race ? 
 For every single man is a world which is born and which dies 
 with him ; beneath every gravestone lies a world's history. 
 " Be silent," Death would say, "as to those who lie here," — 
 but we still live, and will fight on in the holy battle for the 
 freedom of humanity. 
 
 "Who now thinks of Marengo?" said my traveling com- 
 panion, the Liefland Russian, as we rode over the fallow field. 
 " At present all eyes are turned towards the Balkan, where 
 my countryman, Diebitsch, is fitting the turbans to the Turk's 
 head — and you'll see that we'll take Constantinople this very 
 year. Are you for Russia ? " 
 
 This was a question which I had rather have answered 
 anywhere but on the field of Marengo. I saw, in the morn- 
 ing mists, the man in the little cocked hat and the gray cloak 
 of battle — he darted onwards, swift as a spirit, and far in 
 the distance rang a terribly sweet " Allons enfants de la patrie." 
 Yet, notwithstanding all this, I answered, " Yes, I am sound 
 as to Russia." 
 
 And in fact, in the wonderful change of watchwords and 
 of representatives in the great battle, it has come to such a 
 pitch that the most enthusiastic friend of revolution can only 
 see the safety of the world in the victory of Russia, and must 
 regard the Czar Nicholas as the gonfalonier of freedom. 
 Singular mutation ! Two years ago we cast the robe of this 
 noble office upon an English minister. The howl of high 
 Tory hatred against George Canning led our choice ; in the 
 noble, humiliating sufferings which he endured, we saw guar- 
 antees of his fidelity, and as he died the death of a martyr, 
 we put on mourning, and the eighth of August became a 
 sacred day in the calendar of freedom. But we took the 
 flags from Downing Street and planted them anew in St. 
 Petersburg, and chose for our standard bearer the Emperor 
 Nicholas, the Knight of Europe, who protected Greek widows 
 and orphans against Asiatic barbarians, and who in that brave 
 battle won his spurs. Again the enemies of freedom had 
 betrayed themselves, and we again availed ourselves of the 
 shrewdness of their hatred to learn what was for our own 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 257 
 
 benefit. Again the wonted vision came to view, that we owed 
 our representatives more to the elective majority of our ene- 
 mies than to our own choice ; and as we gazed on the rnarvel- 
 ously assorted multitude who sent forth their best wishes to 
 Heaven for the safety of Turkey and for the destruction of 
 Russia, we quickly found out who was our friend — or, rather, 
 who was the terror of our foe. How the blessed Lord in 
 Heaven must have laughed, when he listened to the con- 
 temporary prayers of Wellington, the Grand Mufti, the Pope, 
 Rothschild I., Metternich, and an endless mess of little nobles, 
 stock-jobbers, priests and Turks, and all for one and the same 
 thing — the safety of the Crescent ! 
 
 What the alarmists have fabled over, the danger to which 
 we are exposed by the overgrowth of Russia, is rank non- 
 sense. We Germans, at least, have nothing to risk — a 
 greater or less degree of servitude need not concern us, when 
 the greatest of blessings, the being set free from the relics of 
 feudalism and of priesthood, is at stake. They threaten us 
 with the dominion of the knout, but I for one will gladly take 
 a little thrashing if I can only know for a certainty that our 
 enemies will get their share of it. But I will bet that they 
 will go as of old, fawning and wheedling up to the new 
 powers that be graciously smiling and proffering the most 
 shameless services, and if it happens that they once for all 
 must be knouted, they will condition for the privilege of a 
 knout of honor — just as a nobleman in Siam, when pun- 
 ished, is stuck into a silken bag and is beaten with perfumed 
 rods, while the criminal citizen is put into a common linen 
 sack and has his blows laid on with a stick utterly devoid of 
 a sweet-smelling savor. Well, we will grant them this privi- 
 lege (since it is the only one) if they are only well whipped, 
 and especially the English nobility. People may recall, if 
 they please, and as much as they please, that it was this 
 very nobility which forced from despotism the Magna Charta, 
 and that England, despite all her maintenance of social 
 inequality, has ever secured the personal liberty of the sub- 
 ject, and that that country was a place of refuge for free 
 souls when despotism subdued the entire continent; those 
 are tempi passati ! England, with her aristocracy, is gradu- 
 ally sinking ; independent spirits have now a better place of 
 18 
 
258 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 refuge, and if all Europe became a single prison, there would 
 still be another hole for escape, I mean America, and God be 
 praised ! that hole is larger than all the prison itself. 
 
 But these are all ridiculous whimsies, for if any one com- 
 pares England and Russia, with a view to freedom, no doubt 
 remains as to which is the right side to choose. Freedom 
 has sprung in England from historical events — from privi- 
 leges; in Russia, from principles. The results of those 
 events — like the events themselves — bear the stamp of the 
 Middle Ages ; all England is congealed in medieval, never 
 to be rejuvenated institutions, behind which her aristocracy 
 is entrenched, awaiting the death struggle. But those prin- 
 ciples from which Russian freedom sprang — or, to speak 
 more correctly, from which Russian freedom is daily develop- 
 ing itself, are the liberal ideas of our most recent times ; the 
 Russian government is penetrated through and through with 
 these ideas ; its unlimited absolutism is rather a dictatorship, 
 by which those ideas will be brought directly to life. This 
 government is not rooted in feudalism and priestcraft; it 
 fights directly against the power of the nobles of the church, 
 for even Catherine limited the power of the church, and the 
 Russian nobility exists by church service. Russia is a demo- 
 cratic state ; I would gladly say, a Christian state, if I might 
 be permitted to use this so often misused word in its sweetest 
 and most cosmopolite sense, for the Russians, by the very 
 extent of their realm, are freed from the narrow-mindedness 
 of a heathenish national vanity ; they are citizens of the 
 world, lacking only five sixths, since Russia embraces one 
 half-dozenth of the inhabited globe. 
 
 And faith ! when a German-Russian, like my traveling 
 companion, plays the brag patriot, and talks about "our 
 Russia " and " our Diebitsch," it seems to me as though I 
 heard a herring calling the ocean his country and the whale 
 his compatriot. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 " I am sound as to Russia " ; — I said on the battle plain of 
 Marengo, and quitted the coach for a few minutes, to offer 
 up my morning devotions. 
 
 The sun came forth gloriously, genially, confidently from 
 beneath a triumphal arch of colossal masses of clouds. But 
 my soul was like the poor moon, which stood paling away in 
 heaven. She had wandered on in her lonely course in the 
 desolate night, where happy fortune slept, and only specters, 
 owls and felons carried on their dark vocations ; and now, 
 when the young day arose amid rays of rejoicing and flutter- 
 ing flags of early morning flame, she must pass silently away 
 — a single glance at the great world of light and she is lost 
 in eternal mist. 
 
 " It will be a fine day," cried my traveling companion, from 
 the coach. "Yes — it will be a fine day," slowly reechoed 
 my praying heart, as it trembled with grief and joy. Yes, it 
 will be a beautiful day, the sun of freedom will warm the 
 world with a more thrilling joy than that which comes from 
 cold aristocratic stars ; — there will spring up a new race, 
 begotten in the embraces of free choice, and not in the bed 
 of compulsion and under the control of clerical tax gatherers ; 
 and with free birth there will arise in mankind free thoughts 
 and free feelings of which we — poor born serfs — have no 
 conception. Oh ! as little will they imagine how terrible was 
 the night in which we lived and how cruel was our strife 
 with terrible phantoms, gloomy owls, and hypocritical sinners ! 
 Ah, we poor warriors ! who must waste our life in such bat- 
 tles, and are exhausted and pale when the day of victory 
 dawns! The glow of sunrise will no more gild our cheeks 
 and no longer warm our hearts — we must die like the fading 
 moon. All too short is the measure of man's allotted path, 
 at whose end lies the pitiless grave. 
 
 I really do not know whether I deserve that a laurel wreath 
 be laid on my coffin. Poetry, dearly as I have loved it, has 
 always been to me only a holy plaything or a consecrated 
 means whereby to attain a heavenly end. I have never at- 
 tached much value to a poetic reputation, and I care little 
 
2Ö0 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 whether my songs are praised or found fault with. But ye 
 may lay a sword on my coffin ; for I was a brave soldier in 
 the War of Freedom for Mankind. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 During the noonday heat we sought shelter in a Franciscan 
 monastery, situated on a lofty elevation, whence it, with its 
 dark cypresses and white monks, peeped out like a holy 
 shooting-box, looking down into the pleasant green valleys of 
 the Apennines. Often in regarding these old churches, I know 
 not which most to admire, the beauty of their vicinity, their 
 great size, or the equally great and rock-like firm souls of 
 their builders. They well knew that only their far-off de- 
 scendants could complete the work ; and yet they quietly laid 
 the foundation-stone, and calmly placed one stone upon an- 
 other until death called them from the work, and other archi- 
 tects continued that work, and in turn were laid in the grave 
 — all in unshaken belief in the eternity of the Catholic Church, 
 and all equally assured of the same faith in the generations to 
 come, who would build on where they had ceased to labor. 
 
 It was the faith of the age, and the old architects lived and 
 sank to sleep in this faith. Now, they lie before the doors of 
 their antique churches, and it is to be hoped that their slum- 
 bers may be sound, and that they may not be awakened by 
 the laughter of the later age. And it would be a sad thing 
 for them — particularly for those who are buried near old 
 unfinished cathedrals — should they suddenly revive some 
 night, and gaze by the cold sad moonlight on their unfinished 
 day's work, and find that the time for finishing them had 
 passed away, and that their whole life had been spent in vain. 
 
 Such is the voice of our own age, which has other problems 
 and another faith. 
 
 I once, in Cologne, heard a little boy ask his mother why 
 they did not finish the half-built cathedral. He was a pretty 
 child, and I kissed his bright intelligent eyes ; and, as his 
 mother could give no answer to the question, I told him that 
 nowadays people had altogether different things to do. 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 261 
 
 On the summit of the Apennines, not far from Genoa, we 
 behold the sea ; between the green mountain peaks we catch 
 glimpses of its blue waters, and ships which come forth here 
 and there seem to sail strangely over the mountains. If we 
 see this view during twilight, when the last rays of the sun 
 begin playing a wondrous game with the earliest shades of 
 evening, and when all hues and shapes twine dreamily to- 
 gether, — then a feeling as of old legends steals over the 
 mind, the coach rolls along, the sweetest, dreamiest shadows 
 of the soul are revived, they tenderly greet, until at last in a 
 vision we seem to be in Genoa. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 This city is old without antiquity, narrow without home- 
 like snugness, and ugly beyond description. It is built on a 
 rock, at the foot of amphitheater-like hills, which hold in 
 their embrace the loveliest bosom of the sea. The Genoese 
 have consequently from nature one of the best and securest 
 of harbors. And, as the whole town stands on a single rock, 
 the houses must, for the sake of room, be built very high, 
 while the streets are very narrow, so that the latter are very 
 dark and close, only two of them admitting carriages. But 
 the houses are chiefly used by their inhabitants, who are 
 principally merchants, as storehouses, and as sleeping places 
 by night. During the whole trafficking day, they run about 
 town or sit before their house doors — I should say, within 
 their house doors — otherwise opposite neighbors would knock 
 their knees together. 
 
 Seen from the seaside, especially towards evening, the 
 whole town gains in appearance. It lies there on the shore 
 like the bleached skeleton of some castaway monstrous beast, 
 dark ants which call themselves Genoese creep over it, blue 
 waves dash it with foam, humming a lullaby, and the moon, 
 the pale eye of night, looks down on it with sorrow. 
 
 In the garden of the Palazzo Doria the old sea hero stands 
 like a Neptune in a water basin. But the statue is forlorn 
 and mutilated, the fountain is dry, and sea-mews nestle amid 
 
262 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the dark cypresses. Like a boy always thinking of play, I was 
 at once reminded by the name of Doria of that of Frederick 
 Schiller, the noblest, if not the greatest, of our German poets. 
 Though mostly in decay, the palaces of the once powerful 
 lords of Genoa, the nobili, are still very beautiful, displaying 
 an excess of magnificence. They are nearly all situated on 
 the two great streets known as the Strada Nuova and Balbi. 
 Of these palaces, the Durazzo is the most remarkable. Here 
 are many good pictures, among them Paul Veronese's Mary 
 Magdalene washing the feet of Christ. The Mary is so 
 beautiful that were she alive she would be in danger of a 
 second seduction. I stood a long time before her — but ah ! 
 she did not look up. Christ stands there like a pious Ham- 
 let — " Go to a nunnery!" Here I also found excellent 
 Dutch paintings, and splendid works by Rubens — the latter 
 inspired to the fullest extent by the colossal geniality of the 
 Netherlandish Titan, whose spirit wings were so powerful 
 that he would have soared to the sun, though a hundred tons 
 of Dutch cheese had been tied to his legs. I cannot pass the 
 smallest painting by this master without paying my tribute of 
 admiration ; and all the more because it is now the fashion to 
 glance at him with a shrug of the shoulder, on account of his 
 lack of ideality. The historical school of Munich spreads 
 itself with peculiar magnificence in this sort of criticism. 
 With what high-flown depreciation do the long-haired disciples 
 of Cornelius wander through the Rubens Hall ! But per- 
 haps their error is more intelligible when we reflect on the 
 great contrast which Peter Cornelius himself forms to Peter 
 Paul Rubens. No greater opposites can be imagined — and 
 yet, with all this, a notion occasionally comes into my head 
 that there are points of affinity between them, which I rather 
 surmise than understand. Perhaps there are peculiarities of 
 their northern country hidden in them, which proclaim them- 
 selves to a third fellow countryman — that is, to myself — 
 like soft secret whispers. But this secret affinity does not 
 consist of the Netherlandish joyousness and sprightliness of 
 color which laughs from all the pictures of Rubens, so that 
 we might almost believe that he had painted them in a glo- 
 rious Rhine wine carouse, while dancing fair music rang and 
 piped around. Truly the pictures of Cornelius seem, on the 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 263 
 
 contrary, to have been painted on Good Friday, while the 
 doleful songs of the processions swept through the street, 
 and reechoed in the atelier and in the heart of the painter. 
 In productiveness, in boldness of conception, in genial origi- 
 nality, both are alike, both are born painters, and belong to 
 the cycle of great masters who for the most part flourished 
 in the time of Raphael — an age which was still capable of 
 exercising a direct influence on Rubens, but which is so 
 utterly removed from our own that we are almost terrified 
 by the appearance of Cornelius, for he seems to us like the 
 ghost of one of those great artists of Raphael's time who has 
 risen from the grave to paint more pictures — a dead creator, 
 self-conjured by the indwelling word of life which was buried 
 with him. If we study his pictures, they gaze on us as with 
 eyes of the fifteenth century ; their garments are ghostlike 
 as though they rustled past in midnight; the bodies are 
 strong with magic power, drawn with dream-like accuracy, 
 powerfully true, only they want blood, throbbing life and 
 color. Yes, Cornelius is a creator, but if we look at his crea- 
 tions it seems to us as though they could not live long — as 
 though they were all painted a few hours before death — as 
 though they all were prophetic signs of approaching dissolu- 
 tion. Despite their hearty geniality, the paintings of Rubens 
 awaken in us a similar feeling — they also seem to bear within 
 them the germ of death, and a feeling comes over us that not- 
 withstanding their superabundance of life and their fulness 
 of red blood, they must suddenly be struck down. This is 
 perhaps the secret of that affinity which we so strangely feel 
 when comparing these masters. The excess of pleasure in 
 certain pictures by Rubens, and the infinite sorrow in others 
 by Cornelius, awake in us perhaps the same emotions. But 
 whence comes this sorrow in a Dutchman? It is perhaps 
 the terrible consciousness that he belongs to an age long 
 passed away, and that his life is a mystical reappearance — 
 for oh ! he is not merely the only great artist who now paints, 
 but, it may be, the only great one who ever will paint. 
 Before him, to the time of the Caracci, is a long darkness, 
 and after him the shadows again close together ; his hand is a 
 bright, solitary spirit hand in the night of Art, and the pic- 
 tures which it paints bear the unearthly confidence of such 
 
2Ö4 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 an earnest, rugged seclusion. I have never looked at this 
 hand of the Last of the Painters, without a secret shudder 
 when I gazed on the man himself, the little sharp man with 
 glowing eyes ; and yet that hand has awakened in me feel- 
 ings of the warmest piety when I have remembered that it 
 once rested lovingly on my little fingers, and aided me to 
 design outlines of faces, when I, a little boy, was learning to 
 draw in the academy in Düsseldorf. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 I cannot leave unmentioned the collection of portraits of 
 beautiful Genoese women, exhibited in the Palace Durazzo. 
 Nothing in the world inspires the soul with such melancholy 
 as the sight of portraits of fair ladies who have been dead for 
 centuries. Sadness steals over the soul when we reflect that, 
 of all the originals of those pictures, of all the beauties who 
 were so lovely, so coquettish, so witty, so roguish, and so 
 dreamy — of all those May heads with April moods — of that 
 springtide of ladies — nothing now remains but these many- 
 colored shadows, which some artist, who like them has long 
 been dead, has painted on a perishable canvas, which, like 
 the originals, must pass away, in time, to decay and dust. 
 And so all life passes away — the beautiful as well as the 
 hideous — without leaving a trace. Death, the dry pedant, 
 spares the rose as little as the thistle ; he forgets not a lonely 
 straw in the most remote wilderness ; he thoroughly and in- 
 cessantly destroys ; everywhere we behold him treading into 
 dust plants and animals, mankind and their works, and even 
 those Egyptian pyramids, which seem to defy his annihilat- 
 ing rage, are only trophies of his power, monuments *of all 
 long passed away, primeval royal graves. 
 
 But sadder far than this idea of an endless dying, and of a 
 desolate yawning annihilation, is the thought that we do not 
 even perish as originals, but as copies of long-vanished mor- 
 tals who were spiritually and bodily like us, and that, after 
 us, men will again be born, who will in turn see, and feel, and 
 think like us, and be again in turn annihilated by Death : — 
 
MUNICH TO GENOA 265 
 
 a comfortless, endless game of reproduction, wherein the 
 prolific earth must constantly be bringing forth more than 
 Death can destroy, so that she, in her need, must give more 
 heed to the maintenance of the species than to the originality 
 of the individual. 
 
 Strangely was I thrilled by the mystical terror of this 
 thought, when I, in the Durazzo Palace, gazed upon the por- 
 traits of the lovely Genoese ladies, and, among them, on a 
 picture which awoke in my soul a sweet storm, which even 
 yet, when I recall it, causes my eyelashes to tremble. — It 
 was the picture of the dead Maria. 
 
 The guardian of the gallery believed, indeed, that the pic- 
 ture was that of a Duchess of Genoa, and in the cicerone 
 tone began to tell that " it was painted by Giorgio Barbarelli 
 de Castelfranco nel Trevigiano, commonly known as Gior- 
 gione. He was one of the greatest painters of the Venetian 
 school — was born in the year 1477, and died in the year 
 1511." 
 
 "That will do, Signor Custode. The likeness is caught 
 exactly, although it was painted a few centuries too early. 
 Drawing accurate, style of color excellent — why, the folds 
 of drapery on the breast are admirable. Be so kind as to 
 take the picture down from the wall — I will only blow away 
 the dust from the lips and brush away the spider which lurks 
 in a corner of the frame. — Maria was always so much afraid 
 of spiders." 
 
 " Excellenza appears to be a connoisseur." 
 
 " If so, I did not know it, Signor Custode. I have the 
 talent of being singularly moved when I behold certain pic- 
 tures, and then my eyes water. But what do I see ! Whose 
 portrait is that of the man in the black cloak hanging 
 yonder?" 
 
 " Also by Giorgione, — a masterpiece." 
 
 " Signor, I beg you be so kind as to take this picture, too, 
 from the wall and hold it near the mirror, that I may see if 
 I resemble it ! " 
 
 " Your Excellency is not so pale. The picture is a master- 
 piece by Giorgione, the rival of Titian. He was born in 1477, 
 and died in the year 15 11." 
 
 Dear reader, I much prefer Giorgione to Titian, and am 
 
266 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 especially obliged to him for painting Maria for me. And it 
 must also be evident to you that Giorgione painted that other 
 portrait for me, and not for some old Genoese. And it is very 
 like — death-silent like ; it even has the sorrow in the glance 
 — a sorrow which belongs rather to an imagined pain than to 
 one which has been experienced — and one which is very hard 
 to paint. The whole picture seems to have been sighed upon 
 canvas. Even the man in the black mantle is well painted, 
 and the maliciously sentimental lips are like life — speakingly 
 so, as though they were just about to tell a story — the story 
 of the knight who fain would kiss his lady love to life, and as 
 the light was blown out 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 
 
 " I am as woman is to man." 
 
 — Count August von Platen Hallermunde. 
 
 " Would the Count like a dance, 
 Let him but say so, 
 I'll play him a tune." — Figaro. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WHEN I sought Matilda in her chamber, she had just 
 fastened the last button of her green riding-habit, 
 and was putting on a chapeau with a white plume. 
 She hastily cast it down, as soon as she saw me, and ran to me 
 with all her waving, golden locks. " Doctor, heaven and 
 earth ! " she cried, and according to her old custom she caught 
 me by the ears and kissed me with the drollest heartiness. 
 
 " How are you, maddest of mortal men ! How glad I am 
 to see you again ! For never in this world shall I find a 
 crazier soul. There are fools and blockheads in plenty, and 
 people often do them the honor to consider them crazy, but 
 real insanity is as scarce as real wisdom — perhaps it is noth- 
 ing but wisdom which is vexed to think that it knows every- 
 thing — all the infamy of this world — and has consequently 
 come to the wise conclusion to go mad. The Orientals are 
 a shrewder race : they honor a maniac as a prophet, but we 
 look upon prophets as maniacs." 
 
 " But, my Lady, why have you not written to me? " 
 " Surely, Doctor, I wrote you a long letter, and directed it 
 to * New Bedlam.' But as you, contrary to all expectation, 
 were not there, they sent it to St. Luke, and as you were not 
 there either, it went to another establishment of the same 
 sort, and so it went the rounds of all the lunatic asylums in 
 England, Scotland, and Ireland, until they returned it to me 
 
 267 
 
268 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 with the remark, that the gentleman to whom the letter was 
 addressed was not as yet caught. And how under the sun 
 have you contrived to keep at liberty ? " 
 
 " Ah, I did it cunningly, my Lady. Wherever I went I 
 contrived to slip away from the madhouses, and I think that 
 I shall succeed in Italy too." 
 
 " Oh, friend, here you are safe enough, for in the first place 
 there is no madhouse in the neighborhood, and, secondly, we 
 are here in the majority." 
 
 " We ! my Lady ! You count yourself then as one of us ? 
 Permit me to imprint the kiss of brotherhood upon your 
 brow." 
 
 " Ah ! I mean we watering-place guests, among whom I 
 am really the most rational. And so you can easily imagine 
 who the maddest must be, I mean Julia Maxfield, who always 
 maintains that green eyes signify the spring of the soul ; and 
 besides we have two young beauties — " 
 
 " English beauties, of course, my Lady — " 
 
 " Doctor — what does this mocking tone mean ? The yellow, 
 greasy macaroni faces in Italy must suit your taste, if you 
 have no fancy now for British — " 
 
 " Plum-puddings with raisin-eyes, roast-beef bosoms fes- 
 tooned with white strips of horseradish, proud pies — " 
 
 " There was a time, Doctor, when you were enchanted if a 
 lovely Englishwoman — " 
 
 " Yes, but that was once ! I always have a proper reverence 
 for your fellow countrywomen — they are bright as suns — 
 but suns of ice : they are white as marble, but are also marble 
 cold — on their bosoms are frozen the poor — " 
 
 " Oho ! — I know one who did not freeze there, but who 
 jumped fresh and alive over the sea, and he was a great 
 German impertinent — " 
 
 " At least he got such a cold on that British frosty heart 
 that he still has a cold in his head in consequence." 
 
 My Lady seemed vexed at this answer, she grasped the 
 riding-whip which lay between the leaves of a novel as a 
 book-marker, switched it around the ears of her great white 
 hound, who slowly growled, hastily clapped her hat jauntily 
 on her locks, looked once or twice with approbation at herself 
 in the mirror, and said proudly, " I am still beautiful ! " But 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 269 
 
 then, all at once, as if penetrated by a gloomy thrill of pain, 
 she remained silent, musing, slowly drew the long white riding- 
 glove from her hand, held the hand out to me, and reading 
 my thoughts like lightning, said : " This hand is not as beauti- 
 ful as it was in Ramsgate — ha ? Since that time Matilda has 
 suffered — much ! " 
 
 Dear reader, we can seldom see a flaw in a bell — we must 
 hear its ring to know if it exists. Could you have heard the 
 ring of the voice wherewith those words were spoken, you 
 would have felt at once that my Lady's heart was a bell of 
 the best metal, but that a secret flaw strangely mingled a dis- 
 cord with its sweetest tones, and gave it an air of strange sad- 
 ness. Yet I love such bells, they ever find a true echo in my 
 own breast, and I again kissed my Lady's hand, almost as 
 earnestly as of old, though it was no longer in its first bloom, 
 and the veins which rose from it, almost all too blue, seemed 
 to repeat, " Since that time Matilda has suffered — much." 
 
 Her eyes gazed on me like sorrowful solitary stars in the 
 autumnal heaven, and she said, softly and sadly, from her in- 
 most soul : " You seem to love me less, now, Doctor ! For 
 that was a tear of pity which you just wept on my hand. It 
 seemed like an alms." 
 
 " Who taught you to interpret so unkindly the silent lan- 
 guage of my tears ? I'll bet that your white hound there who 
 fawns on you, understands me better. He looks first at me and 
 then at you, and seems to be wondering that human beings, 
 those proud lords of creation, are internally so wretched. Ah ! 
 my Lady, only a sympathetic sorrow draws forth such tears 
 — in reality we each weep for ourselves." 
 
 " Enough, enough, Doctor. It is good at any rate that we 
 are contemporaries, and that we meet again with our foolish 
 tears in the same corner of the earth. Oh, our bad luck ! if 
 you had only lived two centuries earlier, when I was getting 
 on so well with my friend, Michael de Cervantes Saavedra, 
 or rather if you had only been born a hundred years later, as 
 another intimate friend of mine, whose name I don't just now 
 happen to know, because his first birthday won't be celebrated 
 until the year 1900. — But tell me how you've been getting on 
 since we parted." 
 
 " At the old business, my Lady — rolling the great stone. 
 
270 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 When I had shoved it to the top of the hill then it rolled all at 
 once down again, and I had to go at it once more ; and this 
 up and down hill work lasted until at last I lie crouched 
 beneath it, and Master Steinmetz has carved on it with great 
 letters : ' Here rests in the Lord — ' " 
 
 " By my soul, Doctor, I'll bring you to life again. Don't 
 you dare to be melancholy! Laugh, or — " 
 
 " No — don't tickle me. I'd rather laugh of myself ! " 
 
 " That's right. Now you please me, just as you did in 
 Ramsgate, where we first became so intimate — " 
 
 " And finally a little more than intimate. Yes — I will be 
 merry. It is fortunate that we have met, and the great Ger- 
 man will again find his greatest pleasure in risking his 
 
 life near you." 
 
 My Lady's eyes laughed like sunshine after a soft rain, and 
 her merry mood again flashed out as John entered, and with 
 the stiffest flunky pathos announced his Excellency, the Mar- 
 quis Christophoro di Gumpelino. 
 
 " He's welcome ! And now, Doctor, you will become 
 acquainted with a peer of the realm of fools. Don't be 
 shocked at his personal appearance, particularly at his nose. 
 The man has excellent qualities ; for instance, a great deal 
 of money, common sense, and the desire to embody in him- 
 self all the follies of the age ; moreover, he is in love with 
 my green-eyed friend, Julia Maxfield, and calls her his Julia 
 and himself her Romeo, and declaims and sighs ; and Lord 
 Maxfield, the brother-in-law to whom the faithful Julia has 
 been entrusted by her husband, is an Argus — " 
 
 I was just about to remark that Argus had charge of a cow, 
 when the door opened, and, to my utmost amazement, in 
 waddled my old friend, the Banker Christian Gumpel, with 
 his opulent smile and blessed belly. After his broad shin- 
 ing lips had sufficiently scoured my Lady's hand, and de- 
 livered themselves of the usual questions as to health, etc., 
 
 he recognized me and the friends sank into each other's 
 
 arms. 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 27 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Matilda's warning not to be struck by Gumpelino's nose 
 had some foundation in fact, for he came within an ace of 
 knocking out one of my eyes with it. I will say nothing 
 against this nose ; on the contrary, it was one of the noblest 
 form, and seemed of itself to give my friend full right to 
 claim, at least, the title of a Marquis. For it was evident 
 from the nose that Gumpel was of high nobility, and that 
 he descended from that very ancient world family into which 
 the blessed Lord himself once married without fear of a 
 mesalliance. Since those days, it is true that the family has 
 come down a little, and, in fact, since the reign of Charle- 
 magne they have been obliged to pick up a living by selling 
 old pantaloons and lottery tickets, but without diminishing in 
 the least their pride of ancestry, or losing the hope that some 
 day they will all come again into their long-lost property, or 
 at least obtain emigration damages, with interest, when their 
 old legitimate sovereign keeps the promises made when 
 restored to office — promises by which he has been leading 
 them about by the nose for two thousand years. Perhaps 
 this leading them about by the nose is the cause why the 
 latter has been pulled out to such a length ! Or it may be 
 that these long noses are a sort of uniform whereby Jehovah 
 recognizes his old body-guards even when they have deserted. 
 Such a deserter was the Marquis Gumpelino, but he always 
 wore his uniform, and a brilliant one it was, sprinkled with 
 crosses and stars of rubies, a red eagle order in miniature, and 
 other decorations. 
 
 "Look!" said my Lady, "that is my favorite nose, and I 
 know of no more beautiful flower in all the world." 
 
 "This flower," grinned Gumpelino, "cannot be placed on 
 your fair bosom, unless I lay my blooming face there also, 
 and such an addition might trouble you in this warm weather. 
 But I bring you an equally precious flower, which is here very 
 rare." 
 
 Saying this the Marquis opened a tissue-paper horn, which 
 he had brought with him, and with great care slowly extracted 
 from it a magnificent tulip. 
 
272 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 Scarcely had my Lady seen the flower, ere she screamed 
 with all her might. " Murder ! murder ! would you murder 
 me ? Away with the horrible vision ! " With this she acted 
 as if about to be murdered, held her hands before her eyes, 
 ran madly about the room, invoked maledictions on Gumpel- 
 ino's nose and tulip, rang the bell, stamped on the ground, 
 struck the hound with her riding-switch till he bayed aloud, 
 and, as John entered, she cried aloud, like Kean, in "Rich- 
 ard III.": — 
 
 "A horse! a horse! 
 My kingdom for a horse!" 
 
 and stormed like a whirlwind from the room. 
 
 "A queer woman!" said Gumpelino, motionless with as- 
 tonishment and still holding the tulip in his hand, so that he 
 looked like one of those lotus-bearing, fat idols carved on 
 antique Indian temples. But I understood the Lady and her 
 idiosyncrasy far better than he, and opening the window I 
 cried: "My Lady, how you act! Is this sense — propriety 
 — especially is it love ? " 
 
 Up laughed the wild answer : — 
 
 When I am o 1 hors 
 I love thee infinitely.' 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 11 A curious woman ! " repeated Gumpelino, as we went our 
 way to visit his two lady friends, Signora Letitia and Signora 
 Francesca, whose acquaintance he promised me. As the 
 dwelling of these ladies was situated on a somewhat distant 
 eminence, I appreciated all the more this kindness of my cor- 
 pulent friend, who found hill climbing somewhat difficult, and 
 who stopped on every little mound to recover his breath and 
 sigh, "O Jesu!" 
 
 The dwellings at the baths of Lucca are situated either 
 below in a village surrounded by high hills, or are placed on 
 one of these hills itself, not far from the principal spring, 
 where a picturesque group of houses peeps down into the 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 273 
 
 charming dale. But many are scattered here and there on 
 the sides of the hill, and are attainable only by a wearisome 
 climb through vines, myrtle bushes, honeysuckles, laurels, 
 oleanders, geraniums and a wilderness of similar high-born 
 plants. I have never seen a lovelier valley, particularly when 
 one looks from the terrace of the upper bath, where the 
 solemn green cypresses stand down into the village. We 
 there see a bridge bending over a stream called the Lima, and 
 which cuts the village in two. At its either end there are 
 waterfalls leaping over rocky fragments with a roar, as though 
 they would fain utter the pleasantest things but could not 
 express themselves distinctly on account of the roaring echo. 
 
 The great charm of the valley is owing to the circumstance 
 that it is neither too great nor too small — that the soul of the 
 beholder is not forcibly elevated, but rather calmly and gradu- 
 ally inspired with the glorious view; that the summits of 
 the mountains themselves, true to their Apennine nature, 
 are not magnificently misshapen in extravagant Gothic form, 
 like rocky caricatures, just as the men in German lands on 
 them are human caricatures ; but so that their nobly rounded, 
 cheerful green forms seem of themselves inspired with the 
 civilization of art, and accord melodiously with the blue 
 heaven. 
 
 " O Jesu ! " sighed Gumpelino, as we, weary with climb- 
 ing, and a little too well warmed with the morning sun, at- 
 tained the above-mentioned cypresses, and gazing down into 
 the village saw our English lady friend sweeping proudly 
 along on her steed over the bridge, like the queen in a fairy 
 legend, and then vanish, swift as a dream. " O Jesu ! what 
 a curious woman ! In all my born days I never did see such 
 a woman. Only in plays — don't you think the actress Holz- 
 becher could play her part well ? There's something of the 
 water-witch about her — hey ? " 
 
 " You're right, Gumpelino. When I went with her from 
 London to Rotterdam, the captain compared her to a rose 
 sprinkled with pepper. Out of gratitude for this spicy com- 
 parison, she emptied a whole box of pepper in his hair as he 
 lay asleep in the cabin. Nobody could come near the man 
 without sneezing." 
 
 " A curious woman ! " quoth Gumpelino once again. 
 19 
 
274 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 " Delicate as white silk but every bit as strong — and she 
 rides horseback as well as I. I only hope she won't ride her- 
 self out of health. There — did you see that long lean 
 Englishman on his lean horse, racing after her like a gallop- 
 ing consumption ? Those English people ride too outra- 
 geously — why, they'd spend all the money in the world on 
 horses. Lady Maxfield's white horse cost three hundred 
 golden live louis d'ors — ah ! — and louis d'ors are at such a 
 premium now, and keep rising every day ! " 
 
 "Yes — the louis d'ors will end by rising so high, that 
 a poor scholar like myself will never be able to reach them." 
 
 " You can't have an idea, Doctor, of how much money I 
 have to spend, and yet I keep only one attendant, and only 
 when I am in Rome hire a chaplain for my private chapel. 
 Look — there comes my Hyacinth ! " 
 
 The little figure who at this instant appeared, approaching 
 us from behind the turn of a hill, reminded me more of a 
 " burning bush " than a hyacinth. It appeared like a wad- 
 dling great scarlet coat, overloaded with gold embroidery, which 
 flashed in the sun-rays, and above this red splendor sweated 
 a little face well known to me of old, and which gaily nodded 
 to me. And in fact when I saw the sallow cautious face and 
 the busy winking eyes, I recognized a countenance which I 
 should sooner have expected to see on Mount Sinai than on 
 the Apennines — and that was the face of Herr Hirsch, citi- 
 zen of Hamburg, a man who was not only a very honorable 
 lottery agent, but one who was also learned in hard and soft 
 corns and in jewels, inasmuch as he not only knew the differ- 
 ence between them, but had skill in curing the former, and in 
 putting a good round price on the latter. 
 
 " I do hope," he said, as he approached, " that you haven't 
 forgot me, though my name ain't Hirsch now. I'm called 
 Hyacinth, and I'm servant of Herr Gumpel." 
 
 " Hyacinth ! " cried his master, in raging amazement at this 
 indiscretion of his servant. 
 
 "Oh be easy, Herr Gumpel, or Herr Gumpelino, or Herr 
 Marquis, or your Excellence ; we needn't put ourselves out 
 of the way with this here gentleman. He knows me ; he's 
 bought lots of lottery tickets of me ; by the way, I b'lieve he 
 still owes me seven marks and nine schillings on the last 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 275 
 
 drawing. I am really glad, Doctor, to meet you again. You're 
 here, I s'pose, on pleasure business. What else, of course, 
 can a man be doing here when it's so hot, a-climbing up and 
 down hill? I'm as used up every night as if I'd gone twenty 
 times from the Altona Gate to the Stone Gate without earning 
 a copper." 
 
 " O Jesu " — cried the Marquis — " hold your tongue ! I'll 
 get another servant — I will." 
 
 " Why hold my tongue ? " replied Hirsch Hyacinthus ; " I 
 do so love to get a chance to talk good German with one whom 
 I've known in Hamburg, and when I think of Hamburg — " 
 
 Here, at the memory of his bit of a stepfatherland, his eyes 
 gleamed with tears, and he said, sighing as he spoke : " What 
 is Man ? He goes walking with pleasure out of the Hamburg 
 Gate, and on the Hamburg Hill, and there he sees the sights, 
 the lions, the birds, the Poll-parrots, the monkeys, the great 
 folks, and he takes a turn on the flying horses, or gets electri- 
 fied, and then thinks how jolly he'd be if he was only in a 
 place a thousand miles off, in Italy, where the oranges and 
 lemons are a-growing ! What is Man ? When he's before the 
 Altona Gate he wants to be in Italy, and when he's in Italy, 
 he wants to be back again before the Altona Gate. Oh ! I 
 wish I was standing there now, looking at the Michael's 
 steeple, and the big clock on it with the great gold figures — 
 great gold figures — how often I've looked at 'em, when they 
 were a-shining so jolly in the afternoon sun, till I felt like 
 kissing 'em. Now I'm in Italy, where the lemons and oranges 
 grow, and when I see 'em growing it puts me in mind of the 
 Steinweg in Hamburg, where there's lots of 'em lying in 
 great heaping piles in the wheelbarrows, and where a man can 
 eat and eat 'em to his heart's content, without all this trouble 
 of going up hill and down, and getting so warm. As the 
 Lord may have mercy on me, Herr Marquis, if it wasn't for 
 the honor of the situation, and the genteel edecation I'm get- 
 ting, cuss me if I'd a-come here. But I will say this for you, 
 Marquis, that in your service there's both honor and genteel 
 bringing up to be had, and no mistake." 
 
 " Hyacinth ! " said Gumpelino, who had been somewhat 
 mollified by this flattery, " Hyacinth, go to — " 
 
 "Yes, I know—" 
 
276 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 " I say you don't know, Hyacinth." 
 
 "And I say, Herr Gumpel, I do know. No use a-telling 
 me. Your Excellency was a-going to say that I must go to 
 Lady Maxfield. Sho ! I know all your thoughts before 
 you've thought them, and some maybe that you never will 
 think in all your born days. Such a servant as I am isn't to 
 be found easy, and I only do it for the honor and the genteel 
 edecation, and it's a fact, I do get both by you." With these 
 words, he wiped his face with a very clean white handkerchief. 
 
 " Hyacinth," said the Marquis, "go to Lady Julia Maxfield 
 — to my Julia — and give her this tulip; take good care of 
 it, for it cost five paoli, and say to her — " 
 
 "Yes, I know — " 
 
 " You know nothing. Tell her that the tulip is among 
 the flowers — " 
 
 " Yes, I know ; you want to say something to her with this 
 here flower. I've made up such mottoes many a time for my 
 lottery tickets." 
 
 " I don't want any of your lottery-ticket notions. Go to 
 Lady Maxfield, and say to her : — 
 
 " The tulip is among the flowers 
 
 Like among cheeses good Strachino, 
 But more than cheese and more than flowers, 
 Thou'rt honored by thy Gumpelino." 
 
 " Now, as I hope to be saved, that's first rate," cried 
 Hyacinth. " Oh ! you needn't be a-nodding to me, Herr 
 Marquis ; what you know, I know, and what I know, you 
 know. And you, Doctor, good-by ! Never mind that little 
 trifle you didn't settle with me." With these words he de- 
 scended the mountain, and as he went I could hear him mur- 
 mur, "Gumpelino, Strachino — Strachino, Gumpelino." 
 
 " He's an honest fellow," said the Marquis, " or I should 
 have sent him off long ago, on account of his want of etiquette. 
 However, before you it isn't of much consequence — you 
 understand me. How do you like his livery ? There's thirty 
 dollars' worth of gold in his livery, more than there is on 
 Rothschild's servants. It is my greatest delight to see how 
 the man perfects himself. Now and then I give him lessons 
 in refinement and accomplishment myself. I often say to 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 2/7 
 
 him, 'What is money? Money is round and rolls away, but 
 culture remains.' Yes, Doctor, if I — which the Lord forbid 
 
 — should ever lose my money, I still have the comfort of 
 knowing that I'm a great connoisseur in art — a connoisseur 
 in painting, music and poetry. Yes, sir. Bind my eyes tight, 
 and lead me all around in the gallery of Florence, and before 
 every picture I'll tell you the name of the painter who 
 painted it, or at least ihe school to which he belongs. Music 
 
 — stop up my ears, and I can hear every false note. Poetry 
 
 — I know every actress in Germany, and have got the poets 
 all by heart. Yes, sir, and nature, too. I'm great on nature. 
 I traveled once two hundred miles in Scotland — two hundred 
 miles, just to see one single hill ! Italy surpasses everything. 
 How do you like this landscape here ? What a creation ! 
 Just look at the trees, the hills, the heaven, and the water 
 down yonder there — don't it all look as if it were painted ? 
 Did you ever see anything of the kind finer, even in the 
 theater? Why a man gets to be, as you might say, a poet; 
 verses come into your head, and you don't know where they 
 
 come from. 
 
 u Silent, as the veil of twilight falls 
 
 Rests the plain, the greenwood silent lies : 
 Save where near me. amid these moldering walls. 
 The crickets chirp in melancholy cries.' 1 
 
 These sublime verses were declaimed by the Marquis with 
 thrilling pathos, while he gazed as if transfigured down into 
 the smiling valley, which glowed with all the brightness of 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 As I once one fine spring day walked " under the lindens " 
 in Berlin, there strolled before me two females, who were for 
 a long time silent, until one of them languishing!}- exclaimed, 
 "Ah, them green treeses ! " To which the other, a young 
 thing, answered, "Mother, what do you keer for them green 
 treeses ? " 
 
 I must observe, that the persons of whom I speak, though 
 not clad in satin, still by no means belonged to the vulgar — 
 
278 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 who, by the way, are not to be found at all in Berlin, save in 
 the highest circles. But as for that naive question, I can 
 never forget it. Wherever I meet with affected admiration 
 of nature, and similar verdant lies, it rises laughing in my 
 soul. And during the declamation of the Marquis, it rang 
 out loud within me — and he, reading mockery on my lips, 
 exclaimed as if vexed, " Don't disturb me now — you haven't 
 any soul for pure simple nature — you are a morbid soul, so 
 to speak — a Byron." 
 
 Dear reader — do you perhaps belong to that flock of pious 
 fowl who, for the last ten years, have been joining in that 
 song of " Byronic morbidness," with all manner of whistling 
 and screaky piping, and which had its echo in the skull of 
 poor Gumpel ? Ah, dear reader, if you would complain of 
 morbidness and want of harmony and division, then as well 
 complain that the world itself is divided. For as the heart 
 of the poet is the central point of the world, it must in times 
 like these be miserably divided and torn. He who boasts 
 that his heart has remained whole, confesses that he has only 
 a prosaic out-of-the-way corner heart. But the great world 
 wound passed through my own heart, and on that account I 
 know that the great Gods have highly blessed me above many 
 others, and held me to be worthy of a poet martyrdom. 
 
 Once the world was whole and sound — in its early ages 
 and in its middle ages, despite many wild battles, it had still 
 a unity, and there were great whole poets. We may honor 
 these poets and delight ourselves with them, but every imita- 
 tion of their wholeness is a lie, — a lie which every sound eye 
 penetrates, and which cannot escape scorn. Lately, with 
 much trouble, I obtained in Berlin the writings of one of 
 these " perfect poets " who so bewailed my Byronic discord- 
 ancy ; and by the affected verdancy, the delicate appreciation 
 of nature, which breathed like fresh hay from his poems, my 
 own poor heart, which has been so long discordant, well-nigh 
 burst with laughter, and unthinkingly I cried : " My dear Herr 
 Intendant Councilor William Neumann — what do you care 
 for them green treeses ? " 
 
 "You are a morbid, discordant soul — a Byron," — quoth 
 the Marquis, still gazing as if enraptured down into the val- 
 ley — clucking at times his tongue against his gums in sigh- 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 279 
 
 ing admiration, and saying — "Lord! Lord! — everything 
 just as if it were painted ! " 
 
 Poor Byron — such a calm enjoyment was denied to thee. 
 Was thy heart so ruined that thou couldst only see, yes, and 
 even describe nature — but wert incapable of being blessed 
 by her ? Or was Bysshe Shelley in the right when he said 
 that thou hadst, Actseon-like, surprised nature in her chaste 
 nakedness, and wert on that account torn by her hounds ? 
 
 Enough of all this — we are coming to pleasanter subjects, 
 namely, to the dwelling of Signoras Letitia and Francesca — 
 which itself seemed to be en negligee, and had in front two 
 great round windows around which grape-vines curled, so that 
 they looked like a profusion of beautiful green ringlets fall- 
 ing about its eyes. And at a distance we heard ringing from 
 within, warbling trills, guitar tones, and merry laughter. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Signora Letitia, a young rose of fifty summers, lay in bed 
 trilling and prattling with her two gallants, one of whom 
 sat upon a low cricket, while the other leaning back in 
 a great armchair played the guitar. From an adjoining 
 room rang scraps of a sweet song, or of a far sweeter won- 
 drously toned laughter. With a certain cheap and easy 
 irony, which he occasionally assumed, the Marquis presented 
 me to the lady and to the two gentlemen, remarking that I 
 was the same John Henry Heine so celebrated in German 
 legal literature. Unfortunately one of the gentlemen was a 
 professor in the University of Bologna, and a jurist at that, 
 though his fat, round belly seemed rather to indicate that his 
 forte was spherical trigonometry. Feeling as if I were rather 
 in a scrape, I replied that I did not write under my own name, 
 but under that of Jarke — a statement made from pure mod- 
 esty, as the name which came into my head was that of one 
 of the most miserable insects among our legal writers. 
 The Bolognese regretted from his soul that he never had 
 heard this distinguished name, - — which will probably be 
 your own case also, reader, — but still entertained no doubt 
 
280 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 that its splendor would erelong irradiate the entire earth. 
 With this he leaned back in the chair, touched a few chords 
 on the guitar, and sang from " Axur" : — - 
 
 "O powerful Brahma! 
 
 Ah let the weak stammer 
 Of innocence please thee, 
 Its stammer and clamor!" 
 
 While a delicious mocking nightingale echo warbled in the 
 adjoining chamber the same air. Meanwhile Signora Letitia 
 trilled in the most delicate soprano : — 
 
 " For thee alone these cheeks are glowing, 
 For thee alone these pulses beat, 
 With Love's sweet impulse overflowing, 
 This heart now throbs and all for thee." 
 
 And with the commonest prose voice she added, " Bartolo, 
 bring me the spittoon ! " 
 
 Then, from his lowly seat, arose Bartolo, with his dry- 
 wooden legs, and presented, with all due honor, a spittoon of 
 blue porcelain. 
 
 This second gallant, as Gumpelino said to me aside in Ger- 
 man, was a far-famed poet, whose songs, though written 
 twenty years ago, still ring through Italy, and intoxicate with 
 their wild glow of love both old and young ; while he himself 
 is but a poor elderly man, with dimmed eyes in a pale face, 
 scanty white hair on his trembling head, and cold poverty in 
 his care-worn heart. Such a poor old poet, with his bald dry- 
 ness, resembles a vine which we see standing leafless in win- 
 ter on the bleak hillside, trembling in the wind and covered 
 with snow, while the sweet juice, which once ran from it, 
 warms in far-distant lands the heart of many a boon compan- 
 ion, and inspires songs in its praise. Who knows but that 
 when that wine-press of thought, the printing-press, has 
 squeezed me dry, and the ancient tapped spirit is only to be 
 found in the bookseller's vaults of Hoffmann and Campe, I, 
 too, may sit, as thin and care-worn as old Bartolo, on a cricket 
 near the bed of some old inamorata and hand her, when 
 called on — a spittoon. 
 
 Signora Letitia made excuses for lying abed, and indeed 
 on her stomach at that, as an affliction resulting from a too 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 28 1 
 
 free indulgence in figs prevented her from lying on her back, 
 as a respectable lady should. She lay, in fact, in pretty 
 much the attitude of a sphinx, her high friseed head sup- 
 ported on both arms, while between them her breasts billowed 
 and moved like a red sea. 
 
 "You are a German ? " she inquired. 
 
 "lam too honorable to deny it, Signora," replied my Little- 
 ness. 
 
 " Ah, the Germans are honorable enough ! " she sighed, 
 " but what does it avail that the Germans who rob us are hon- 
 orable ! — they are ruining Italy. My best friends are impris- 
 oned in Milan ; and only slavery — " 
 
 " No, no ! " cried the Marquis, " do not complain of the 
 Germans ; we are conquered conquerors, vanquished victors, 
 so soon as we come to Italy. To see you, Signora, and to fall 
 at your feet, are one and the same." And with this he spread 
 his great yellow silk pocket-handkerchief on the floor, and 
 kneeling on it exclaimed, " Here I kneel and honor you in 
 the name of all Germany." 
 
 " Christophoro di Gumpelino ! " sighed the Signora, deeply 
 moved, " arise and embrace me ! " 
 
 But lest the beloved shepherd might disturb her curling 
 locks and the rouge of her cheeks, she did not kiss him on 
 the glowing lips, but on his noble brow, so that his face 
 reached lower down, and its rudder, the nose, steered about 
 in the red sea below. 
 
 " Signor Bartolo," I cried, " permit me also to officiate with 
 the spittoon ! " 
 
 Sorrowfully smiled Signor Bartolo, but never a word spake 
 he, though said to be, next to Mezzofanti, the best teacher of 
 languages in Bologna. We never converse willingly when 
 talking is our profession. He served the Signora as a silent 
 knight — only, from time to time, he was called on to recite 
 the poem which he, twenty-five years before, had thrown on 
 the stage when she first in Bologna made her debut in 
 "Ariadne." It may be that, in those days, he himself was in 
 full leaf and glowing enough — perhaps as much so as the 
 holy Dionysius himself — while beyond doubt his Letitia- 
 Ariadne leaped wildly, like a Bacchante, into his passionate 
 arms — Evoe Bacche ! In those days he wrote many poems, 
 
282 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 still living in Italian literature, while the poet himself, and 
 the beloved one, have long been mere waste paper. 
 
 For five and twenty years his devotion has endured, and I 
 think that even until he dies he will sit on the cricket and 
 recite his poem, or serve his lady as commanded. The pro- 
 fessor of law has been entwined as long as the other in the 
 love chains of the Signora ; he courts her still with as much 
 ardor as at the beginning of the century, and must still piti- 
 lessly shorten his legal lectures when she requires his escort 
 to any place, and he is still burdened with all the servitude 
 of a genuine patito. 
 
 The constancy of these two adorers of a long-ruined 
 beauty may be perhaps mere habit, perhaps a regard for an 
 earlier feeling, and perhaps the feeling itself, which is now 
 entirely independent of the present condition of its former 
 object, and which now regards it with the eyes of memory. 
 Thus in Catholic cities we often see, at some street corner, 
 old people kneeling before an image of the Madonna, which 
 is so faded that but few traces of it are visible — yes, it may 
 be that it is entirely obliterated, nothing remaining but the 
 niche wherein it was painted, and the lamp hanging over it ; 
 but the old people who so piously kneel there have done so 
 since youth — habit sends them thither daily at the same 
 hour — they have not noted the gradual disappearance of the 
 picture, and at last they become so dim of sight with age that 
 it makes no difference whether the object of adoration is 
 visible or not. Those who believe without seeing are, at any 
 rate, happier than the sharp sighted, who at once perceive 
 every little irregularity in the face of their Madonna. There 
 is nothing so terrible as such observations ! Once, I admit, 
 I believed that infidelity in woman was the most dreadful of 
 all possible things, and to give them the most dreadful name, 
 once and for all, I called them serpents. But now, alas ! the 
 most terrible thing to me is that they are not altogether 
 serpents, for then they would come out every year with a 
 fresh skin, revived and rejuvenated! 
 
 Whether either of the ancient Celadons felt a thrill of 
 envy that the Marquis — or, rather, his nose — swam in a sea 
 of delight in the manner above described, is more than I 
 know. Bartolo sat calmly on his low seat, his stick legs 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 283 
 
 crossed, and played with the Signora's lap-dog, one of those 
 pretty creatures peculiar to Bologna, and known among us 
 by the familiar term of " Bolognas." The professor was not 
 in the least put out in his song, which was occasionally inter- 
 rupted by tittering sweet tones in the next room, which 
 drowned it in a merry parody, and which he himself at times 
 discontinued in order to illuminate me with legal questions. 
 When we did agree in our opinions, he swept a few impatient 
 chords and jingled quotations in proof. I, however, sup- 
 ported my views on those of my teacher's, the illustrious 
 Hugo, who is greatly celebrated in Bologna under the name 
 of Ugone, and also of Ugolino. 
 
 " A great man ! " cried the professor, and sang : — 
 
 " The gentle summons of his voice 
 
 Still sounds so deeply in thy breast, 
 Its very pain makes thee rejoice, 
 And rapture brings thee heavenly rest." 
 
 Thibaut, whom the Italians call Tibaldo, is also much 
 honored in Italy, though his writings are not so much known 
 there as his principal opinions and their objections. I found 
 that only the names of Gans and Savigny were familiar to 
 the professor, who was under the impression that the latter 
 was a learned lady. 
 
 "Ah, indeed!" he remarked, as I corrected this very 
 pardonable error ; " really no lady ! I have been erroneously 
 informed. Why, I was even told that once, at a ball, Signor 
 Gans invited this lady to dance, but met with a refusal — and 
 that from this originated a literary enmity." 
 
 " You have really been misinformed. Signor Gans does 
 not dance, and for the philanthropic reason, that he might 
 cause an earthquake should he do so. The invitation to 
 dance, of which you speak, is probably an allegory misunder- 
 stood. The historical and philosophical schools are regarded 
 as dancers, and thus we may readily imagine a quadrille 
 between Ugone, Tibaldo, Gans and Savigny. And in this 
 sense Signor Ugone, though he be the diable boiteux of Juris- 
 prudence, still dances as daintily as Lemierre, while Signor 
 Gans has recently made some jumps which entitle him to be 
 regarded as the Hoguet of the philosophical school." 
 
284 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 "Signor Gans, then" — amended the Professor — "dances 
 only allegorically, so to say, metaphorically. " — Then sud- 
 denly, without saying more, he again swept the strings of his 
 guitar, and amid the maddest playing sang : — 
 
 " It is true, his well-loved name 
 Is the joy of every bosom, 
 
 Though the ocean waves be storming, 
 And the clouds o'er Heaven be swarming, 
 Still we hear Tarar loud calling, 
 As though heaven and earth were bowing 
 To the mighty hero's name." 
 
 As for Herr Göschen, the Professor did not so much as 
 know that he existed. But this was, however, natural 
 enough, for the name of the great Göschen has not yet got 
 so far as Bologna, but only to Poggio, which is four German 
 miles distant, and where it will for amusement remain awhile. 
 Göttingen itself is by no means so well known in Bologna as 
 it ought to be merely on the common principles of gratitude, 
 since it calls itself the German Bologna. I will not inquire 
 whether this name be appropriate or not — suffice it to say, 
 that the two Universities are really distinguishable by the 
 simple fact, that in Bologna they have the smallest dogs and 
 the greatest scholars, while in Göttingen, on the contrary, 
 are the smallest scholars and the greatest dogs. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 As the Marquis Christophoro di Gumpelino drew his nose 
 from the red sea, wherein it had been wallowing like a very 
 Pharaoh, his countenance gleamed with selfish delight. 
 Deeply moved, he promised the Signora that so soon as 
 she should again be in a condition to sit down, he would 
 bring her in his coach to Bologna. It was at once arranged 
 that the Professor should ride on before, but that Bartolo 
 should sit within on the box, and hold the Signora's lap-dog, 
 and that they all would go in a fortnight to Florence, where 
 Signora Francesca, who intended traveling during the same 
 time with my Lady to Pisa, would finally meet us. While 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 285 
 
 the Marquis counted up the cost of all this on his fingers, he 
 hummed di tanti palpiti, Signora sang the clearest-toned 
 trills, and the Professor stormed away on his guitar, caroling 
 such burning words, that the sweat ran down from his brow 
 and, mingled with the tears from his eyes, formed a perfect 
 torrent. While all this ringing and singing ^vent merrily on, 
 the door of the adjoining chamber was suddenly opened and 
 in sprang a being — 
 
 I adjure you, ye Muses of the Old and New World, and ye 
 also, O undiscovered Muses who are as yet to be honored by 
 later races — sprites of whom I have dreamed in the gay 
 greenwood and by the sounding sea — that ye give me colors 
 wherewith to paint that being which next to virtue is the 
 most glorious of this world. Virtue — of course — is the first 
 among glories, and the Creator adorned her with so many 
 charms, that it would really seem that he could produce 
 naught beside to be compared to her. Yet in a happy hour 
 he once again concentrated all his energies and made Si- 
 gnora Francesca, the fair danseuse, that great masterpiece, 
 who was born after the creation of Virtue, and in whom he 
 did not in a single particular repeat himself as earthly artists 
 are wont to do. — No, Signora Francesca is perfectly orig- 
 inal — she hath not the least resemblance to Virtue, and there 
 are critics and connoisseurs who even prefer her to the latter, to 
 whom they award only the precedence due to superior antiq- 
 uity. But is that much of a defect when a danseuse is only 
 some six thousand years too young ? 
 
 Ah, methinks I see her again as she sprang from the 
 opened door to the midst of the room, and after an incredible 
 pirouette cast herself at full length on the sofa, hiding both 
 eyes with her hands, and crying, "Ah, I am so tired with 
 sleeping ! " The Marquis now approached and entered into 
 a long address, in which his ironical, broadly respectful man- 
 ner, enigmatically contrasted with his sudden pauses, when 
 moved by common sense business recollections, and his flu- 
 ency when sentimentally inspired. Still this style was not 
 unnatural; it was probably formed in him by his inability, 
 through want of courage, to set forth successfully that 
 supreme influence to which he believed himself to be entitled 
 by his money and intelligence — and he therefore sought, 
 
286 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 coward-like, to conceal it in language of exaggerated humil- 
 ity. His broad laughter on such occasions was disagreeably- 
 delightful, as it inspired a doubt whether it was a matter of 
 duty to reward him with kindness — or a kicking. In this 
 wise he delivered his morning service to Signora Francesca, 
 who, half-asleep, hardly listened to him. Finally he begged 
 permission to kiss at least her left foot, and as he, preparing 
 for the job, spread his yellow handkerchief again on the 
 floor, she held it indifferently out to him. It was enveloped 
 in an exquisitely neat red slipper, in contrast to that on the 
 right, which was blue — a droll coquetry by which the dainty 
 littleness of both became more apparent. As the Marquis 
 with deep reverence kissed the small foot, he arose with a 
 sighing, " O Jesu ! " and begged permission to present me, 
 which was also accorded in a gaping, sleepy manner, when 
 my introducer delivered another oration, filled with praises of 
 my excellence, not omitting the declaration, on his word of 
 honor, that I had sung with great ability of unhappy love. 
 
 I also begged of the lady to be allowed to kiss her left 
 foot, and at the instant in which I enjoyed my share of this 
 honor, she awoke, as if from a dim dream, bent smilingly 
 down to me, gazed on me with great wondering eyes, leaped 
 joyfully up to the center of the room, and pirouetted times 
 without number on one foot. I felt strangely that my heart in 
 my bosom spun around also, until it was well-nigh dizzy. 
 Then the Professor merrily played on his guitar and sang: — 
 
 " An Opera Signora 
 
 Once loved and married me, 
 A step I soon regretted, 
 And wished that I were free. 
 
 "I sold her soon to pirates, 
 They carried her afar, 
 Ere she could look around her; 
 Hey! bravo! Biscromä." 
 
 Once more Signora Francesca measured me from head to 
 foot with a sharp glance, and then, as if fully contented, 
 thanked the Marquis, somewhat as if I were a present which 
 he had been kind enough to make her. She found little to 
 object to in me, save that my hair was of too light a brown ; 
 she could have wished that it were darker, like that of the 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 287 
 
 Abbate Cecco — and my eyes were also too small, and rather 
 green than blue. In revenge, dear reader, I in turn should 
 also describe Signora Francesca as depreciatingly ; but I 
 have really no shadow of a defect to point out in her lovely 
 form, whose perfection was that of the Graces, and yet which 
 was almost frivolous in its lightness. The countenance was 
 entirely divine, such as we see in Grecian statues ; the brow 
 and nose forming an almost accurate straight line, while 
 the lower line of the nose formed a sweet right angle which 
 was wondrously short. As close, too, was the distance from 
 the nose to the mouth, whose lips at either end seemed 
 scarcely long enough, and which were extended by a soft 
 dreamy smile, while beneath them arched a dear round chin, 
 and the neck ! — ah, my pious reader, I am getting along too 
 far and too fast — and, moreover, I have no right in this 
 inaugural description to speak of the swanlike neck which 
 gleamed forth like white poetry when the Signora loosened the 
 silver neck button of her black silk dress. Dear reader ! let 
 us rather climb up again to a portrayal of the face, of which 
 I have yet to remark that it was clear and gold yellow, like 
 amber — that the black hair which framed its temples in a 
 bright oval, gave it a childlike turn, and that it was lighted 
 up by two black abrupt eyes, as if with a magic light. 
 
 You see, dear reader, that I would willingly give you an 
 accurate local description of my good fortune, and as other 
 travelers are accustomed to give maps of the remarkable 
 regions into which they have penetrated, so would I gladly 
 serve up Francesca on a plate — of copper. But ah ! what 
 avails the dead copy of mere outline in forms whose divinest 
 charm consists of living movement. Even the best painter 
 cannot bring this before our eyes, for painting is but a flat 
 lie. Of the two, a sculptor would be more successful, for, by 
 a changing illumination, we can to a certain degree realize 
 motion in forms, and the torches which light them from 
 without, appear to inspire a real life within. Yes, there is a 
 statue, dear reader, which may give you some faint idea of 
 Francesca's loveliness, and that is the Venus of the great 
 Canova which stands in the last hall of the Palazzo Pitti at 
 Florence. I often think of this statue : at times in dreams it 
 slumbers in my arms, until little by little it awakens to warm 
 
288 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 life, and whispers with the accents of Francesca ! But it 
 was the tone of this voice which gave to every word the 
 gentlest and most infinite significance, and should I attempt 
 to give her phrases, it would be only a dry herbarium of 
 flowers, whose real charm was in their perfume. She often 
 leaped up, dancing as she spoke, and it is possible that dan- 
 cing was her most natural language. And my heart danced 
 ever with her, executing the most difficult pas and exhibiting 
 a capacity for Terpsichorean accomplishments which I had 
 never suspected. 
 
 In this language Francesca narrated the history of the 
 Abbate Cecco, a young blade who had loved her while she 
 was still plaiting straw hats in the valley of the Arno — as- 
 suring me that I was so fortunate as to resemble him. 
 During this description she indulged in the most delicate 
 pantomime, pressing one over the other the points of her 
 fingers on her heart, then seemed with cup-like hand to be 
 scooping out the tenderest emotions, cast herself finally with 
 upheaving breasts on the sofa, hid her face in the cushions, 
 raised her feet high in the air and played with them as if 
 they were puppets in a show. The blue foot represented the 
 Abbate Cecco and the red his poor Francesca; and while she 
 parodied her own story, she made the two loving feet part 
 from each other, and it was touchingly ludicrous to see them 
 kiss with their tips, saying the tenderest things — and the 
 wild girl wept withal delightful tittering tears, which how- 
 ever came at times unconsciously from the soul with more 
 depth than the part required. In her pride of pain she 
 delivered for Cecco a long speech, in which he praised with 
 pedantic metaphors the beauty of poor Francesca ; and the 
 manner in which she replied in person, copying her own 
 earlier sentimentalism, had in it something puppet-like and 
 mournful, which strangely moved my heart. "Adieu, 
 Cecco!" "Adieu, Francesca!" was the endless refrain — 
 and I was finally rejoiced when she told in this pedal dialect 
 that a pitiless destiny had parted Francesco and Cecco for- 
 ever — for under the circumstances I could not pretend to 
 any sorrow for my rival. 
 
 The Professor applauded with droll, shrill guitar tones, 
 Signora trilled, the lap-dog barked, the Marquis and I 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 289 
 
 clapped our hands as if mad, and Signora Francesca arose 
 and gracefully courtesied her thanks. " It is really a pretty 
 comedy," said she, "but it is now a long time since it was first 
 brought out, and I am now so old — guess how old ? " 
 
 But without waiting for my answer, she sprang up and 
 cried : " Eighteen years ! " — and spun round eighteen times 
 on one foot. " And, Doctor, how old are you ? " 
 
 " I, Signora, was born on the new year's night of the year 
 eighteen hundred." 
 
 "I always said," quoth the Marquis, "that he was one of 
 the first men of our century." 
 
 "And how old should you suppose I am ? " suddenly cried 
 Signora Letitia. And without thinking of her mother Eve 
 dress, which had been hitherto concealed by the bedclothes, 
 she leaped up so wildly, and manifested such agility, that not 
 only the Red Sea, but also all Arabia, Syria and Mesopotamia 
 were fully visible. 
 
 Terrified at this awful spectacle, I sprang back in horror, 
 but contrived to stammer out a few phrases as to the diffi- 
 culty of answering such a question, " having as yet only half 
 seen Signora," but as she pressed me all the more zealously 
 for an answer, I confessed that in truth I had not as yet 
 learned the proportion of the years in Italy to those of 
 Germany. 
 
 " Is the difference great ? " inquired Signora Letitia. 
 
 " Of course," replied I, " for since heat expands all bodies, 
 it follows that the years in your warm Italy must be longer 
 than those of our cold Germany." 
 
 The Marquis extricated me better from this embarrassment 
 by gallantly asserting, that her beauty had now first begun to 
 manifest itself in all its luxuriant maturity. "And, Signora," 
 he added, " as the pomegranate, the older it is, the yellower 
 it becomes, so will your beauty too become riper with age." 
 
 The lady seemed to be gratified with this comparison, and 
 confessed that she really did feel much riper now than of old, 
 when she was but a thin, little thing, and had made her debut 
 in Bologna — and that in fact she could not comprehend 
 how it was that with such a figure she could ever have made 
 such a furore. And then she narrated all the particulars of 
 this first appearance as Ariadne — a subject to which, as I 
 20 
 
290 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 subsequently ascertained, she frequently recurred, on which 
 occasions Signor Bartolo was obliged to recite the poem 
 which he had thrown upon the stage. It was a good poem, 
 full of touching melancholy at the infidelity of Theseus, and 
 of wild inspiration for Bacchus, and the glowing apotheosis 
 of Ariadne. " Bella cosa ! " cried Signora Letitia at every 
 verse ; and I also praised the metaphors, the construction of 
 the verse, and the entire treatment of the myth. 
 
 "Yes, it is very beautiful," said the Professor, "and has 
 beyond doubt a foundation in historical fact, for several 
 writers distinctly state that Oneus, a priest of Bacchus, mar- 
 ried the mourning Ariadne when he found her abandoned on 
 Naxos ; and, as often happens in the legend, the priest of the 
 God has been taken for the God himself." 
 
 I could by no means agree with him in this opinion, since 
 in mythology I rather incline to historical interpretation, and 
 consequently asserted, " I can see nothing in the whole fable 
 that Ariadne, after being left by Theseus in the island of 
 Naxos, submitted her person to the embraces of Bacchus, 
 but an allegorical statement that she took to drinking — -an 
 hypothesis maintained by many learned men in my Father- 
 land. You, Signor Marquis, are probably aware that in 
 accordance with this hypothesis, the late Banker Bethmann 
 has so contrived to illuminate his Ariadne, that she appears 
 to have a red nose." 
 
 " Yes, yes, Bethmann, in Frankfort, was a great man ! " 
 cried the Marquis. But, at the same instant, some deep re- 
 flection seemed to flit across his brain, and with a sigh he 
 said, " Lord ! Lord ! — I have forgotten to write to Roths- 
 child in Frankfort ! " And with a serious business face, 
 from which all parodizing mockery seemed to have vanished, 
 he departed somewhat abruptly, promising to return towards 
 evening. 
 
 When he had left, and I was about — as is usual in this 
 world — to pass my comments on the man to whose kindness 
 I was indebted for the most agreeable of introductions, I 
 found, to my astonishment, that the whole party could not 
 praise him sufficiently, and that, above all, his enthusiasm for 
 the beautiful, his noble and refined deportment, and his utter 
 want of selfishness, inspired in them the most exaggerated 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 29 1 
 
 expressions of admiration. Even Signora Francesca joined 
 in this hymn of praise, but naively confessed that his nose 
 was rather alarming, and that its enormous size reminded her 
 of the tower of Pisa. 
 
 When taking leave, I begged as a favor to be allowed to 
 kiss her left foot once more, when she with smiling serious- 
 ness drew off not only the red shoe but her stocking also, 
 and, as I knelt, held up to me the white, fresh, blooming lily 
 foot, which I pressed to my lips, more believingly, perhaps, 
 than I would have done that of the Pope. 
 
 " I am contented with you," said Signora Francesca, after 
 her pedal toilet was over, — "I am contented. To-day you 
 have kissed my left foot, to-morrow the right shall be at your 
 disposal. The next day you may kiss my left hand, and the 
 day after the right. If you do your duty well, by and by you 
 will get to my mouth. You see that I'm inclined to help you 
 along, and as you are still quite young, you may yet get along 
 very well in the world." 
 
292 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Every one knows what whippings are, but no one has as 
 yet made out what love is. Some natural philosophers have 
 asserted that it is a sort of electricity, which is not impossi- 
 ble, for in certain rapturous periods of love we feel as though 
 an electric flash from the eyes of the loved one had penetrated 
 our heart. Ah ! such lightnings are the most destructive of 
 all ; and I will honor above Franklin the man who will invent 
 a conductor which will protect us against them. If there were 
 only little conductors running to the heart, to which lightning- 
 rods were attached, which could divert the dreadful fire to 
 some other quarter ! But I fear that it is not so easy a mat- 
 ter to rob Cupid of his arrows, as Jupiter of his lightning and 
 tyrants of their scepters. Besides, every love does not work 
 in the lightning style; many a time it is hidden like a snake 
 amid roses, and looks for the first crevice in the heart wherein 
 to nestle — often it is only a word, a glance, the light narra- 
 tion of some illicit deed, which falls like a seed into the heart, 
 lies there through the long winter time until Spring comes, 
 when the little grain shoots up into a flaming flower, whose 
 perfume benumbs the brain. The same sun which hatches 
 forth crocodile's eggs in Egypt, may at the same time fully 
 ripen the love seed in a young heart in Potsdam — for in Pots- 
 dam, as in Egypt, there are tears. Has no one penetrated 
 their being? has no one solved the riddle? Perhaps such 
 a solution would cause greater pain than the riddle itself, and 
 the heart would be by it stricken with horror, and petrified 
 as at the sight of the Medusa. Serpents twine around the 
 awful word which reveals this mystery. Oh ! I will never 
 know that word of solution, for the burning misery in my own 
 heart is dearer to me than cold, marble-like death. Oh ! utter 
 it not, ye forms of the dead, which, painless as stone but as 
 feelingless, wander through the rose gardens of this world, 
 and smile with pale lips on the foolish soul who praises the 
 perfume of the roses, and bewails their thorns. 
 
 But if I, dear reader, cannot tell thee what love really is, 
 I can at least describe with the utmost accuracy how a man 
 behaves, and how he feels, when he is enamored among the 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 293 
 
 Apennines. For he then behaves like a fool ; he dances on 
 rocks and hills, believing that the whole world dances with 
 him. He feels as if the earth had just been finished on that 
 very day, and that he was the first man made. " Ah ! how 
 beautiful everything is ! " I caroled, as I left Francesca's 
 dwelling. " How fair and precious is this new world ! " I 
 felt as though I must give to all plants and animals a new 
 name, and I called every one according to its inner nature 
 and my own feelings, which blended so marvelously with all 
 things without. My breast was a wellspring of revelation, 
 and I understood all forms and figures, the perfume of 
 plants, the song of birds, the piping of the wind, and the 
 rustling of waterfalls. Often, too, I seemed to hear the divine 
 voice, "Adam, where art thou?" "Here am I, Francesca!" 
 I replied. " I pray to thee, for well I know that thou hast 
 created sun, moon, and stars, and the earth with all its crea- 
 tures ! " Then there was soft laughter among the myrtles, 
 and I secretly sighed within myself, " Oh, delicious folly, do 
 not forsake me ! " 
 
 But it was when twilight stole over me that the delirious 
 happiness of love first truly began. The trees danced on 
 the rocks, while their heavy heads were ruddily flushed over 
 by the setting sun as though intoxicated from their own em- 
 bracing vines. Below them the brook darted more hurriedly 
 along and murmured anxiously as though fearing to under- 
 mine and overthrow the enraptured quivering trees. And 
 over all flashed the summer eye, light rising as deliciously as 
 light kisses. "Yes," I cried, "the laughing Heaven kisses 
 laughing Earth — O Francesca ! lovely Heaven, let me be 
 thy Earth ? I am all so earthly, and sigh for thee my 
 Heaven ! " So I cried, holding my hands in wild prayer up 
 to Heaven, and ran and struck my head against many a tree, 
 which instead of scolding I embraced, and my whole soul 
 cried out with joy in all the intoxication of love, — when I 
 suddenly beheld a gleaming, scarlet form, which at once tore 
 me violently from my dreams and brought me back to a 
 sense of the coldest reality. 
 
294 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 4 
 
 On a mossy bank, beneath a wide-branching laurel, sat 
 Hyacinthus, the Marquis's servant, and near him his dog 
 Apollo. The latter, however, might rather be said to be 
 standing, as he had both fore paws on the scarlet knee of the 
 little man, and inquisitively beheld how the latter, holding a 
 tablet in his hand, wrote from time to time therein. At 
 times, whilst thus employed, Hyacinthus smiled sorrowfully, 
 then shook his head, and then handkerchiefed his face with 
 an air of satisfaction. 
 
 "What the devil !" I cried; "Hirsch Hyacinth! are you 
 composing poetry ? Well, the symptoms are favorable. Apollo 
 is fry your side and the laurel hangs over your head." 
 
 But I did the poor sinner injustice. He amiably answered, 
 "Poems! no; I'm a lover of poems, but don't write 'em. 
 What should I write? I hadn't anything to do just then, 
 and so just for fun I was writing off a list of the names of 
 those gentlemen who've played in my lottery — some of them 
 are a little in debt to me yet — oh don't suppose, Doctor, I 
 meant to hint anything ! — plenty of time for that. I know 
 that you're good. If you'd only taken ticket number 1365 
 last time instead of 1364, you'd have been worth a hundred 
 thousand marks banco now, and needn't have been running 
 around here, and might be sitting cozy and easy in Hamburg, 
 telling folks, as you laid off on the sofa, how things looked 
 in Italy. As true as the Lord may help me, I wouldn't have 
 come here if it hadn't been for Herr Gumpel ! Oh, what heat 
 and danger and getting tired I have to stand, and wherever 
 there's anything out of the way or crazy, there's Herr Gum- 
 pel — and I must take my share in it. I'd have gone away 
 long, long ago if I thought he could do without me. For if 
 I didn't, who could certify for him at home how much honor 
 and cultivation he'd enjoyed when traveling? And to tell 
 the truth, Doctor, I begin to set great store myself on culti- 
 vation and manners. In Hamburg, the Lord be praised ! I 
 don't need it, but a man never knows what he may want 
 when he goes anywhere else. And folks are right, for a 
 little accomplishment ornaments the whole man. And how 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 295 
 
 much honor you get by it too ! For instance, how Lady 
 Maxfield received me this morning, and how handsome she 
 1 came down.' Just on a level with me. And she gave me 
 the francesconi to drink her health, though the flower only 
 cost five paoli. Besides — oh, isn't it a pleasure to hold the 
 little, white naked foot of a pretty lady in your hand ?" 
 
 I was startled by this last remark, and at once thought, 
 " Is he making fun of me ? " But how could the vagabond 
 know of the good fortune which I had encountered at the 
 same hour, when he was on the other side of the hill ? Was 
 there perhaps a similar scene, and was there perhaps dis- 
 played in it the irony of the great world-stage-poet, who has 
 acted at the same instant a thousand similar scenes, each 
 parodying the other for the amusement of the heavenly host ? 
 But my suspicions were unfounded, for after many and oft- 
 repeated questions, ending with my solemn promise not to 
 tell the Marquis, the poor fellow admitted that when he gave 
 the flower to Lady Maxfield she was still abed — and that 
 just at the instant in which he was about to deliver it — and 
 with it a fine speech — one of her pretty naked feet was 
 thrust out from beneath the counterpane. Observing a corn 
 on it he at once begged permission to extract the annoyance 
 — which was readily granted, and for which, with the tulip, 
 he was rewarded with a francesconi. 
 
 " Yet I only did it for the honor of the thing," added Hya- 
 cinth, " and that's just what I said to Baron Rothschild when 
 I had the honor to cut his corns. It took place in his cabi- 
 net; he sat there on his green armchair like a king, with 
 his courtiers standing around, and he all the while was 
 a-sending expresses to all the kings. And while I was cut- 
 ting his corns I thought in my heart, ' Now you've got in 
 your hands the foot of the man who holds all the world in 
 his hands, and you too are a man that's somebody, for if 
 you cut too deep he'll be angry, and if you don't cut enough 
 he'll be all the madder at the kings,' — it was the happiest 
 moment of my life ! " 
 
 " I can readily imagine your feelings, Herr Hyacinth. 
 But whom among the Rothschild dynasty did you thus ampu- 
 tate ? Was it the high-hearted Briton, the man in Lombard 
 Street, who has set up a pawnbroker's shop for emperors 
 and kings ? " 
 
296 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 " Of course, Doctor, I mean the great Rothschild, the great 
 Nathan Rothschild, to whom the Emperor of Brazil pawned 
 his diamond crown. But I had the honor, too, to make the 
 acquaintance of Baron Solomon Rothschild in Frankfort, 
 and though I wasn't on exactly the same footing with him 
 as the other, he still knew how to esteem me. When the 
 Marquis said to him, that I had once been a lottery agent, 
 the Baron answered very wittily, ' I'm head agent of the 
 Rothschild lottery myself, and a colleague of mine mustn't eat 
 among servants — he must sit alongside of me at the table.' 
 And as true as God be good to me, Doctor, I sat by Solomon 
 Rothschild, and he treated me just like one of his equals — 
 quite famillionaire. I was with him too at the Children's 
 Ball, which was in the newspapers. I shall never see such a 
 grand show again in all my born days. I was once in Ham- 
 burg at a ball which cost fifteen hundred marks and eight 
 schillings — but that was nothing but a speck compared to 
 a dunghill. What lots of gold and silver and diamonds I 
 saw there ! Such stars and orders ! The falcon order, the 
 golden fleece, a lion order, the eagle order — yes, even a child 
 — a right down small child, wore the whole order of the ele- 
 phant. The children were masked, very pretty, and played 
 at pawns, and were dressed up like kings, with crowns on 
 their heads, but one of the biggest was dressed precisely like 
 old Nathan Rothschild. He acted his part very well, kept 
 both his hands in his breeches pockets, shook his money, 
 shook his head as if in trouble when any of the little kings 
 wanted to borrow anything, and only showed favor to the 
 little one with the white coat and red pants. This fellow he 
 patted on the cheeks and praised him : — ' You're my boy, 
 my pet, my pride — but let your cousin Michael keep out of 
 my way — I'll not lend the goose a penny — he spends more 
 men in a year than he has to eat; he'll make some trouble yet 
 in the world and spoil my business.' As true as the Lord may 
 help me, the little fellow played his part very well, particu- 
 larly when he helped a child to walk along who was dressed 
 in white satin with real silver lilies, and now and then said to 
 him : ' Now, now — only take good care of yourself — get 
 your living honestly, and look out that you're not driven 
 away again, or I'll lose my money.' I tell you what, Doctor, 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 297 
 
 it was a real pleasure to hear how the little chap and the 
 other children — right nice children they were — played 
 their parts very well till cakes were brought to them, and 
 they begun to fight for the best pieces, and grabbed the 
 crowns off one another's heads, and screamed and cried, and 
 some of 'em, even — " 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 There is nothing so stupid on the face of the earth as to 
 read a book of Travels in Italy — unless it be to write one — 
 and the only way in which its author can make it in any 
 degree tolerable is to say as little in it as possible of Italy. 
 But though I have availed myself of this rule, I still cannot 
 venture to promise the reader anything strikingly captivating 
 in the coming chapter. And if you who read become tired of 
 the stupid stuff in it, just think of what a dreary time I must 
 have had writing it ! I would recommend you, on the whole, 
 to once in a while skip half a dozen leaves — for in that way 
 you will arrive much sooner at the end. Lord ! how I wish 
 that I could follow the same plan. And do not believe that 
 I am jesting, for if I were to speak out in saddest earnestness 
 the real opinion of my very heart, I would advise you at once 
 to close these pages, and read no more therein. By and 
 by I will improve; and when we, in a book as yet unwritten, 
 meet Matilda and Francesca together, the dear creatures shall 
 delight you far more than anything in the present chapter 
 or even in the next. 
 
 The Lord be praised, I hear without, before my window, 
 a hand-organ, with merry tunes. My befogged head needed 
 such a clearing up, particularly as I must now describe my 
 visit to his Excellency the Marquis Christophoro di Gumpelino. 
 I will narrate this deeply moving history with the utmost 
 accuracy, the most literal truth, and in all its purity. 
 
 It was late as I reached the home of the Marquis. As I 
 entered the room, Hyacinth stood alone, cleaning the golden 
 spurs of his master, who, as I perceived, through the half- 
 opened door of his chamber, was on his knees before a Ma- 
 donna and a great crucifix. 
 
298 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 For you must know, dear reader, that this noble man is 
 now a good Catholic ; that he observes with the utmost strict- 
 ness all the ceremonies of that Church which alone confers 
 happiness ; and that when he is in Rome he keeps his own 
 chaplain, on the same principle which induces him to keep 
 in England the fastest horse, and in Paris the prettiest dan- 
 cing girl. 
 
 " Herr Gumpel is just now doing his prayers," whispered 
 Hyacinth with a significant smile, and pointing to the cabi- 
 net of his master added in a softer tone, " He lies that way 
 every evening two hours on his knees before the Prima Donna 
 with the Jesus child. It is a splendid affair, and cost him 
 six hundred francesconis." 
 
 " And you, Mr. Hyacinth, why don't you kneel behind him ? 
 Or perhaps you are not inclined to the Catholic religion ? " 
 
 " I'm inclined, and again I ain't inclined," replied he, re- 
 flectively shaking his head. " It's a good religion for a gen- 
 teel Baron, who can go about all day at his leisure, or for 
 one who understands the fine arts — but it's no religion for a 
 Hamburger, for a man who has his business to mind, and 
 no religion at all, any way you take it, for a lottery collector. 
 I must write down fair and square every number that's drawn, 
 and if I happen to think of — bum ! bum ! bum ! — the Cath- 
 olic bells, or if my eyes swim like Catholic incense, and I 
 make a mistake, and set down the wrong number, the worst 
 sort of trouble may come out of it. Many a time have I said 
 to Herr Gumpel, 'Your Excellency is a rich man, and can 
 be as Catholic as you please, and may smoke up your wits 
 with incense as much as you like, and may be as stupid as a 
 Catholic bell, and still have victuals to eat; but I'm a busi- 
 ness man, and must keep my seven senses about me, to earn 
 something.' Herr Gumpel thinks, of course, that it's neces- 
 sary for my accomplishment, and that if I don't become Cath- 
 olic that I can't understand the pictures which accomplish 
 people — the Verygreeno, the Correctshow, Caratshow, and 
 Cravatshow — but I've always held that all the Correctshows 
 and Cravatshows wouldn't help much if nobody bought tick- 
 ets of me, and then I should make a mighty poor show ! 
 And I must own, Doctor, that the Catholic religion don't 
 amuse me ; and, as a reasonable man, you must allow that 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 299 
 
 when it comes to that, I'm right. I don't see any fun in it — 
 it's something such a religion as if the Lord (the Lord forbid 
 it!) had just died, and everything smelt of burial incense, and 
 with it all, they roll out such a melancholy funeral music as 
 to give one the blues — and the long and short of it is, that 
 it's no religion for a Hamburger." 
 
 "Well, then, Mr. Hyacinth, how do you like the Protes- 
 tant religion ? " 
 
 "That is altogether, on t'other hand, too common sense 
 like, and if the Protestant churches hadn't an organ, it 
 wouldn't be a religion at all. Between you and I, the relig- 
 ion does no harm, and is as pure as a glass of water — but it 
 don't help any. I've tried it, sir — and the trial cost me four 
 marks fourteen schillings." 
 
 " How so, my good Mr. Hyacinth ? " 
 
 " Well — do you see, Doctor, that I once came to the con- 
 clusion that it was a very enlightened religion, without any 
 visionary notions or miracles — though by the way I still 
 think that a church must have a few visionary notions, and a 
 trifle in the way of miracles, to be one of the proper sort. 
 1 But who'd ever work any miracle there ? ' thought I, one day 
 in Hamburg, as I peeped into a Protestant church, one of 
 the regular bald sort, with nothing but brown benches and 
 white walls, and on the walls nothing but a blackboard, with 
 half a dozen white numbers on it. 'But,' thinks I, 'maybe 
 you don't do justice to this religion — who knows but what 
 these numbers can work a miracle as well as the image of 
 the Virgin Mary, or a bone of her husband, Saint Joseph ? ' 
 and, to settle the matter, I went straight to Altona, and set 
 these very numbers in the Altona lottery. The deuce I set 
 with eight schillings, the terne with six, the quaterne with 
 four, and the quinterne with two schillings. But I tell you, 
 upon my honor, that not a single one of the Protestant num* 
 bers came out a prize. I very soon made up my mind what 
 to think of the Protestant business. A great religion, that, 
 which can't so much as bring out the deuce ! — and a nice 
 goose I'd be to stake my salvation on a religion by which I've 
 already lost four marks and fourteen schillings." 
 
 " I dare say that the old Jewish religion suits you much 
 better, my friend." 
 
300 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 "Doctor — the mischief take the old Jewish religion! I 
 don't wish it to my worst enemy. It brings nothing but 
 abuse and disgrace. I tell you it ain't a religion, but a mis- 
 fortune. I keep out of the way of everything that puts me 
 in mind of it, and because Hirsch is a Hebrew word, and 
 means hyacinth, I've let the old Hirsch run, 1 and now sub- 
 scribe myself, ' Hyacinth, Collector, Operator, and Appraiser.' 
 And then I have this advantage, that I've got an H on my 
 seal ring, and my new name begins with an H, so that there's 
 no need of having a new one cut. I tell you what — it 
 amounts to a good deal in the long run, if you reckon up 
 what a good name is worth to a man — name's everything. 
 When I write, ' Hyacinth, Collector, Operator, and Appraiser,' 
 it has another sort of a sound from plain Hirsch. Nobody 
 can treat me like a common blackguard then." 
 
 " My good Hyacinth, who would ever treat you in such a 
 manner ? You appear to have done so much towards accom- 
 plishing yourself, that it is easy to recognize a refined charac- 
 ter in you before you open your mouth." 
 
 "You're right, Doctor, I have gone ahead like a giantess in 
 improving myself. I really don't know who I ought to keep 
 company with when I get back to Hamburg — but I know 
 what I'll do in the religion line. Just for the present I can 
 get along with the new Israelite temple, I mean the pure 
 Mosaic-Lord's service, with orthographic German hymns and 
 moving sermons, and a few visionary notions, which are 
 things no religion can do without. As true as the Lord may 
 help me, I don't want any better religion, and it is worth 
 keeping up. I mean to do my part for it, anyhow, and every 
 Saturday, when it isn't a day for drawing in the lottery, I'm 
 going there. There are men, and more's the pity, who give 
 this new faith a bad name, and say that it gives occasion for 
 a schism — but I give you my word, it's a good sound religion 
 — perhaps a little too good for common folks, for whom the 
 old Jewish religion is good enough. A common man must 
 have something stupid to make him happy, and he does feel 
 happier in something of the sort. A regular old Jew, with 
 a long beard and a ragged coat, and lousy at that, and who 
 
 1 Hirsch is also a German word, and signifies a stag or deer. 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 301 
 
 can't speak a word correct, perhaps feels better than I do, 
 with all my accomplishment. There lives in Hamburg, in 
 the Baecker Breitengang, a man named Moses Lump, — the 
 folks call him Lumpy, for short, — and he runs around the 
 whole week, in wind and rain, with his pack on his back, to 
 earn a few marks. Well, when Friday evening comes round, 
 he goes home, and finds the seven-branched lamp all lighted, 
 a clean white cloth on the table, and he puts off his pack 
 and all his sorrows, and sits down at the table with his crooked 
 wife and crookeder daughter, and eats with them fish which 
 have been cooked in nice white garlic sauce, and sings the 
 finest songs of King David, and rejoices with all his heart at 
 the Exodus of the children of Israel from Egypt. He feels 
 glad, too, that all the bad people who did anything bad to 
 them died at last; that King Pharaoh, Nebuchadnezzar, 
 Haman, Antiochus, Titus and such like, are all dead, but that 
 Lumpy is still alive, and eats fish with his wife and child. 
 And, I tell you what, Doctor, the fish are delicate, and the 
 man is happy ; he hasn't any cause to torment himself with 
 any 'accomplishment' ; he sits just as contented in his religion 
 and in his green night-gown, as Diogenes in his cask, and he 
 looks with joy at the lights burning, which he hasn't even 
 the trouble of cleaning. And I tell you that if the lights 
 should happen to burn dim, and the Jewess, who ought to 
 snuff them, isn't at hand, and if Rothschild the Great should 
 happen to come in with all the brokers, discounters, for- 
 warders, and head clerks, with whom he overcomes the world, 
 and if he should say, ' Moses Lump, ask what thou wilt, it 
 shall be given thee,' — Doctor, I believe that Moses would 
 say, quiet and easy, * Pick the lamp, then ! ' and Rothschild 
 the Great would answer, in wonder, ' If I wasn't Rothschild, 
 I'd like to be such a Lump as this ! ' " 
 
 As Hyacinth, according to custom, thus developed his 
 doctrines with epic copiousness, the Marquis rose from his 
 cushions and came towards us, still mumbling a paternoster 
 through his nose. Hyacinth then drew the green curtain 
 over the image of the Madonna which hung over the bed, 
 extinguished the two candles, took down the bronze crucifix, 
 and, approaching us, began to clean it with the same rag and 
 with the same care with which he had just cleaned his mas- 
 
302 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 ter's spurs. But the Marquis was melting with heat and with 
 soft sentiment; instead of a coat he wore a full blue-silk 
 domino, with silver fringe, and his nose shone sorrowfully, 
 like an enamored louis d'or. " Oh, Jesus ! " he sighed, as he 
 sank among the cushions of the sofa — " don't you think, 
 Doctor, that I have a very dreamy, visionary, poetical look 
 this evening? I am very much moved — my soul is melting; 
 I perceive from afar, a higher world. 
 
 11 1 My eye beholds the Heaven open, 
 My heart leaps up in wondrous bliss.' 1 ' 
 
 "Herr Gumpel, you must take something," interrupted 
 Hyacinth. "The blood in your inside has got to going again. 
 I know what is the matter with you." 
 
 " You don't know," sighed his master. 
 
 " I tell you I do," replied the man, nodding with his good- 
 natured, going-to-work little face. " I know you, in and out 
 — I know. You are just my opposite; when you're hungry 
 I'm thirsty, and when I'm thirsty you're hungry. You are 
 too corpulent, and I'm too lean. You have lots of imagina- 
 tion, and I've got all the more business capacity. I'm a 
 practicus, and you're a diarrheticus — in short, you are alto- 
 gether my antipodex." 
 
 "Ah, Julia!" sighed Gumpelino, "would that I were the 
 yellow glove upon thy hand, and kissed thy cheek ! Doctor, 
 did you ever see the actress Crelinger in ' Romeo and Juliet' ?" 
 
 " Of course, and my whole soul is still enraptured with the 
 memory." 
 
 "Well, then," cried the Marquis, with enthusiasm, and fire 
 flashed from his eyes, illuminating his nose — " then you ap- 
 preciate my feelings — then you know what I mean when I 
 say I love ! I will show myself to you, and expose every- 
 thing. Hyacinth, just step out of the room ! " 
 
 " I needn't go out," said his man, as if vexed ; " you 
 needn't stand on any ceremony with me, for I know what 
 love is, too, and how it — " 
 
 " You don't know ! " cried the Marquis. 
 
 " I'll prove that I know, Herr Marquis, by just speaking 
 the name of Julia Maxfield. Oh, be easy ! You're loved, 
 too, but it's of no use. The brother-in-law of your lady never 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 303 
 
 lets her go out of sight and watches her night and day like a 
 diamond." 
 
 "Ah! wretched that I am," moaned Gumpelino — "I love 
 and am loved again ; we secretly press each other's hands — 
 we tread on each other's feet under the table — glance mean- 
 ingly at each other — and yet can't find an opportunity to — 
 Ah ! how often I stand in the moonlight on the balcony, 
 and imagine that I am Julia and that my Romeo or my Gum- 
 pelino has promised me a rendezvous — and then I declaim 
 exactly like the Crelinger : — 
 
 "'Come night, come Gumpelino — day in night! 
 For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night, 
 Whiter than new snow on a raven's back — 
 Come, gentle night ; come, loving, black-browed night, 
 Give me my Romeo — or Gumpelino!' 
 
 — But ah ! Lord Maxfield watches us all the time, and we're 
 both dying with intense desire. I shall never survive the 
 day when either sets the blossom of youthful love at stake, 
 winning to lose. Ah! I'd rather enjoy one such night with 
 Julia than win the great prize in the Hamburg lottery ! " 
 
 "What a crazy notion!" cried Hyacinth; "the great prize! 
 
 — one hundred thousand marks ! " 
 
 "Yes — rather than the great prize," continued Gumpelino, 
 "could I have one such night — and she has promised me 
 often that I should have such a night when the first opportu- 
 nity occurs, and I've often thought that early in the morning 
 she would declaim tojne — just like Crelinger : — 
 
 "'Wilt thou begone? it is not yet near day! 
 It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
 That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; 
 Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree : 
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.'" 
 
 "The great prize for only one night!" repeated Hyacinth 
 several times as if he could never assent to such an assertion ; 
 " I have a very high opinion, Herr Marquis, of your accom- 
 plishments, but I never did think you'd have brought your 
 visionary fancies up to such a pitch. That any man could 
 ever prefer love to the great prize ! Really, Herr Marquis — 
 since I've waited on you I've got used to a great deal of accom- 
 plishment — but as far as I know, I wouldn't give an eighth of 
 
304 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the great prize for all the love afloat. The Lord keep me from 
 it ! Why, if I reckon off five hundred marks premium, there'd 
 still remain twelve thousand marks. Love ! Why, if I reckon 
 up all together that I've ever paid out for love in all my life 
 it only comes to twelve marks and thirteen schillings. Love ! 
 Why I've had lots of love, free gratis, for nothing; only once 
 in a while, to please my woman, I've cut her corns for her. I 
 never had a real sentimental passionate love scrape but once in 
 my life, and that was for fat Sally of Dreckwall. She used to 
 buy lottery tickets of me, and whenever I called on her to square 
 accounts, she used to give me a piece of cake — very good 
 cake, indeed, — and sometimes she'd fix up a nice little fancy 
 dish for me, with a drop of liquor to it, — and when I once 
 told her that I was troubled with the blues, she gave me a 
 receipt for the powder which her own husband used. I use 
 the powder to this very day — it always works on me — and 
 that was the only consequence which our love ever had. I 
 thought, Herr Marquis, that maybe you needed one of those 
 powders. When I came to Italy they were the first thing I 
 thought of, so I went to the apothecary and had 'em made up, 
 and I always carry 'em about with me. Just wait a minute 
 and I'll hunt for 'em, and if I hunt for 'em I'll find 'em, and 
 if I find 'em your Excellency's got to take 'em." 
 
 It would require too much time to repeat all the comments 
 with which Hyacinth accompanied his researches, as he drew 
 in succession each of the following articles from his pocket. 
 These were, — I., half a wax candle ; II., a silver case, in which 
 he kept his instruments for cutting corns ; III., a lemon ; IV., 
 a pistol, which, though unloaded, was carefully wrapped in 
 paper lest the sight of it might awaken apprehension ; V., a 
 scheme of the last drawing of the Hamburg lottery; VI., a 
 black leather-bound little book, containing the Psalms of David 
 and the debts not as yet collected ; VII., a dry willow withe, 
 twined in a true-love knot ; VIII., a little packet covered with 
 faded rose-colored silk, and containing the receipt in full for 
 a lottery prize which had once won fifty thousand marks ; IX., 
 a flat piece of bread resembling ship-biscuit with a hole in 
 the middle ; and X., the above-mentioned powder, which the 
 little man took out, not without a certain emotion and a sor- 
 rowful shaking of the head. 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 305 
 
 "When I think," he sighed, "that ten years ago, fat Sally- 
 gave me this receipt and that I'm in Italy now and have the 
 same receipt in my hands, and see the same words on it : ' pul- 
 ver mirable Doveri ' — that means in German, ' extra fine Dover 
 powder of the best quality' — ah, I feel as if I had already 
 taken the stuff and could feel it a-working inside. What is 
 Man! I'm in Italy a-thinking of fat Sally of Dreckwall! 
 Who'd a thought it ? — I can think I see her now — in the coun- 
 try, in her garden, where the moon shines, and where there 
 must be for certain a nightingale singing — or maybe a lark — " 
 
 " It is the nightingale and not the lark ! " sighed Gumpelino 
 in parenthesis. 
 
 " ' Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree, 
 Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.' " 
 
 "It's all one to me," continued Hyacinth; "it may be a 
 canary for all I care — only wild birds in the garden don't cost 
 so much. The main thing is the hothouse and the carpet in 
 the pavilion and the statuaries all round it — and among 'em 
 there's a naked General somebody (one of the gods) — and 
 the Venus Urinia — both cost three hundred marks. And in 
 the middle of the garden Sally's got a fontenelle, and maybe 
 she's a-standing there, having make-believe pleasures in her 
 fancy, and thinking — of — me ! " 
 
 After this sigh followed a rapt silence, which the Marquis 
 finally broke with a languishing tone and question — "Tell 
 me, Hyacinth — on your honor — do you really believe that 
 your medicine will have its effect ? " 
 
 " Yes, upon honor, it will ! Why shouldn't it work ? It 
 works on me. And ain't I a living man, just the same as you ? 
 medicine makes all men alike, and when Rothschild takes 
 Dover powder it operates on him just as it would on the 
 smallest broker. And I'll just tell you now how it's all done. 
 I shake the powder into a glass, pour some water on it, and as 
 soon as you've swallowed it you twist up your face and say — 
 * Prr — phew ! — pooh ! ' Then you feel it a sort of quarreling 
 about inside of you, and you don't know what to make of your- 
 self, and you lie down on the bed, and then I promise you 'pon 
 honor that by and by you'll sleep, then you'll wake up again and 
 go to sleep again, and so on and so forth, and the next morn- 
 ing you feel as light as an angel with white wings, and you'll 
 
306 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 dance about because you feel so well — only you'll look a little 
 pale, but I know you like to look pale, because it's languishing- 
 like — and that's interesting." 
 
 While thus chattering, Hyacinth had prepared the powder, 
 but he would have taken this pains for nothing had not the 
 passage suddenly flashed into the mind of the Marquis, where 
 Julia takes the draft which has such a dire effect on her 
 destiny. "What do you think, Doctor," — he cried — "of the 
 actress Müller in Vienna ? I have seen her as Julia, and 
 Lord! Lord! — how she did play! I'm the greatest enthu- 
 siast for Crelinger, living — but Müller, when she drank off 
 the goblet, completely tore me down! — See!" — this was 
 his exclamation as he took with a comic gesture the glass 
 into which Hyacinth had poured the powder — " See ! this 
 was the way in which she took the cup, and shuddered so 
 that you could feel every thrill which she felt as she said : — 
 
 " ' There is a faint cold fear which thrills my veins, 
 And almost freezes up the heat of life.' 
 
 "And so she stood — just as I stand — and held the gob- 
 let to her lips, saying : - Ui ^ Talbot? stay , _ 
 
 Romeo, I come ! this do I drink to thee.'" 
 
 And with these words he swallowed the medicine. 
 
 " Much good may it do you, Herr Gumpel ! " said Hya- 
 cinth, in a joyful tone ; for the Marquis had, in his inspira- 
 tion, drained the entire dose, and sank weary with declamation 
 on the sofa. 
 
 He did not remain long in this position, for almost imme- 
 diately there was a knock at the door, and there entered 
 Lady Maxneld's little jockey, who gave to the Marquis, with 
 a laugh and a bow, a note, and at once retired. Hastily did 
 Gumpelino break the seal, and while he read, his eyes and 
 nose gleamed with delight — but suddenly a spectral pale- 
 ness covered his face, emotion was apparent in every muscle, 
 and he sprang about with gestures of despair, laughing 
 grimly, and rushed about the chamber, exclaiming. 
 
 "What is it? — what is it?" cried Hyacinth, with a trem- 
 bling voice, as he distractedly cleaned away at the crucifix, 
 which he had again taken up. " Are we going to make our 
 attack to-night ? " 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 307 
 
 "What is the matter, Herr Marquis?" I inquired, equally- 
 astonished. 
 
 " Read ! read ! " — cried Gumpelino, as he threw towards 
 us the note, and again rushed madly about the room, his blue 
 domino streaming behind him like a storm-cloud. 
 
 In the note we read the following words : — 
 
 " Sweetest Gumpelino : 
 
 " By break of day I must away to England. My brother- 
 in-law has traveled on before, and awaits me in Florence. I 
 am at present free, but alas ! only for this one night ! Let us, 
 however, avail ourselves of it ; let us drain the nectar goblet 
 which love holds forth, even to the last drop. I await, I 
 tremble. 
 
 "Julia Maxfield." 
 
 " Woe me ! fool of Fortune ! " bewailed Gumpelino — Love 
 holds out to me his nectar cup, and I — alas ! the Jack-fool 
 of Fortune, have already drained a goblet of Dover powder ! 
 Who can get the accursed stuff out of me now ? — Help ! 
 help ! " 
 
 " No earthly living man can help you now ! " sighed 
 Hyacinth. 
 
 " I pity you from my very heart," said I condolingly. 
 " To drain a tumbler of Dover powder, instead of a goblet of 
 nectar, is bitter! Instead of the arms of Love, a night of 
 regret awaits you ! " 
 
 " Oh, Jesus ! oh, Jesus ! " cried the Marquis ; " I feel it 
 thrill through my every vein — O true apothecary, thy drugs 
 are quick ! — but it shall not hinder me, I will hasten to her ; 
 I will sink at her feet and bleed ! " 
 
 "There's no blood in the business at all," replied Hya- 
 cinth. " Don't go off into rhapsodies. Don't be passionate ! " 
 
 " No, no ! I will hasten to her, into her arms — oh, night ! 
 oh, night ! " 
 
 " I tell you," continued Hyacinth, with philosophical indif- 
 ference, "that you will find no repose in her arms. You can't 
 keep awake twenty minutes during the night. Don't be so pas- 
 sionate. The more you run around the room and excite your- 
 self, so much quicker the stuff works. Your mind plays into 
 
308 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the hands of nature. You must endure like a man what your 
 fate has determined. Maybe it's good that it's come so, and 
 perhaps it came so because it's good. Man is an earthly 
 being, and doesn't understand the ways of Divinity. Folks 
 often think they're going straight ahead to their happiness, 
 and bad luck stands in the way with a stick; and when a 
 plain vulgar stick strikes a noble back, they feel it, Herr 
 Marquis ! " 
 
 " Woe me ! a fool of Fortune ! " raved Gumpelino. But 
 his servant calmly continued. 
 
 " A man often expects a cupful of nectar, and instead of it 
 gets horse-whip soup, — if the nectar is sweet, then the horse- 
 whipping is all the bitterer ; and it is really lucky that the 
 man who thrashes another must tire out sooner or later, or 
 the fellow he whips could never stand it. But it is a great 
 deal worse when bad luck hides in a man's way to Love, so 
 that his life's in danger. Maybe, Herr Marquis, it is really 
 all right that things have gone as they have, or perhaps — 
 who knows — you might have been met on the way by a 
 little Italian with a dirk six yards long, who would have run 
 slap at you, and have struck you (not to put too fine a point 
 upon it) — through your calves. For a man can't holler for 
 the watch here as in Hamburg, and there are no policemen 
 among the Apennines. Or maybe," continued the pitiless 
 consoler, without paying the slightest attention to the grow- 
 ing rage of his master — " maybe when you were sitting snug 
 and warm in Lady Maxfield's arms, the brother-in-law would 
 have come rushing back and clapped a pistol to your breast, 
 and made you sign a bill of a hundred thousand marks. I 
 don't want to make mischief or tell lies — but I say suppose 
 now — only suppose that you were a good-looking man, and 
 Lady Maxfield was in despair for fear she should lose her 
 beau, and was jealous — like all women — for fear some other 
 woman might get you after she was gone, what would she 
 do? Why she'd just take an orange and put a little white 
 powder on it, and say, 'Here, dear — just suck this and cool 
 yourself off a little — you've got warm a-running so fast,' — 
 and the next day you'd be cooled down and no mistake. 
 There was a man named Piper, who had a passional attrac- 
 tion for a female individual who was called Trumpet Angel 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 309 
 
 Jenny, and she lived in the ' Coffee-factory,' and her husband 
 by the Duck Pond — " 
 
 " I wish, Hirsch," screamed the Marquis, in a rage, " I wish 
 that your Piper of the Duck Pond, and his Trumpet Angel 
 of the Coffee Mill, and you and your Sally, all had my Do^er 
 powder rammed down your throats ! " 
 
 "What would you have, Herr Gumpel?" exclaimed Hya- 
 cinth, not without heat. " Was it my fault that Lady Max- 
 field's a-going away to-morrow, and invited you to come for 
 to-night? Could I know that beforehand ? Am I Aristotle ? 
 Have I got a situation in a prophecy office ? I only said that 
 the powder would work, and it will work, just as sure as I'm 
 a-going to Heaven, and if you go running about the room 
 in such a disparaging and passional way, it'll work all the 
 sooner — " 
 
 "Well, then, I'll sit down calmly on the sofa!" groaned 
 Gumpelino ; and, stamping on the ground, he rolled in a rage 
 on the sofa, restrained his mood by a mighty effort, and both 
 servant and master gazed long and silently at each other, 
 until the latter said, with a deep sigh and in a whimpering 
 tone, — 
 
 " But, Hirsch, what will the lady say if I don't come ? She 
 waits for me, yes, lingers and trembles and burns with love — " 
 
 " She has a beautiful foot," said Hyacinth to himself, and 
 sorrowfully shook his little head. But there were mighty 
 throbs of emotion at work in his heart, and a shrewd idea 
 was working itself out under his scarlet coat. 
 
 "Herr Gumpel," said the words, as they came forth, " — 
 send me!" 
 
 And as he spoke, a deep blush stole over the sallow busi- 
 ness countenance. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 When Candide came to El Dorado, he saw several boys 
 in the street who were playing with nuggets of gold, instead 
 of stones. This extravagance made him think that they must 
 be royal children, and he was not a little astonished to learn 
 that, in El Dorado, nuggets of gold were as valueless as flint 
 
310 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 pebbles with us ; so that the very schoolboys played with 
 them. Something very similar happened to one of my friends, 
 who, when he first came to Germany and read German books, 
 was greatly amazed at the wealth of thought which he found 
 in them — but soon observed that thoughts are as common in 
 Germany as gold ingots in El Dorado, and that many a writer 
 who seems to be an intellectual prince, is, after all, a mere 
 schoolboy. 
 
 This reflection often occurs to me, when I am about to 
 write down the most admirable reflections on Art and Life. 
 Then I laugh, and keep my thoughts in my pen, or scribble 
 in their stead a picture or a carpet pattern on the paper, per- 
 suading myself that such carpets are more useful in Germany 
 — that intellectual El Dorado — than the goldenest thoughts. 
 
 Dear reader, I shall bring on the carpet now spreading out 
 before thee, the familiar figures of Gumpelino and his Hirsch 
 Hyacinth ; and if the former be painted with less accurate 
 traits, I trust that you will be sharp-witted enough to appre- 
 ciate a negative character, even if positive points be wanting 
 in it. For he might bring a suit for libel against me, or some- 
 thing even more significant. Besides, he is the natural ally 
 of my enemies — he upholds them with subsidies, he is an 
 aristocrat, an ultrapapist; in fact, he only wants one thing 
 as yet to be as bad as possible, and that one thing he must 
 soon learn, having the book which teaches it already in his 
 hands — as you will perceive from my picture carpet. 
 
 It was again evening ; on the table stood two candelabras 
 with lighted wax candles, and their gleam flashed on the 
 golden frames of the pictures of saints hanging on the wall, 
 and which, in the flickering light and wavering shadow, 
 seemed inspired with life. Without, before the window, the 
 dark cypress-trees stood strangely motionless in the silver 
 moonlight, while far in the distance resounded a sad hymn 
 to the Virgin, rising and swelling in broken tones — appar- 
 ently the voice of a sick child. The air within was close 
 and warm, and the Marquis Christophoro di Gumpelino sat 
 or rather reclined in aristocratic indolence on the cushions 
 of the sofa, his noble though overheated figure being again 
 clad in its blue-silk domino, while in his hands he held a 
 book bound in scarlet morocco paper, heavily gilt, and from 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 311 
 
 which he declaimed in a loud yet languishing tone. His 
 eyes had that charming luster peculiar to enamored tom- 
 cats, and his cheeks, including the side wings of the nose, 
 were pale as if from suffering. Still, this pallor admits of a 
 philosophically anthropological explanation, if we remember 
 that the Marquis had swallowed the night before a whole 
 tumbler of Dover powder. 
 
 Hirsch Hyacinthus was down on all fours on the floor, 
 and with a great piece of white chalk was busy in drawing 
 on the brown tiles the following characters, or something 
 like them : — 
 
 w w_ 
 
 _W W_ 
 _WW_ 
 -WW- 
 WW- 
 
 — W W. 
 _W W- 
 
 — WW. 
 -WW. 
 
 WW 
 
 UV- 
 
 _w w 
 
 w w_ 
 
 WW 
 
 
 — WW 
 
 
 WW 
 
 This business appeared to be anything but agreeable to 
 the little man, for puffing at every stoop he growled vexedly, 
 "Spondee — Trochee, Jambus, Pyrrhic, Anapest — and the 
 pest ! " For the sake of working more at his ease, he had 
 taken off his red coat, and there now appeared two short, 
 modest-looking legs in tight scarlet breeches, and somewhat 
 longer arms, in white loose sleeves. 
 
 "What curious figures are those?" I inquired. 
 
 "These are feet, the size of life," he groaned for answer; 
 " and I — wretched man ! — must keep these feet in my head, 
 and my hands already ache with all the feet they've had to 
 write. These are the real feet of poetry — and if it wasn't 
 for the accomplishments I'm getting, I'd let the poetry run 
 with all its feet. Just now, I have private lessons from the 
 Marquis in the poetry business. The Marquis reads the 
 poem and explains how many feet there are in it, and then 
 I must note them down and reckon up whether the poem 
 is all right." 
 
 "You find us," remarked the Marquis in didactically 
 pathetic tones, "engaged in a truly poetic occupation. I 
 
312 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 well know, Doctor, that you belong to that body of poets 
 who have ideas of their own, and do not perceive that in 
 poetry, meter is the main thing. But a refined spirit can 
 only express itself in refined forms, and these are only to 
 be learned from the Greeks and from those modern poets 
 who strive to think like Greeks, feel like Greeks, and bring 
 their feelings home, in the Greek fashion, to a man." 
 
 " To man, of course, and not to woman, as an unclassic, 
 romantic poet is bound to do," replied my Insignificance. 
 
 " Herr Gumpel talks, now and then, like a book," whis- 
 pered Hyacinth aside to me, as he contracted his thin lips, 
 winked his little eyes with delighted pride, and significantly 
 shook his small head, whose every motion was one of won- 
 dering amazement. " I tell you," he continued, in somewhat 
 louder tones, " he talks sometimes like a book, and then he's 
 what you might call no sort of a man at all, but a higher 
 sort of being, and I become regularly dumb the nearer I 
 come to him." 
 
 " And what have you there in your hands ? " I inquired 
 of the Marquis. 
 
 " Gems," he replied laconically, holding out the book. 
 
 At the word "gems," Hyacinth leaped up, but when he 
 saw the book smiled pityingly. The precious gem in. ques- 
 tion had on its title-page the following words : — 
 
 POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 AUGUST, COUNT VON PLATEN. 
 
 STUTTGART AND TUBINGEN: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY J. G. COTTA. 
 
 1828. 
 
 On the blank leaf was neatly written, " A Gift of True 
 Brotherly Friendship." 
 
 Meanwhile, the work smelt of a certain singular perfume, 
 with which I had noticed all the Marquis's garments were 
 scented, and which was perhaps to be attributed to the circum- 
 stance that the Marquis had been reading in it all night long. 
 
 " I haven't slept a wink all night," he complained to me. 
 " I felt so uncomfortable that I had to get up eleven times. 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 313 
 
 Fortunately, I had this glorious bit of reading by me, and I 
 got from it not only poetical instruction, but also sound con- 
 solation for life. Look ! see how I honor the book ! there 
 is not a single leaf torn out of it, and yet I was tempted to 
 tear it all to pieces. 
 
 " You are not the first, Herr Marquis, who has undergone 
 the same temptation." 
 
 " I swear, sir, by our blessed Lady of Loretto, and as true 
 as I'm an honorable man, that these poems haven't their equal ! 
 You know that I was in a state of desperation yesterday even- 
 ing — au desespoir, as one might say — because Fate forbade 
 me to possess my Julia. Then I read these poems — one 
 every time when I had to get up — and the result has been, that 
 I feel as indifferent to women as if not one of the creatures had 
 ever existed. And that is the beauty of this poet, that he 
 only burns with warm feelings — friendship — for men. Yes, 
 he prefers us to women ; and for this very preference we ought 
 to be grateful to him. How much greater he is, in this, than 
 common poets ! You do not find him flattering the every-day 
 tastes of the masses ; he cures us of that passion for women 
 which causes us so much suffering. O woman! woman! 
 what a benefactor to his race is that man who frees us from 
 your chains ! It is an eternal shame that Shakespeare never 
 applied his wonderful theatrical talent to this end, since he, as 
 I have just found in these poems, was inspired by the same 
 greatness of soul as the great Count Platen, who says, in his 
 sonnets, of Shakespeare : — 
 
 " A maid's caprices never broke thy slumbers, 
 
 And yet for friendship still we see thee yearning ; 
 From female snares, a friend thy steps is turning, 
 His friendship is thy care, and fires thy numbers." 
 
 While the Marquis declaimed these verses with enthusiasm, 
 and while the moisture gathered on his tongue, Hyacinth was 
 making a series of grimaces which were evidently inspired by 
 anything but assent, though they appeared partly to be those 
 of vexation and partly of affirmation, until he at last ex- 
 claimed: — 
 
 " Herr Marquis, you talk like a book, and the verses go out 
 like a flame, but I don't like their contents. As a man, I feel 
 flattered that Count Platen gives us the preference, but, as 
 
314 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 a friend to women, I go against such men. Such is man ! 
 One likes onions, and another has the feeling for warm 
 friendship ; but I, as an honest man, must confess that I 
 prefer onions, and that a cross-eyed cook maid is more to my 
 taste than the most beautiful friend, such as your poet talks 
 about. And, in fact, I must say, that I, for one, can't begin 
 to see so much beauty in the male sex that one can fall in 
 love with it." 
 
 Hyacinth spoke these last words while giving a side squint 
 at his own reflection in the mirror, as though he were the 
 ideal pattern of manly perfection. But the Marquis, without 
 suffering himself to be disturbed, read on : — 
 
 ut Hope's foam-built palaces may fall together, 
 We strive, yet do not come at all together ; 
 Melodious from thy mouth my name is ringing, 
 And yet my verse thou wilt not call together. 
 Like sun and moon must we be ever parted, 
 That use and custom may be all together. 
 Oh, lean thine head on mine for sweet in union, 
 Thy dark locks and my light ones fall together ; 
 But ah! I dream, for lo I see thee parting 
 Ere joy has found us in one thrall together ; 
 Our souls are bleeding since our forms are parted, 
 Would we were flowers, oft bound and all together! ' " 
 
 " Queer poetry that ! " exclaimed Hyacinth, as he reechoed 
 the rhymes, " * Use and custom altogether/ ' thrall together ' 
 and ' fall together ! ' Queer poetry ! I've got a cousin who, 
 when he reads poetry, often for fun puts ' from before ' and 
 ' from behind ' in turn at the end of every other verse, but I 
 declare I never knew that the poems he made up that way 
 ought to be called ' Gazelles.' I must try myself and see 
 whether the verses which the Marquis has just declaimed 
 won't be improved by putting ' from before ' and ' from 
 behind ' in turn after the ' together.' Depend upon it they'll 
 be twenty per cent stronger! " 
 
 Without attending to this speech, the Marquis drove ahead 
 in his declamation of " gazelles " and sonnets, in which the 
 loving one sings his " friend of beauty," praises him, wails 
 over him, accuses him of indifference, devises plans to attain 
 him, ogles him, is jealous of him, languishes for him, fondles 
 through a whole scale of love tones with him, and that so 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 315 
 
 meltingly, amorously and touchingly, that the reader would 
 suppose that the poet were a maiden suffering with love-sick- 
 ness. One thing, however, must seem to him to a certain 
 degree extraordinary, that this maiden is always complaining 
 that her love is contrary to the usual manner or "custom" , 
 that she cherishes as intense a hatred of this " custom which 
 parts," as a pickpocket could against the police ; that in her 
 love she would fain embrace the " neck" of her friend; that 
 she laments dolefully over envious wretches who cunningly 
 part us, " to hinder us and keep us ever parted " ; that she 
 bewails annoying personal afflictions on the part of her friend ; 
 that she assures him that she will only casually glance at him ; 
 that she protests that " no single syllable shall shock thine 
 ear," and finally confesses, that 
 
 " My wish in others but gave birth to strife, 
 Thou hast not granted it, but oh ! as yet 
 Thou hast not said me nay, O my sweet life ! " 
 
 I must do the Marquis the justice to admit, that he de- 
 claimed these verses well, sighed at full length in repeating 
 them, and groaned as he slid along the sofa, as if sympa- 
 thetically coquetting with the cushions. Meanwhile Hya- 
 cinth continued to babble the verses after him, not omitting 
 to interweave with them his own original chatter. He hon- 
 ored the odes with the most attention. "There's a heap 
 more to be learned," quoth he, " from this sort of poetry, 
 than from your sonnets and gazelles ; for in the odes the 
 feet are set down all fair and square, and a man can count 
 up every poem nice and easy. Every poet ought to do in 
 his hardest poetry verses like Count Platen — that is, set it 
 down with the feet up, and say to folks, 'See here — I'm 
 an honorable man, one of the kind that don't cheat. The 
 straight and crooked marks which I put before every poem, 
 are what you may call the " counterfeet " of it, and you may 
 reckon up for yourself the trouble it all cost me. In fact, 
 they're a kind of yardstick for every poem — take it and 
 measure 'em with it, and if you find I cheat you out of a 
 
 single syllable, why then call me a d d rascal — that's 
 
 all ! ' But then the public may be taken in just by the hon- 
 orable face he puts on it. When the feet are all set down so 
 
3l6 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 honest-looking and plain, the reader'll say — 'Well, I'm not 
 going to be one of your suspicious sort — what's the use of 
 counting after the man — I dare say it's all right ! — I ain't 
 a-going to do it ! ' And he don't do it — and gets cheated. 
 And who can always count 'em up ? Now we're in Italy and 
 I've got time to write the feet on the ground with chalk, and 
 collate every ode. But in Hamburg, where I've my business 
 to attend to, I've no time for it, and must take Count Platen 
 without calling him to an account, just as a man takes the 
 bags of money from the treasury with the number of the 
 dollars they hold written on 'em. They go about, sealed 
 up, from one man to another, everybody takes it for granted 
 that they hold as much as the number says — and yet it has 
 happened, that a man who didn't have much to do has opened 
 one and counted the specie, and found it ran short a few 
 dollars. And there may be just the same sort of swindling 
 in poetry. Particularly do I mistrust when I think of bags 
 of money. For my own brother-in-law has told me, that in 
 the House of Correction at Odensee, they've got a fellow 
 who had some sort of a situation in the Post Office, and who 
 opened the specie bags that went through his hands, and 
 then sewed 'em up again and forwarded 'em. When one 
 hears of such rascality, he loses his trust in fellow mortals, 
 and gets to be a mistrustful man. There's ever so much 
 rascality in this world, and I suppose it's the same in the 
 poetry business as in any other. 
 
 " Honesty," continued Hyacinth, while the Marquis de- 
 claimed on, all absorbed in feeling and without attending to 
 us, " honesty, Doctor, is the correct thing, and a man who 
 isn't honest I consider as a scamp, and when I consider a 
 man as a scamp, I'll buy nothing from him, read nothing 
 of his, in short, devil the bit of business of any sort will I 
 do with him. I'm a man, Doctor, who don't set myself 
 up on anything, but if there's anything I do set myself up 
 on, it is on doing the correct thing. If you've no objec- 
 tion, I'd like to tell you of a noble trait in my character, 
 and you'll be astonished at it. I tell you you'll be aston- 
 ished as sure as I'm an honorable man. There's a man 
 lives in the Spear Place in Hamburg, and he's a green- 
 grocer, and his name's Blocky — that is to say, I say that his 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 317 
 
 name's Blocky because we're good friends, for his real name 
 is Block. And his wife of course is Madame Block, and she 
 never could bear that her husband should buy lottery tickets 
 of me, and when he did, I didn't dare to go to his house with 
 'em. So he used to tell me in the street, ' I want this or thai: 
 number, and here's the money, Hirsch ! ' And I'd say, 'All 
 right, Blocky ! ' And when I got home, I used to lay the 
 number he'd taken apart for him under cover, and write on 
 it in German hand, 'On account of Herr Christian Hinrich 
 Block.' And now just listen and be astonished. It was a 
 fine spring day and the trees round the Exchange were all 
 green, and the zephyr airs were nice, and the sun shone in 
 the heaven and I stood by the Bank of Hamburg. And 
 then Blocky — my Blocky, you know — came walking along 
 with fat Mrs. Blocky on his arm, and was the first to speak 
 to me, and spoke of the Lord's splendid Spring, and made 
 some patriotic remarks on the town guard, and asked me how 
 business was, and I told him that a little while before there'd 
 been a chap in the pillory, and so as we talked he told me 
 that the night before he'd dreamed that number 1538 had 
 drawn the grand prize — and just at that instant, while 
 Madame Block was looking at the statues of the Emperors 
 before the Town Hall, he put thirteen louis d'ors, full weight, 
 into my hand. Lord ! it seems to me that I can feel them 
 now — and before Madame could turn around, I said, ' All 
 right, Blocky ! ' and went away. And I went at once, with- 
 out stopping, to the head office and got number 1538, and 
 covered it up as soon as I was home, and wrote on the cover, 
 1 On account of Herr Christian Hinrich Block.' And what 
 did the Lord do ? Fourteen days later, to try my honesty, 
 he let number 1538 turn up a prize of fifty thousand marks. 
 And what did Hirsch then do, the same Hirsch who now 
 stands before you ? This Hirsch put on a clean white shirt, 
 and a clean white cravat, and took a hackney-coach and went 
 to the head office, and drew his fifty thousand marks and rode 
 with 'em to the Spear Place. — And when Blocky saw me, he 
 says, 'Hirsch, what are you dressed up so fine for to-day?' I 
 however didn't answer a word, but set a great astonishing bag 
 of gold on the table, and said, right cheerful and jolly, 'Herr 
 Christian Hinrich Block! — number 1538, which you were so 
 
318 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 kind as to order of me, has been so lucky as to draw fifty 
 thousand marks. I have the honor to present you that same 
 money in this bag and take the liberty of begging a receipt 
 for the amount ! ' When Blocky heard that, he began to 
 cry ; when Madame Block heard it, she cried ; the fat red 
 servant girl cried ; the crooked shop-boy cried ; the children 
 cried ; and I ? a man of feelings as I am, couldn't cry at all, 
 but fainted dead away, and it wasn't till I came to, that the tears 
 came into my eyes — like a river — and I cried for three hours ! " 
 The voice of the little man quivered as he told this story, 
 and with an air of joy he drew from his pocket the packet I 
 have already spoken of, unrolled the faded rose silk, and showed 
 me the document in which Herr Christian Hinrich Block ac- 
 knowledged the receipt of fifty thousand marks. " When I 
 die," said Hyacinth, with a tear in his eye, "this receipt 
 must be buried with me, and on the Judgment Day, when I 
 must give an account of all my deeds, then I will go with this 
 receipt in my hand before the throne of the Lord, and when 
 my Evil Angel has read off the list of all the evil deeds I've 
 been guilty of, and my good angel has read off in turn all my 
 good deeds, I'll say, calm and easy, 'Be quiet! — all I want 
 to know is if this receipt is correct ? — is that the handwriting 
 of Herr Christian Hinrich Block ? ' Then a little angel will 
 come flying up, and he'll say that he knows Block's hand per- 
 fectly well, and he'll tell the whole story of the honorable busi- 
 ness I carried through. And the Creator of Eternity, the 
 Almighty, who knows all things will remember it all and he will 
 praise me before the sun, moon and stars, and reckon up at 
 once in his head that if the value of my evil deeds be sub- 
 tracted from fifty thousand marks, that there'll remain a balance 
 to my account, and he'll say, ' Hirsch, you are appointed an 
 angel of the first class, and may wear wings with white and 
 red feathers.' " 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Who is, then, the Count Platen, whom we have, in the pre- 
 vious chapter, learned to know as a poet and warm friend ? 
 Ah ! dear reader, I have been reading that very question for 
 a long time in your countenance, and it is with a trembling 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 319 
 
 heart that I set about answering it. The worst thing with 
 German authors is, that whenever they show up a fool, they 
 must beforehand set him forth in full, by means of wearisome 
 descriptions of character, and personal peculiarities, firstly, that 
 the reader may know of his existence, and secondly, that they 
 may understand how, where, and when the lash cuts — before 
 or behind. It was a different matter with the ancients, and 
 it is still different with some modern nations, for instance, the 
 English and French who have a public life, and, in conse- 
 quence, public characters. We Germans, on the contrary, 
 though we have a foolish enough public, have very few fools 
 distinguished enough to be generally recognized as " charac- 
 ters," when used in prose or in verse. The few men of this 
 mold whom we possess are perfectly justifiable in giving 
 themselves airs of importance. They are of inestimable value, 
 and are entitled to the highest claim to our consideration. 
 For instance, the Herr Privy Counselor Schmaltz, Professor 
 at the University of Berlin, is a man worth his weight in 
 gold ; a humorous writer could never do without him, and he 
 himself is so perfectly conscious of his personal importance 
 and needfulness that he loses no opportunity to supply such 
 writers with material for satire. For this purpose, therefore, 
 he labors night and day, either as statesman, civil villain, or 
 civilian, deacon, anti-Hegelian, and patriot, to make himself 
 as ridiculous as possible, and thus advance that literature for 
 which he sacrifices himself. And therefore the German uni- 
 versities deserve great praise, since they supply us with more 
 fools than any other trade-unions, especially Göttingen, which 
 I have never failed to appreciate, so far as this point is con- 
 cerned. This is the true and secret reason why I have always 
 boldly advocated the maintenance of the Universities, even 
 while preaching freedom of exercising a trade, and recom- 
 mending the abolition of the gilds. When fools of note are 
 thus wanting, the world cannot be too grateful to me, should 
 I bring out a few new ones, and render them available. For 
 the advancement of literature, I will therefore now speak 
 more in detail of Count August von Platen Hallermunde. I 
 will so arrange it that he may be made well enough known 
 to be useful, and to a certain degree celebrated, giving him, 
 as it were, a literary fattening, as the Iroquois are said to do 
 
320 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 with prisoners who are subsequently devoured at their festi- 
 vals. In this business, I shall act with all due honor and 
 courtesy, as a good citizen should, touching on the material, 
 or so-called personal, interests only so far as they are needed 
 to throw light upon spiritual phenomena, always giving the 
 point of view from which I regarded him, and not unfrequently 
 exhibiting the spectacles wherewith I took my peep. 
 
 The point of view from which I first beheld Count Platen 
 was Munich, the scene of those efforts which rendered him 
 very celebrated among his acquaintances, and where he will 
 unquestionably be immortal — so long as he lives. The spec- 
 tacles with which I saw him belonged to certain inhabitants 
 of the city, who, in their merry moments, occasionally in- 
 dulged in merry remarks relative to his personal appearance. 
 I have never seen him myself, and when I have a fancy 
 to imagine him, I recall the droll rage with which my friend, 
 Doctor Lautenbacher, attacked poetic folly in general, and 
 particularly that of a certain Count Platen, who, with a wreath 
 of laurel on his brow, stood in an attitude of poetic inspiration 
 on the public promenade at Erlangen, staring, with spectacled 
 nose, up at Heaven. Others have spoken better of the poor 
 Count, lamenting only his straitened circumstances, which, 
 as he was very ambitious of honor, compelled him to ex- 
 traordinary industry, and thus at least gave him distinction 
 as a poet. They also praised his complaisance and courtesy 
 towards younger people, with whom he was modesty itself, 
 since he only, in the most amiable manner, begged their per- 
 mission to visit them occasionally in their rooms ; and carried 
 his kindness so far as to call again, even when they had 
 intimated, in the most significant manner, that his calls were 
 no longer agreeable. Such stories, of course, moved my pity 
 to a certain extent, although I found that his failures in the 
 art of pleasing were very natural. In vain the poor Count 
 often complained that 
 
 " Thy beautiful blonde youth, thou gentle boy, 
 
 Rejects a dismal, melancholy friend. 
 
 Well, then! my thoughts to jest and joke I'll lend, 
 Instead of tears, which now my spirits cloy : 
 And for the unknown gift of laughing joy, 
 
 My earnest prayers erelong to Heaven shall tend !" 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 321 
 
 In vain the poor Count declared that he was destined to 
 become the greatest of poets ; that the shadow of the laurel 
 was already visible on his brow, and that he could also make 
 his sweet boys immortal, in poems which would live forever. 
 Alas ! even this celebrity was not acceptable to any one, nor 
 was it, in fact, a thing to be particularly desired. I shall 
 never forget the suppressed laughter with which one of these 
 candidates for immortality was stared at by some genial 
 friends, one day, in the Arcade at Munich. One sharp-witted 
 knave even declared that he could see the reflection of a 
 laurel wreath between the coat tails of the candidate. So far 
 as I am concerned, dear reader, I am not so malicious as you 
 think ; I pity the poor Count, and when others mock him, I 
 doubt whether he has ever practically revenged himself on 
 the hated " custom " spoken of, although in his songs he 
 sighs for such revenge — no, I rather believe in the repulsive 
 afflictions, injurious disregard, and rejections, of which he 
 sings so plaintively. I believe, in fact, that he acted towards 
 morality in a far more laudable manner than he was desirous 
 of doing, and it is possible that he can boast, with General 
 Tilly, " I was never intoxicated, never loved a woman, and 
 never lost a battle." It was, beyond question, for this that 
 the poet says of himself : — 
 
 " Thou art a sober and a modest youth." 
 
 The poor youth, or rather the poor old youth — for he had 
 several lustrums behind him — once squatted, unless I err, at 
 the University of Erlangen, where some sort of occupation 
 had been allotted him, but as this was insufficient for his soar- 
 ing spirit, since with his increasing lustrums he lusted with 
 greater lustiness for illustrious luster, and as he day by day 
 felt himself more inspired with his future glory, he gave up 
 his business, being determined to live by writing, by gifts 
 from Heaven whenever they might turn up, and by similar 
 earnings. For the county of the Count is unfortunately sit- 
 uated in the moon, and, owing to the bad state of the roads 
 which communicate with Bavaria, will not (according to Grui- 
 thuisen's calculation) be attainable until 20,000 years have 
 elapsed, after which time, when that planet approaches the 
 earth, he will be able to draw from it his enormous revenues. 
 
322 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 At an earlier period Don Platen De Collibrados Haller- 
 munde had published by Brockhaus, in Leipzig, a collection 
 of poems with the title of " Lyrical Leaves, No. I.," which of 
 course met with no success, although he assured us in the 
 preface that the Seven Wise Men had lavished their praise 
 on the author. At a later date he wrote, in Tieck's style, 
 several dramatic legends and stories, which also had the for- 
 tune to remain hidden from the ignorant multitude and were 
 only read by the Seven Wise Men. In order to get a few 
 more readers the Count applied himself to controversy, and 
 wrote a satire against eminent writers, especially against 
 Müllner, who was already universally hated and morally 
 overthrown, so that the Count came just in the nick of time 
 to give the dead Court Counselor Oerindur another coup de 
 grace, not gracefully, however, but very awkwardly in the 
 Falstaffian manner in the thigh. A dislike of Müllner in- 
 spired every noble heart, the attack of the Count "took," and 
 "The Mysterious and Terrible Fork " met here and there with 
 a kindly reception, not from the public at large but among 
 literati and the regular school people — the latter being 
 pleased with the satire because it was not an imitation of 
 the romantic Tieck, but of the classic Aristophanes. 
 
 I believe that it was about this time that the Count traveled 
 to Italy, no longer entertaining a doubt but that he would be 
 able to live by his poetry. Cotta had indeed paid him the 
 common prosaic honor to pay him money for his bill for 
 poetry ; for Poetry, the nobly born, never has any money her- 
 self, and when in difficulties always goes to Cotta. Now the 
 Count versified day and night ; he no longer copied the pat- 
 terns of Tieck and of Aristophanes, but imitated first Goethe 
 in ballads, then Horace in odes, then Petrarch in sonnets, then 
 Hafiz in Persian gazelles — in short, he gave us, such as it 
 was, a selection of flowers of the best poets, and with it his 
 own lyrical leaves, under the title of " Poems of Count Pla- 
 ten, etc." 
 
 No one in Germany is so indulgent as I towards poetic pro- 
 ductions, and I am willing from my very soul that a poor devil 
 like Platen should enjoy his bit of celebrity which he has so bit- 
 terly earned by the sweat of his brow. And no one is more 
 willing to praise his industry, his efforts and his poetry, or to 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 323 
 
 recognize his metrical merits. My own efforts enable me 
 better than another to appreciate those merits. The bitter 
 labor, the indescribable perseverance, the chattering of teeth 
 through weary winter nights, the restrained anger at a fruit- 
 less straining for effect, is far more apparent to one of us than 
 to the ordinary reader who supposes that the smoothness, 
 neatness and polish of the Count's verses are the effect of 
 ease, and who thanklessly enjoys himself over the glittering 
 play of words, just as spectators at the feats of circus artists, 
 when they behold the latter dancing on ropes, hopping among 
 eggs, or standing on their heads, never reflect that the poor 
 fellows have acquired this pliancy of limb and poetry of 
 motion only by long years of hard work and bitter hunger. 
 I, who have never worried myself so much in poetry, and who 
 have always exercised it in company with good eating, esteem 
 poor Platen all the more, since his experiences have been of 
 such a sour and sober nature ; I will boast for him that no 
 literary rope dancer in Europe can balance so well as he on 
 slack gazelles, that no one can perform so well as he such an 
 egg dance as 
 
 W \J \J W \J 
 
 w w w w w w, etc., 
 
 and that no one can stand so well on his head. If the muses 
 are not complaisant to him, he at least has the genius of our 
 language in his power, or knows how to clothe it with power. 
 As for winning the willing love of the genius, it is beyond his 
 power, he must perseveringly run after this youth as after 
 others, and his utmost ability is to catch the outward form, 
 which despite its beautiful contour never speaks to our soul. 
 Never did the deep tones of nature, as we find them in popu- 
 lar song among children and other true poets, burst from the 
 soul of Platen, or bloom forth like an apocalypse from it the 
 desperate effort which he is obliged to make in order to say 
 something he calls a "great deed in words," — for so utterly 
 unfamiliar is he with the true spirit of poetry, that he does 
 not know that the successful mastery of words can only be a 
 great deed for the rhetorician : for the true poet it should be 
 a natural occurrence. Unlike the true poet, language was 
 never yet his master ; on the contrary, he has become master 
 of it, playing on it as a virtuoso plays on an instrument. The 
 
324 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 more he advanced in this mechanical facility, the higher opin- 
 ion did he form of his own powers of performance ; he learned 
 how to play in every manner and meter ; he versified even 
 the most difficult passages, often poetizing, so to speak, on 
 the G string, and was vexed when the public did not applaud. 
 Like all virtuosi who have developed this sort of single-string 
 talent, he only exerted himself for applause, regarding with 
 anger the celebrity of others. He envied his colleagues all 
 that they gained, as, for instance, when he fired five-act pas- 
 quinades at Clauren at a time when he could not attract more 
 than a mere poetic squib at himself ; he laid a strong hand 
 on every review in which others were praised, and cried with- 
 out ceasing, " I am not sufficiently praised, I am not suffi- 
 ciently praised, for I am the poet, the poet of poets," etc. 
 Such a hunger and thirst for praise, and for alms, was never 
 yet shown by a true poet, by Klopstock or by Goethe, to 
 whose companionship Count Platen has appointed himself, 
 although any one can see that he justly forms a triumvirate 
 only with Aug. Wilhelm von Schlegel, and perhaps with 
 Ramler. "The great Ramler," as he was called in his own 
 time, — when he, without a laurel crown, it is true, but with all 
 the greater cue and hair bag, with his eyes raised to Heaven, 
 and with a canvas umbrella under his arm, wandered scanning 
 about in the Berlin Thiergarten, — believed himself to be the 
 representative of poetry on earth. His verses were the most 
 perfect in the German language, and his adorers, among 
 whom even a Lessing went astray, believed that poetry could 
 go no further. Such, at a late date, was almost the case with 
 Aug. Wilhelm von Schlegel, whose poetical insufficiency be- 
 came manifest as the language was more fully developed, so 
 that many who once looked upon the singer of Arion as an 
 Arion himself, now regard him merely as a schoolmaster of 
 some ability. But whether Count Platen is as yet qualified 
 to laugh at the otherwise really great Schlegel, as the latter 
 once laughed at Ramler, I cannot take it on me to say. But 
 this I do know, that they are all three on a par in poetry, and 
 though Count Platen, in his gazelles, displays ever so exqui- 
 sitely his juggling arts of balance ; though he executes his egg- 
 dance ever so admirably, and if he, in his plays, even stands 
 on his head — he is not for all that a poet. "He is no poet," 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 325 
 
 say the ungrateful youths whom he so tenderly sings. " He 
 is no poet," respond the ladies, who perhaps (I must say this 
 at least in his behalf) are not altogether impartial judges in 
 the matter, and who, from the penchant which they detect in 
 him, are either jealous or fearful that the tendency of his 
 poems is such as to endanger their hitherto favorable position 
 in society. Severe critics, who wear first-class spectacles, add 
 their voice to this verdict, or express themselves with more 
 laconic significance. " What do you find in the poems of the 
 Count Platen von Hallermunde ? " I recently asked such a 
 man. " I find bottom ! " was the reply. 1 "You refer to the 
 fundamental and laborious character of his style?" I replied. 
 " No," said he, "I refer also to the subject-matter." 
 
 As regards this subject-matter of the Platen poems, it is one 
 which I cannot honestly praise, and yet I cannot uncondi- 
 tionally assent to the furious disapprobation with which our 
 Catos speak of them — or are silent! Chacun ä son gout, 
 the one loves an ox, the other Waschischta's cow. I even 
 blame the terrible Rhadamanthine seriousness with which 
 this subject-matter of the Platen poems is made in turn the 
 subject of scientific criticism in the Berlin annuals. But such 
 are men, and so easy do they find it to fall in a rage, when 
 speaking of sins which they've no mind to. I recently read, 
 in the " Morgenblatte " an article entitled " From the Journal 
 of a Reader," in which Count Platen expressed himself 
 against those who so severely blame his "friendship love," 
 with that modesty which is his distinguishing characteristic, 
 and by which his style may be readily recognized in the 
 article referred to. When he says that the " Hegelian 
 Weekly Journal " accuses him, with "laughable pathos," of 
 immorality, he then, as the reader will infer, simply antici- 
 pates the censure of people whose opinion he has ascer- 
 tained from others. He has, however, been wrongly informed ; 
 in this light, the pathetic shall never be found fault with by 
 me; the noble Count is to me rather an agreeable subject, 
 and in his noble penchant I only behold something anachro- 
 nistic, or a timid and bashful parody of an antique excess of 
 passion. And here we hit the nail on the head — in ancient 
 times, immorality was in accordance with the manner of 
 1 [Dichtigkeit ! war die Antwort.] 
 
326 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the age, and showed itself with heroic openness. As, for 
 instance, when the Emperor Nero, on vessels of gold and 
 ivory, held a banquet which cost millions, and, amid public 
 festivities, accompanied by all manner of excesses, wrote an 
 epic which, he confidently expected, would rival or even sur- 
 pass the " Iliad," and afterwards fired Rome that he might, 
 by the roaring flames, the better sing the Fall of Troy. He 
 was a gazelle poet, of whom I would speak with pathos ; but 
 I can only smile at the modern Pythagorean, who in the 
 Rome of the present day meanly and soberly and anxiously 
 sneaks among the paths of friendship, his blonde counte- 
 nance simply disgusting the loveless youths, and who after- 
 wards, by the light of a wretched oil lamp, sighs forth his 
 gazelles. From such a point of view, it is interesting to 
 compare the poems of Platen with those of Petronius. In 
 the latter we see straightforward, antique, plastic, heathen 
 nakedness ; but Count Platen, despite his boasting of the 
 classic style, rather treats his subject in a manner which is 
 altogether romantic, deeply yearning, and priestlike — nay, 
 and I must add, even hypocritical. For the Count fre- 
 quently masks himself in pious feelings, he evades every 
 indication of evil ; only the initiated are to understand his 
 meaning; he believes that he has sufficiently blinded the 
 multitude when he occasionally lets the word " friend " slip 
 out ; and it is with him as with the ostrich, which believes 
 itself to be well enough hidden when its head is stuck in the 
 sand, although the tail is plainly visible. Our illustrious and 
 noble bird would have done better had he hidden his tail, 
 and shown us his head more openly. In fact, he is rather a 
 man of tail than a man of " head." The name "man" is 
 altogether unsuitable for him ; his love has a passive, Pythag- 
 orean character ; he is pathetic in his poems ; he is a 
 woman, and in his pseudo-immorality has not even the 
 instinct of virility. This anxious, pliant, submissive nature 
 glides through all his love poems ; he is always finding some 
 new "friend in beauty"; in all his verses we discover a flavor 
 of weak tea, and even when he sings — 
 
 " Thou lov'st in silence — would that it had bound me ! 
 That I had only cast on thee my glances ! 
 Had I, with words, ne'er made the first advances, 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 327 
 
 These anxious sorrows had not twined around me. 
 And yet I would not be as love first found me ! 
 
 Woe to the day which coldly ends its chances ! 
 
 Tis from that realm where, lost in raptured trances, 
 Blest angels mingle." 
 
 — we at once think of how it is recorded that Wisdom cried 
 aloud in the streets and no man regarded her ; and the puzzle 
 becomes immediately comprehensible, for we understand that 
 in this case at least the fault was that wisdom of Madame 
 Wisdom herself. For the voice does not ring true. Every- 
 where, in Platen's poems, we see the ostrich, which only hides 
 its head, the vain, weak bird, which has the most beautiful 
 plumage, and yet cannot fly; and which, ever quarrelsome, 
 stumbles along over the polemic sandy desert of literature. 
 With his fine feathers, without the power to soar, with his 
 fine verse, without poetic flight, he is the very opposite to 
 that eagle of song who, with less brilliant wings, still rises to 
 the sun. I must return to my old refrain : Count Platen is 
 no poet. 
 
 Two things are required of every poet : that there should 
 be natural tones in his lyric poems, and characters in his epic 
 or dramatic productions. If he cannot legitimately establish 
 himself on these points, he must lose his title as poet, although 
 all his other family papers and diplomas of nobility are in 
 perfect order. I have no doubt that the last is the case with 
 Count Platen, and I am convinced that he would only deign 
 a smile of pitying sorrow to any one who should attempt to 
 cast doubt on his title as Count. But dare to so much as 
 level a couplet at his poetic title, and he will at once set him- 
 self down and publish five-act satires against you. The want 
 of natural chords in the poems of the Count is the more 
 touching from the fact that he lives in an age when he dare 
 not so much as name his real feelings, when the current mo- 
 rality which is so directly opposed to his love even forbids 
 him to express his sorrows openly, and when he must anx- 
 iously and painfully disguise every sentiment for fear of 
 offending by so much as a single syllable the ear of the pub- 
 lic as well as that of the "disdainful and beautiful one." 
 This constant fear suppresses every natural chord in him — 
 it condemns him to labor metrically away at the feelings of 
 
328 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 other poets which have already passed muster as acceptable, 
 and which must of necessity be used to cloak his own con- 
 ceptions. It may be that wrong is done him when those 
 who understand such unfortunate situations assert that 
 Count Platen is desirous of showing himself as Count in 
 poetry and of holding in it to his nobility, and that he conse- 
 quently only expresses the feelings of such well-known fami- 
 lies as have their sixty-four descents. Had he lived in the 
 days of the Roman Pythagoras, it may be that he would 
 have expressed these feelings more openly and perhaps have 
 passed for a true poet. Then natural chords at least would 
 not have been missed in his lyric poems — albeit the want of 
 character in his dramas must ever have remained, at least 
 until he changed his moral nature and became an altogether 
 different man. The forms of which I speak are those inde- 
 pendent creatures which spring perfect and fully armed from 
 the creative power of the poet, as Pallas Athene sprang from 
 the head of Kronion — living dream-forms whose mystic birth 
 stands, far more than is imagined, in active relation with the 
 mental and moral nature of the poet — a spiritual production 
 denied to the one who, a mere fruitless creature, vanishes 
 gazelle-like in his windy weakness. 
 
 These are, however, after all, only the private opinions of 
 a poet, and their importance depends on the degree of credit 
 which is accorded them. But I cannot avoid mentioning that 
 Count Platen has often assured the public that in days as yet 
 to come he will compose the most remarkable poetry of 
 which no one has as yet even a presentiment, yes, and that 
 he will publish Iliads and Odyssies and classic tragedies, and 
 similar immortally colossal poems, after he has toiled so or 
 so many lustrums. Reader, you have perhaps read some of 
 these outpourings of self-consciousness in his laboriously filed 
 verses, and the promise of such a glorious future was proba- 
 bly the pleasanter to you, when the Count at the same time 
 represented all the contemporary German poets, with the 
 exception of the aged Goethe, as a set of nasty wretches who 
 only stood in his way on the path to immortality, and who 
 were so devoid of shame as to pluck the laurels and the 
 praise which of right belonged to him alone. 
 
 I will pass over what I heard in Munich on this theme ; 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 329 
 
 but for the sake of chronology I must mention that it was at 
 this time that the King of Bavaria announced his intention of 
 bestowing on some German poet a pension without any 
 attendant official duties ; an unusual example which might 
 have the happiest result on the entire literature of Germany. 
 I was told — 
 
 But I will not quit my theme ; I spoke of the vain boast- 
 ing of Count Platen, who continually cried : "lam the poet, 
 the poet of poets ! I shall yet write Iliads and Odyssies," etc., 
 etc. I know not what the public thinks of such boasting, but 
 I know right well what a poet thinks of them — that is to 
 say, a true poet who has felt the ashamed sweetness and the 
 secret trembling of poetry, and who like a happy page who 
 enjoys the secret love of a princess, most assuredly will not 
 boast of them in the public market-place. 
 
 Not unfrequently has the Count for thus puffing himself 
 up been soundly taken down, yet like Falstaff he always 
 knew how to excuse himself. He has for such excuses a 
 useful talent which is peculiarly his Own and one deserving 
 special mention. It lies in this that Count Platen, who is 
 familiar with every failing in his own breast, is also quick at 
 recognizing the faintest trace of kindred faults in any great 
 man, and is not less prompt on the strength of this elective 
 affinity of vice to institute a comparison between the other 
 and himself. Thus, for instance, having observed that 
 Shakespeare's sonnets are addressed to a young man and not 
 to a woman, he at once praises Shakespeare for choosing so 
 rationally, compares himself with him — and that is all which 
 he has to say of him. One might negatively write an apology 
 for Count Platen and assert that he has not as yet developed 
 this or that failing because he has not as yet compared him- 
 self with this or that great man who has been reputed guilty 
 of them. Most genial, however, and amazing did he show 
 himself in the choice of one in whose life he discovered 
 speeches void of modesty, and by whose example he fain 
 would lend a color to his own boasting. In fact, the words 
 of this man as establishing such a point have not been cited 
 — for it was none other than Jesus Christ himself, who has 
 hitherto always been taken for the pattern of meekness and 
 humility. Christ once boasted ! the most humble of man- 
 
330 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 kind, and the more humble — since he was the divinest ? 
 Yes — what has escaped all theologians was discovered by 
 Count Platen, for he insinuates that Christ, when he stood 
 before Pilate, was not humble nor did he answer humbly, for 
 when the latter asked him, "Art thou the King of the Jews?" 
 he answered, "Thou sayest it." And so says he, the Count 
 Platen : "lam he, I am the Poet ! " — What the hate of one 
 who scorned Christ never as yet effected, was brought to 
 pass by the exegesis of self-enamored vanity. 
 
 As we know what we should think when any one thus cries 
 without intermission: "I am the Poet!" so we also under- 
 stand the affinity which it has to the immensely remarkable 
 poems which the Count, when he has attained due ripeness, 
 intends to write, and which are to surpass in such an unheard- 
 of manner all his previous performances. We know well 
 enough that the later works of a true poet are no more supe- 
 rior to his first than the later children to which a woman 
 gives birth are superior to her first-born — although the bear- 
 ing them is easier. The lioness does not first bring forth a 
 puppy, then a hare, then a hound and finally a lion. 
 Madame Goethe, at her first birth brought forth her young 
 lion, and he in turn at the first throe gave us his lion of 
 Berlichingen. Even so did Schiller bring forth his " Rob- 
 bers," whose claws at once showed the lion breed. At a 
 later date came the polish and refinement and finish in the 
 "Natural Daughter" and the "Bride of Messina." It was 
 not thus with Count Platen, who began with anxious and 
 elaborate art, and of whom the poet sings : — 
 
 " Thou who from naught so lightly dicTst advance, 
 With thy smooth-licked and lacquered countenance, 
 Like some toy puppet neatly carved from cork." 
 
 Yet should I speak out the very thought of my soul, I would 
 confess that I by no means regard Count Platen as the extra- 
 ordinary fool which one would take him to be from his boast- 
 ing and incessant burning of incense before his own shrine. 
 A little folly, it is well known, always accompanies poetry, but 
 it would be terrible if Nature should burden a single man with 
 such an incredible quantity of folly as would suffice for a hun- 
 dred poets, and give him therewith such an insignificant dose 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 33 1 
 
 of poetry. I have reason to suspect that the Count does not 
 believe in his own boasting, and that he, poverty-stricken in 
 life as in literature, is compelled in literature as in life by the 
 needs of the instant, to be his own self-praising Ruffiano. 
 Hence the phenomena of which one might say that they have 
 rather a psychological than an esthetic interest; hence the 
 joint company of the most lamentable somnambulism of the 
 soul and affected excess of pride ; hence the miserable little 
 deeds with a speedy death and the threatened big deeds with 
 their future immortality; hence the high-flashing beggarly 
 pride, and the languishing slavish submissiveness ; hence the 
 unceasing cry that " Cotta lets him starve," and again that 
 " Cotta lets him starve " ; hence the paroxysms of Catholicism, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 Whether the Count is in earnest with all his Catholicism, 
 is to me a matter of doubt. Nor do I know whether he has 
 become especially Catholic, like certain of his high-born 
 friends. That he intended to do so, first came to my knowl- 
 edge from the public papers, wherein it was even stated that 
 Count Platen was about to become a monk and retire to a 
 monastery. Scandal-mongers were of the opinion that the 
 vows of poverty and of abstinence from meat would not, 
 in his case, present any remarkable difficulties. Of course 
 when this news was heard in Munich, the pious chimes rang 
 loudly in the hearts of his friends. His poems were praised 
 with " Kyrie Eleison " and " Halleluiah " in the priestly 
 papers ; and, indeed, the holy disciples of celibacy must have 
 greatly rejoiced over those poems in which all are so strongly 
 recommended to refrain from contact with the female sex. 
 My poems unfortunately have a directly opposite tendency, 
 and it might indeed concern me greatly, but ought not to 
 astonish me, that priests and singers are not greatly inter- 
 ested in them. And quite as little was I astonished when the 
 day before my departure for Italy I learned from my friend, 
 Doctor Kolb, that Count Platen was very inimically disposed 
 towards me, and that he had already prepared my utter anni- 
 hilation in a comedy, entitled " King CEdipus," which in 
 Augsburg had got into the hands of certain princes and 
 counts, whose names I have either forgotten or shall forget. 
 Others also told me that Count Platen hated me, assuming 
 
332 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the position of an enemy towards me ; — and I would much 
 prefer to have it reported that Count Platen hated me to my 
 face, than that he loved me behind my back. As for the 
 holy men whose holy hatred burst out at the same time 
 against me, and which was inspired, not only by my anti- 
 ceiibatic poems, but also by the " Political Annals," which I 
 then published, it is evident enough that I could only gain 
 when it became evident enough that I was none of their party. 
 And when I here intimate that nothing good is said of them, 
 it does not follow that I speak evil of them. I am even of 
 the opinion that they, purely out of love for what is good, 
 seek to weaken the words of the Evil One by pious deception, 
 and by slander pleasing to the Lord. Those good people 
 who, in Munich, presented themselves publicly as a congre- 
 gation, have been foolishly honored with the title of Jesuits. 
 They are in faith no Jesuits, or they would have seen for 
 example that of all men, I — one of the bad — least under- 
 stand the literary alchemic art, by which, as in a mental mint, 
 I strike ducats out of my enemies, and that in such a manner 
 that I retain the ducats while my foes get the blows. They 
 would have seen, too, that such blows, with their impressions, 
 lose nothing of their value, even when the name of the mint- 
 master is worn away ; and that a wretched criminal does not 
 feel the lash the less severely, though the hangman who lays 
 it on be declared dishonorable. But — and this is the chief 
 point — they would have seen that a slight prepossession for 
 the antiaristocratic Voss, and a few merry vergings towards 
 jokes on the Virgin Mary, for which they pelted me with abuse 
 and stupidity, did not proceed from any anticatholic zeal. In 
 truth they are no Jesuits, but only mixtures of abuse and of 
 stupidity, whom I am no more capable of hating than I do a 
 manure wagon and the oxen which draw it, and who, with all 
 their efforts, only reach the very opposite of what they in- 
 tended, and can only bring me to this point, that I show them 
 how Protestant I am ; that I exercise my good Protestant 
 right to its fullest extent, and swing around the good Protes- 
 tant battle-ax with a right good-will. To win over the multi- 
 tude, they may have the old women's tales of my unbelief 
 repeated by their poet laureate as much as they please — but 
 by the well-known blows they shall recognize the fellow be- 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 333 
 
 liever with Luther, Lessing and Voss. Of course I could not 
 swing the old ax with the earnestness of these heroes — for I 
 burst into laughter at the sight of such enemies, and I have a 
 bit of the Eulenspiegel nature in me, and love a seasoning of 
 jokes — and yet I would not rap those manure oxen less 
 soundly although I beforehand wreathe my ax with smiling 
 flowers. 
 
 But I will not wander from my subject. I believe that it 
 was about the time in question that the King of Bavaria, from 
 the motives alluded to, gave to Count Platen an annual 
 pension of six hundred florins, and that, indeed, not from the 
 public treasury, but from his own royal private purse, this 
 being requested by the Count as an especial favor. I mention 
 this circumstance, trifling as it seem (since it characterizes the 
 caste of the Count), for the benefit of the investigator into 
 the secrets of nature, who perhaps studies the aristocracy. 
 Everything is of importance to science, and let him who 
 would reproach me for devoting myself too seriously to Count 
 Platen, go to Paris, and see with what care the accurate, 
 exquisite Cuvier, in his lectures, describes the smallest insect 
 even to the minutest particulars. I even regret that I cannot 
 more accurately determine the date of those six hundred and 
 forty florins ; but this much I know, that it was subsequent to 
 the composition of " King CEdipus," and that the play would 
 not have been so biting if its author had had something more 
 to bite. 
 
 It was in North Germany, where I was suddenly called by 
 the death of my father, that I first received the monstrous 
 creation which had finally crept from the great &gg over which 
 our beautifully plumed ostrich had so long brooded, and which 
 had been greeted long in advance by the night-owls of the 
 congregation with pious croaking, and by the noble peacocks 
 with joyful spreading of plumes. It was to be at least a 
 destroying basilisk — dear reader, do you know what the 
 legend of the basilisk is ? People say, that when a male bird 
 lays an egg after the manner of the female, that a poisonous 
 creature is hatched from it whose breath poisons the air, and 
 which can only be destroyed by holding a mirror before it, in 
 which case it dies from terror at its own ugliness. 
 
 Sacred sorrows which I would not profane, first permitted 
 
334 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 me, two months later, when visiting the watering-place Helgo- 
 land, to read " King QEdipus," and there, raised to a lofty- 
 state of mind by the continual aspect of the great, bold sea ; 
 the petty narrow thoughts and the literary botching of the 
 high-born writer, were to me visible enough. I saw him at 
 length in that masterwork exactly as he is, with all his bloom- 
 ing decay, all his copiousness of want of spirit, all his vain 
 imaginings without imagination, a writer, forced without force, 
 piqued without being piquant, a dry watery soul, a dismal 
 debauchee. This troubadour of misery, weakened in body 
 and in soul, sought to imitate the most powerful, the richest 
 in fancy and most brilliant poets of the young Grecian world ! 
 Nothing is really more repulsive than this cramp-racked 
 inability which would fain puff itself up into the likeness of 
 bold strength, these wearily collected invectives, foul with the 
 moldiness of ancient spite, and this painfully labored imita- 
 tion of delirious rapture, trembling throughout at syllables 
 and trifles. As a matter of course there is nowhere in the 
 Count's work the trace of an idea of a deep world -annihilation 
 such as lies darkling at the base of every Aristophanic comedy, 
 and from which the latter shoots like a fantastic ironic magic 
 tree rich in the blooming garniture of flowers of thought, 
 bearing amid its branches nests of singing nightingales and 
 capering apes. Such an idea, with the death merriment and 
 the fireworks of destruction which it involves, cannot of course 
 be anticipated from the poor Count. The central point, the 
 first and last idea, ground and aim of his so-called comedy, 
 consists, as in the "Mysterious and Terrible Fork" of petty 
 literary managing ; the poor Count indeed could only imitate 
 a few of the external traits of Aristophanes — the dainty 
 verses and the vulgar words. I say vulgar words, not wishing 
 to use any vulgar expression myself. Like a brawling woman, 
 he casts whole flower-pots of abuse on the heads of the Ger- 
 man poets. I heartily forgive the Count his spite, but he 
 should have guarded against a few oversights. He should at 
 least have honored our sex, since we are not women but men 
 and consequently belong to a sex which despite his evident 
 displeasure over it is nevertheless his own. In this he mani- 
 fests a lack of delicacy, and many a youth will in consequence 
 doubt the sincerity of his homage, since every one must feel 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 335 
 
 that he who loves truly, honors the whole sex. The singer 
 Frauenlob was undoubtedly never rude to a lady, and a Platen 
 should show more regard towards men. It is characteristic 
 of the imagination of Count Platen that it always induces him 
 to attack his enemies a posteriori. He did not even spare 
 Houwald, that good soul, soft-hearted as a maiden — ah! 
 perhaps it is on account of this gentle woman-likeness, that 
 a Platen hates him. Müllner, whom he, as he says, "long 
 since by real wit laid low deprived of force," rises again like 
 a dead man from the grave. Child and child's child are not 
 spared in their rights. Raupach is a Jew — 
 
 "The small Jew canker-worm — 
 Who now as Raupach holds so high his nose." 
 
 "Who scrawls tragedies in sickly, drunken headaches." Far 
 worse does it fare with the " Baptized Heine." Yes, yes, 
 reader, you are not mistaken, it is I of whom he speaks, and 
 in " King CEdipus " you may read, how I am a real Jew ; 
 how I, after writing love-songs for a few hours, sit me down 
 and clip ducats ; how I on the Sabbath higgle and trade with 
 some long-bearded Moses and sing the Talmud ; how I on 
 Easter night slay a Christian youth, and out of malice choose 
 some unfortunate writer for the purpose — no, dear reader, I 
 will not tell you lies, such admirably painted pictures are not 
 to be found in " King CEdipus," and the fact that they are 
 not there is the very thing which I blame. Count Platen has 
 sometimes the best subjects and does not know how to treat 
 them. If he had only been gifted with a little more imagi- 
 nation, he would have shown me up at least as a secret pawn- 
 broker, and what comic scenes he might then have sketched ! 
 It really vexes me when I see how the poor Count suffers 
 every opportunity to be witty to escape him. How gloriously 
 he could have represented Raupach as a tragedy Rothschild, 
 from whom the royal theaters get their loans ! By slightly 
 modifying the plot of the fable, he might have made far 
 better use of CEdipus himself, the hero of his play. A Platen 
 in such a poem must have succeeded wonderfully in the dra- 
 matic (pe) drastic, his own natural feelings would have stood 
 him in stead of any effort ; like a nightingale, he need only 
 have sung the throbbings of his own breast, and he would have 
 
336 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 brought out a piece which, if the dead dear gazetting Iffland 
 still lived, would beyond question be at once studied in Ber- 
 lin, and played in private theaters. I can imagine nothing 
 more perfect than the actor Wurm in the performance of 
 such an GEdipus. He would surpass himself. Again, I do 
 not find it politic in the Count, that he assures us in his 
 comedies that he has "real wit." Or is he working to bring 
 about the startling and unprecedented effect as a coup de 
 theatre, of making the public continually expect wit, which 
 after all will not appear ? Or does he wish to encourage the 
 public to look for the real secret wit in the play, the whole 
 affair being a game at blind man's buff, in which the Platenic 
 wit is so shrewd as not to suffer itself to be caught ? It is 
 probably for this reason that the public, which is accustomed 
 to laugh at comedies, is so solemn and sad over the Platen 
 pieces ; in vain it hunts for the hidden wit and cannot find it, 
 in vain the hidden wit squeaks out "here I am," and again 
 more clearly " here I am, here I am indeed ! " — all is of no 
 avail, the public is dumb and makes a solemn face. But I 
 who know where the joke really lies, have laughed from my 
 heart as I detected the meaning of " the count-like imperious 
 poet, who veils himself in an aristocratic nimbus, who boasts 
 that every breath which passes his teeth is a crushing to 
 fragments," and who says to all the German poets : — 
 
 "Yes, like to Nero I would ye had but one head, 
 That by one blow of wit I might decapitate it." 
 
 The verse is incorrect. But the hidden joke consists in 
 this, that the Count really wishes that we were all out and 
 out Neros, and he, on the contrary, our single dear friend, 
 Pythagoras. 
 
 Perhaps I will, for the benefit of the Count, yet praise many 
 a hidden jest of his up into notice, but since he in his " King 
 GEdipus " has touched me on my tenderest point — for what 
 can be dearer to me than my Christianity ? — it should not be 
 blamed in me if I, yielding to human weakness, honor the 
 " CEdipus," this "great deed in words," less fervently than the 
 earlier works of its composer. 
 
 Meanwhile, true merit never misses its reward, and the 
 author of the " CEdipus " will prove to be no exception to the 
 
THE BATHS OF LUCCA 337 
 
 rule, though he has here as everywhere yielded entirely to 
 the interest of his noble and spiritual bumbailiffs. Aye, 
 there is a very old tradition among the races of the East and 
 of the West that every good or bad deed has its direct conse- 
 quences for the doer. And the day will come when they will 
 come — get ready, I beg you, reader, for a flourish of the 
 pathetic and the terrible combined — the day will come when 
 they will rise from Tartarus — "the Eumenides," the terrible 
 daughters of Night. By the Styx ! — and by this oath the 
 gods never swore falsely — the day will come when they will 
 appear, the gloomy, primevally just sisters, and they will 
 appear with countenances serpent-locked and glowing with 
 rage, with the same scourges of snakes with which they once 
 scourged Orestes, the unnatural sinner who murdered his 
 mother, the Tyndaridean Clytemnestra. It may be that even 
 now the Count hears the serpents hiss — I beg you, reader, 
 just at this instant to think of the Wolf's Ravine and the 
 Samiel music — perhaps even now the secret shudder of the 
 sinner seizes on the Count, heaven grows dark, night birds 
 cry, distant thunders roll, lightning flashes, there is a smell 
 of colophonium, — woe ! woe ! the illustrious ancestors rise 
 from their graves, they cry three and four times "woe ! woe ! " 
 over their wretched descendant, they conjure him to don their 
 breeches of iron mail to protect himself from the terrible 
 lashes — for the Eumenides intend slashing him with them — 
 the serpents of the scourge will ironically solace themselves 
 with him, and like King Rodrigo, when he was shut in the 
 Tower of Serpents, the poor Count will at last whimper and 
 wail : — 
 
 " Ah ! they're biting, ah ! they're biting 
 That with which I chiefly sinned ! " 
 
 Be not alarmed, dear reader, — 'tis all a joke! These ter- 
 rible Eumenides are nothing but a merry comedy, which I, 
 after a few lustrums, intend writing under this title, and the 
 tragic verses which just now frightened you so much are to 
 be found in the jolliest book in the world, in "Don Quixote de 
 la Mancha," where an old respectable lady in waiting recites 
 them before all the court. I see that you're smiling again. 
 Let us take leave of each other merry and laughing ! If this 
 23 
 
338 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 last chapter is tiresome it is owing to the subject; besides, it 
 was written rather for profit than for pleasure, and if I have 
 succeeded in making a new fool fit for use in literature, the 
 Fatherland owes me thanks. I have made a field capable 
 of cultivation on which more gifted authors will sow and 
 harvest. The modest consciousness of this merit is my best 
 reward. To such kings as are desirous of presenting me, 
 over and above this, with snuff-boxes for my deserts, I would 
 remark that the book firm of " Hoffmann and Campe " in 
 Hamburg are authorized to receive anything of the sort on 
 my account. 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 
 
 " The City of Lucca," which is connected with " The Baths of Lucca," 
 and which was written at the same time, is not given here by any means 
 as a picture by itself, but as the conclusion of a period of life corresponding 
 with that of one of the world's. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 NATURE around us acts upon Man — why not Man 
 upon the Nature which encircles him ? In Italy she is 
 passionate like the people who live there ; with us in 
 Germany she is more solemn, reflective and patient. Was 
 there once a time when Nature had like Man a deeper life ? 
 The force of soul in Orpheus, says the legend, could move 
 trees and rocks by his inspired rhymes. Could the like be 
 done now ? Man and Nature have become phlegmatic, and 
 stare gaping at each other. A royal Prussian poet will never, 
 with the chords of his harp, set the Tempelower Hill or the 
 Berlin lindens to dancing. 
 
 Nature has also her history, and it is an altogether different 
 Natural History from that which is taught in schools. Let 
 one of those gray old lizards which have dwelt for centuries 
 in the rocky crevices of the Apennines be appointed as an 
 altogether extraordinary Professor at one of our Universities, 
 and we should learn from him some very extraordinary things. 
 But the pride of certain gentlemen of the legal faculty would 
 rebel against such an appointment. One of them already 
 cherishes a secret jealousy of the poor puppy Fido Savant, 
 fearing lest he may displace him in erudite fetching and 
 carrying. 
 
 The lizards, with their cunning little tails and bright crafty 
 eyes, have told me wonderful things as I clambered along 
 among the cliffs of the Apennines. Truly there are things 
 between heaven and earth which not only our philosophers 
 
 339 
 
340 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 but even our commonest blockheads have not compre- 
 hended. 
 
 The lizards have told me that there is a legend among the 
 stones that God will yet become a stone to redeem them from 
 their torpid motionless condition. One old lizard was how- 
 ever of the opinion that this stone-incarnation will not take 
 place until God shall have changed himself into every variety 
 of animal and plant and have redeemed them. 
 
 But few stones have feeling and they only breathe in the 
 moonlight. But these few which realize their condition are 
 fearfully miserable. The trees are better off — they can 
 weep. But animals are the most favored, for they can speak, 
 each after its manner, and Man the best of all. At some 
 future time, after all the world has been redeemed, then all 
 created things will speak as in those primeval times of which 
 poets sing. 
 
 The lizards are an ironic race, and love to quiz other ani- 
 mals. But they were so meek and submissive to me, and 
 sighed with such honorable earnestness as they told me 
 stories of Atlantis, which I some day will write out for the 
 pleasure and profit of the world. It went so to my very soul 
 among those little creatures who guard the secret annals of 
 Nature. Are they perhaps enchanted families of priests, 
 like those of ancient Egypt, who, prying into the secrets of 
 Nature dwelt amid labyrinthine rocky grottoes ? And we see 
 on their little heads, bodies, and tails just such wondrous 
 characters and signs as in the Egyptian hieroglyphic caps 
 and garments of the hierophants. 
 
 My little friends also taught me a language of signs, by 
 means of which I could converse with silent Nature. This 
 often cheered my soul, especially towards evening, when the 
 mountains were veiled in fearful pleasant shadows, and the 
 waterfalls roared, and every plant sent forth its perfume, 
 and hurried lightnings twitched hither and thither, — 
 
 O Nature! thou dumb maiden! — well do I understand 
 thy summer lightning, that vain effort at speech which con- 
 vulses thy lovely countenance, and thou movest me so deeply 
 that I weep. But then thou understandest me also, and thou 
 art glad and smilest on me with thy golden eyes. Beautiful 
 one, I understand thy stars and thou understandest my tears ! 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 341 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "Nothing in the world will go backwards," said an old 
 lizard to me. " Everything pushes onwards and finally theie 
 will be a grand advance in all Nature. The stones will be- 
 come plants, the plants animals, the animals human beings, 
 and human beings Gods." 
 
 " But," I cried, "what will become of those good folks, 
 the poor old Gods ? " 
 
 " That will all arrange itself, good friend," replied he. 
 " Probably they will abdicate, or be placed in some honorable 
 way or other on the retired list." 
 
 I learned many another secret from my hieroglyph-skinned 
 natural philosopher; but I gave him my word of honor to 
 reveal nothing. I know no more than Schelling and Hegel. 
 
 " What do you think of these two ? " once inquired of me 
 the old lizard with a scornful smile, as I chanced to mention 
 their names. 
 
 "When we reflect," I replied, "that they are merely men 
 and not lizards, we should be amazed at their knowledge. 
 At bottom they teach one and the same doctrine, the Philoso- 
 phy of Identity which you so well know, but differ in their 
 manner of setting it forth. When Hegel sets forth the prin- 
 ciples of his philosophy, one imagines that he sees those neat 
 figures which an expert schoolmaster knows how to form by 
 an artistic combination of all manner of numbers, so that a 
 common observer only sees in them the superficial — the 
 house or boat or absolute soldier formed from the figures, 
 while a reflecting schoolboy rather sees in the picture the 
 solution of a deep problem in arithmetic. But what Schelling 
 sets forth reminds us of those Indian images of beasts which 
 are formed themselves by bold combinations from other beasts, 
 serpents, birds, elephants, and similar material. This sort of 
 representation is far more agreeable, cheerful, and causes 
 warmer throbbings of the heart. All lives in it, while the 
 abstract Hegelian ciphers stare at us, on the contrary, so 
 gray, so cold and dead." 
 
 " Good, good ! " replied the old lizard. " I see what you 
 mean ; but tell me, have these philosophers many auditors ? " 
 
342 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 I explained to him how in the learned caravansary at Ber- 
 lin the " camels " assemble around the fountain of Hegelian 
 wisdom, kneel down to be loaded with precious skins, and 
 then wend their way on through the sandy deserts of the 
 Mark. I further described to him how the modern Athenians 
 crowded to the well of the spiritual wisdom of Schelling as 
 though it were the best of beer, the lush of life, the swizzle 
 of immortality. 
 
 The little natural philosopher paled with all the yellowness 
 of envy as he heard that his colleagues had such a run of 
 customers, and he vexedly asked, " Which of the two do you 
 regard as the greater?" "That," I replied, " is as difficult 
 to answer as though you had inquired of me if the Schechner 
 were greater than the Sonntag, and I think — " 
 
 " Think ! " cried the lizard, in a sharp aristocratic tone 
 indicating the very intensity of slight — " think ! who among 
 you thinks ? My wise gentleman, for some three thousand 
 years I have devoted myself to investigating the spiritual 
 functions of animals, with especial regard to men, monkeys 
 and snakes as objects of study. I have expended as much 
 untiring industry on these curious beings as Lyonnet on 
 caterpillars, and as a result of all my observations, experi- 
 ments and anatomical comparisons, I can plainly assure you 
 that no human being thinks, only once in a while something 
 occurs to a man, or comes into his head, and these altogether 
 unintentional accidents they call thoughts, while the string- 
 ing them together they call thinking. But in my name you 
 may deny it ; no man thinks, no philosopher thinks, neither 
 Schelling nor Hegel thinks, and as for all their philosophy 
 it is empty air and water like the clouds of Heaven. I have 
 seen myriads of such clouds, proud and confident, sweeping 
 their course above me, and the next morning's sun dissolved 
 them again into their primeval nothingness ; — there is but 
 one true philosophy, and that is written in eternal hieroglyphs 
 on my own tail." 
 
 With these words, which were spoken with disdainful 
 pathos, the old lizard turned his back on me, and as he slowly 
 wiggled away I saw on him the most singular characters, 
 which in variegated significance spread at length over his 
 entire tail. 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 343 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 The dialogue detailed in the previous chapter took place 
 between the Baths of Lucca and the city of that name, not 
 far from the great chestnut-tree whose wild green twigs over- 
 shadow the brook, and in the vicinity of an old white- 
 bearded goat who dwelt there as a hermit. I was on the way 
 to Lucca, to visit Francesca and Matilda, whom I was to 
 meet there as agreed on eight days before. But I had gone 
 thither in vain the first time, and now I was once more on 
 the road. I went on foot through beautiful mountain tracts 
 and groves, where the gold oranges, like day stars shone out 
 from the dark green, and where garlands of grape-vines in 
 festal drapery spread along for leagues. The whole country 
 is there as garden-like and adorned as the rural scenes 
 depicted in our theaters, even the peasants resembling those 
 gay figures which delight us as a sort of singing, smiling and 
 dancing stage ornament. No Philistine faces, anywhere. 
 And if there are Philistines here, they are at least Italian 
 orange-Philistines and not the plump, heavy German potato- 
 Philistines. The people are picturesque and ideal as their 
 country, and every man among them has such an individual 
 expression of countenance, and knows how to set forth his 
 personality in gestures, fold of the cloak, and, if needful in 
 ready handling of his knife. With us, on the contrary, one 
 sees nothing but mere men with universally similar counte- 
 nances ; when twelve of them are together they make a round 
 dozen, and if any one attacks them they call for the police. 
 
 I was struck in the Luccan district, as in other parts of 
 Tuscany, with the great felt hats with long waving ostrich 
 plumes worn by the women ; and even the girls who plaited 
 straw had these heavy coverings for the head. The men on 
 the contrary generally wear a light straw hat, and young fel- 
 lows receive them as presents from girls who have braided 
 with them their love thoughts, and it may be many a sigh 
 besides. So sat Francesca once among the girls and flowers 
 of the Val d'Arno, weaving a hat for her Caro Cecco, and 
 kissing every straw as she took it, trilling at times her 
 " Occhie, Stelle mortale": — the curly-locked head which 
 
344 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 afterwards wore it so prettily is now tonsured, and the hat 
 itself hangs, old and worn-out, in the corner of a gloomy 
 abbe's cell in Bologna. 
 
 I am one of that class who are always taking shorter cuts 
 than those given by the regular highway, and who in conse- 
 quence are often bewildered in narrow, woody and rocky 
 paths. That happened to me during my walk to Lucca, and 
 I was beyond question twice as long on the journey as any 
 ordinary highroad traveler would have been. A sparrow, 
 of whom I inquired the way, chirped and chirped and could 
 give me no correct information. Perhaps he did not know 
 himself. The butterflies and dragon-flies who sat on great 
 flowerbells, would not throw me a word, fluttering away, even 
 before my question was asked, and the flowers shook their 
 soundless bell heads. Often the wild myrtles awakened me, 
 tittering with delicate voices from afar. Then I hurriedly 
 climbed the highest crags, and cried, " Ye clouds of heaven ! 
 sailors of the air ! which is the way to Francesca ? Is she in 
 Lucca ? Tell me what she does ! What is she dancing ? 
 Tell me all, and when ye have told me, tell me it once again!" 
 
 In such excesses of folly it was natural enough that a 
 solemn eagle, awakened by my cry from his solitary dreams, 
 should have gazed on me with contemptuous displeasure. 
 But I willingly forgave him ; for he had never seen Fran- 
 cesca, and could in consequence sit so sublimely on his firm 
 rock, and gaze so free of soul at heaven, or stare with such 
 impertinent calmness down on me. Such an eagle has such 
 an insupportably proud glance, and looks at one as though 
 he would say, " What sort of a bird art thou ? Knowest 
 thou not that I am as much of a king as I was in those heroic 
 days when I bore Jupiter's thunders and adorned Napoleon's 
 banners ? Art thou a learned parrot who hast learned the 
 old songs all by heart and pedantically repeats them ? Or a 
 sulky turtle-dove who feels beautifully and coos miserably ? 
 Or an almanac nightingale ? Or a gander who has seen 
 better days and whose ancestors saved the Capitol ? Or an 
 altogether servile farmyard cock, around whose neck, out of 
 irony, men hang my image in miniature, the emblem of bold 
 flight, and who for that reason spreads himself and struts as 
 though he himself were a veritable eagle ? " But you know, 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 345 
 
 reader, how little cause I have to feel injured when an eagle 
 thinks so of me. I believe that the glance which I cast at 
 him was even prouder than his own, and if he took the 
 trouble to inquire of the first laurel in his way he now knows 
 who I am. 
 
 I had really lost my way in the mountains as the twilight 
 shadows began to fall, as the forest songs grew silent and as 
 the trees rustled more solemnly. A sublime tranquillity and 
 an inexpressible joy swept like the breath of God through 
 the changed silence. Here and there beautiful dark eyes 
 gleamed up at me from the ground, disappearing in the same 
 instant. Delicate whispers played with my heart, and invisi- 
 ble kisses merrily swept my cheek. The evening crimson 
 hung over the hills like a royal mantle, and the last sun-rays 
 lit up their summits till they seemed like kings with gold 
 crowns on their heads. And I stood like an Emperor of the 
 World, among these crowned vassals who in silence did me 
 homage. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 I do not know if the monk who met me not far from 
 Lucca is a pious man. But I know that his aged body hides, 
 poor and bare, in a coarse gown year out and year in ; his 
 torn sandals do not sufficiently protect his feet when he 
 climbs the rocks through bush and thorn, that he may, when 
 far up there, console the sick or teach children to pray ; — 
 and he is content if any one, for his pains, puts a piece of 
 bread in his bag and lets him have a little straw to sleep on. 
 
 " Against that man I will write nothing," said I to myself. 
 "When I am again at home in Germany, sitting at ease in 
 my great armchair by a crackling stove, well fed and warm, 
 and writing against Catholic priests — I will write nothing 
 against that man — " 
 
 To write against Catholic priests one must know their 
 faces. But the original faces are only to be found in Italy. 
 The German Catholic priests and monks are only bad imita- 
 tions, often mere parodies of the Italian, and a comparison 
 of the two would be like comparing Roman or Florentine 
 
346 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 pictures of the saints with the scarecrow, pious caricatures 
 which came from the blockhead bourgeois pencil of some 
 Nuremberg town painter, or were born of the blessed sim- 
 plicity of some soul-borer who owes his dreary existence to 
 the long-haired Christian new German school. 
 
 The priests in Italy have long settled down into harmony 
 with public opinion ; the people there are so accustomed to 
 distinguish between clerical dignity and priests without dig- 
 nity, that they can honor the one even when they despise 
 the other. Even the contrast which the ideal duties and re- 
 quirements of the spiritual condition form with the uncon- 
 querable demands of sensuous nature — that infinitely old, 
 eternal conflict between the spirit and matter — makes of 
 the Italian priest a standing character of popular humor in 
 satires, songs and novels. Similar phenomena are to be 
 found all the world over where there is a like priestly rank, 
 as for instance in Hindustan. In the comedies of this 
 primevally pious land, as we have remarked in the "Sacon- 
 tala," and find confirmed in the more recently translated 
 " Vasantasena," a Brahman always plays the comic part, or, as 
 we might say, the priest harlequin, without the least disturb- 
 ance of the reverence due to his sacrificial functions and his 
 privileged holiness — as little in fact as an Italian would ex- 
 perience in hearing of mass or confessing to a priest whom 
 he had found the day before tipsy in the mud of the street. 
 In Germany it is different ; there, the Catholic priest will not 
 only set forth his dignity by his office, but also his office by 
 his person ; and because he perhaps in the beginning was in 
 earnest with his calling, and subsequently found that his vows 
 of chastity and of poverty conflicted somewhat with the old 
 Adam, he will not publicly violate them (particularly lest by 
 so doing he might lay himself open to our friend Krug of 
 Leipzig), and so endeavors to assume at least the appearance 
 of a holy life. Hence, sham holiness, hypocrisy and the gloss 
 of outside piety among German priests, while with the Italians 
 the mask is more transparent, manifesting also a certain plump 
 fat irony and a digestion of the world passing right comfort- 
 ably. 
 
 But what avail such general reflections ! They would be 
 of but little use to you, dear reader, if you had a desire to 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 347 
 
 write against the Catholic priesthood. To do this one should 
 see with his own eyes the faces thereunto pertaining. Of a 
 truth it is not enough to ha^e seen them in the royal 
 opera-house in Berlin. The last head manager did his best 
 to make the coronation array in the " Maid of Orleans " true 
 to life, to give his fellow countrymen an accurate idea of a 
 procession, and to show them priests of every color. But the 
 most accurate costumes cannot supply the original counte- 
 nances, and though an extra hundred thousand dollars should 
 be fooled away for gold miters, festooned surplices, embroid- 
 ered chasubles, and similar stuff — still the cold reasoning 
 Protestant noses which come protesting out from beneath the 
 miters aforesaid, the lean, meditative legs which peep from 
 under the white lace of the surplices, and the enlightened 
 bellies, a world too wide for the chasubles — would all remind 
 one of us that it was not Catholic clergymen but Berlin world- 
 lings which wander over the stage. 
 
 I have often reflected whether the chief stage manager 
 would not have succeeded better and have brought more accu- 
 rately before our eyes the idea of a procession if he had had 
 the priestly parts played, not by the ordinary supernumeraries, 
 but by those Protestant clergymen of the theological faculty 
 who know how to preach so orthodoxically in the " Church 
 Journal," and from the pulpit, against "Reason," " worldly 
 lusts," "Gesenius," and " Devildom." We should then have 
 seen faces whose priestly stamp would have corresponded 
 far more illusively with the part. It is a well-known obser- 
 vation that priests, all the world over, whether Rabbis, Muftis, 
 Dominicans, Councilors of the Consistory, Popes, Bonzes, in 
 short the whole diplomatic corps of the Lord, have a certain 
 family likeness in their faces, such as we are accustomed to 
 find in those who follow the same trade. Tailors in every 
 quarter of the globe have weak legs, butchers and soldiers 
 all have a fierce color and style and the Jews have their own 
 peculiar honorable expression, not because they spring from 
 Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, but because they are business 
 men, and the Frankfort Christian shopman looks as much 
 like a Frankfort Jewish shopman as one rotten egg looks 
 like another. And the spiritual shop people, such as get 
 their living by the religion business, also acquire by it a re- 
 
348 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 semblance in countenance. The Catholic priest does business 
 like a clerk who has a place in an extensive establishment. 
 The firm of the Church, at whose head is the Pope, gives 
 him a regular occupation and a regular salary ; he works 
 leisurely or lazily like every man who is not in business on 
 his own account and has many fellow laborers, and who 
 escapes observation among the multitude — only he has the 
 credit of the house at heart, and still more its permanence, 
 since by a bankruptcy he would lose his means of support. 
 The Protestant clergyman is, on the contrary, everywhere 
 himself principal, and he carries on the religion business on 
 his own account. He does not drive a wholesale business 
 like his Catholic colleague, but only a small retail trade, and 
 as he represents his own interests, it would never do for him 
 to be negligent. He must cry up his articles of faith to the 
 people, depreciate those of his rivals, and like a real retailer 
 he stands in his small shop, full of professional envy of all 
 the large houses, particularly of the great firm in Rome, 
 which salaries so many thousand bookkeepers and salesmen, 
 and has its factories in every quarter of the globe. 
 
 Each has of course its physiognomic separate effect, but 
 these are not perceptible from the parquet. In their main 
 features, the family likeness between Catholic and Protestant 
 remains unchanged, and if the head manager would pay down 
 liberally to the gentlemen aforesaid, he could induce them to 
 act their parts admirably — as they are in the habit of doing. 
 Even their walk and gait would conduce to the illusion, though 
 a sharp practised eye would readily detect certain shades of 
 difference between it and that of Catholic priests and monks. 
 
 A Catholic priest walks as if heaven belonged to him ; a 
 Protestant clergyman, on the contrary, goes about as if he 
 had taken a lease of it. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 It was not till night that I reached the City of Lucca. 
 
 How differently it had appeared to me the week before as 
 I wandered by day through the echoing deserted streets, and 
 imagined myself transported to one of those enchanted cities 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 349 
 
 of which my nurse had so often told me. Then the whole 
 city was silent as the grave, all was so pale and deathlike ; 
 the gleam of the sun played on the roofs like gold-leaf on the 
 head of a corpse ; here and there from the windows of a 
 moldering house hung ivy tendrils like dried green tears, 
 everywhere glimmering dreary and dismally petrifying death. 
 The town seemed but the ghost of a town, a specter of stone 
 in broad daylight. I sought long and in vain for some trace 
 of a living being. I can only remember that before an old 
 Palazzo lay a beggar sleeping with outstretched open hand. 
 I also remember having seen above at the window of a 
 blackened moldering little house, a monk, whose red neck 
 and plump shining pate protruded right far from his brown 
 gown, and near him a full-breasted, black-haired girl was 
 visible, while below in the half-open house door I saw 
 entering a little fellow in the black dress of an abbe, who 
 carried with both hands a mighty, full-bellied wine flask. 
 At the same instant there rang not far off a delicately ironic 
 little bell, while in my memory tittered the novels of Messer 
 Boccaccio. But these chimes could not entirely drive away 
 the strange shudder which ran through my soul. It held me 
 the more ironly bound since the sun lit up so warmly and 
 brightly the uncanny buildings; and I marked well that 
 ghosts are far more terrible when they cast aside the black 
 mantle of night to show themselves in the clear light of noon. 
 But what was my astonishment at the changed aspect of 
 the city when I, eight days later, revisited Lucca. " What 
 is that ? " I cried, as innumerable lights dazzled my eyes and 
 a stream of human beings whirled through the streets. Has 
 an entire race risen specter-like from the grave to mock life 
 with the maddest mummery ? " The lofty melancholy houses 
 were bright with lamps, variegated carpets hung from every 
 window, nearly hiding the crumbling gray walls, and above 
 them peered out lovely female faces, so fresh, so blooming, 
 that I well marked that it was Life herself celebrating her 
 bridal feast with Death and who had invited the Beauty of Life 
 as a guest. Yes, it was such a living death feast, though I 
 do not know exactly how it was called in the calendar. At any 
 rate it was the flaying day of some blessed martyr or other, 
 for I afterwards saw a holy skull and several extra bones 
 
350 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 adorned with flowers and gems, carried around with bridal 
 music. It was a fine procession. 
 
 First of all went such Capuchins as were distinguished 
 from the other monks by wearing long beards, and who 
 formed as it were the sappers of this religious army. Then 
 followed beardless Capuchins, among whom were many 
 noble countenances, and even many a youthful and beautiful 
 face, which looked well with the broad tonsure, since the 
 head seemed through it as if braided around with a neat gar- 
 land of hair, and which came forth with the bare neck in 
 admirable relief from the brown cowl. These were followed 
 by cowls of other colors, black, white, yellow and gaily 
 striped as well as down-drawn triangular hats, in short, all 
 those cloister costumes which the enterprise of our theatrical 
 manager has made so familiar. After the monkish orders 
 came the regular priests, with white shirts over black panta- 
 loons, and wearing colored caps, who were in turn succeeded 
 by still more aristocratic clergymen, wrapped in different 
 colored silken garments and bearing on their heads a sort of 
 high caps, which in all probability originated in Egypt, and 
 with which we are familiar from the works of Denon, from 
 the " Magic Flute," and from Belzoni. These latter had 
 faces which bore marks of long service, and appeared to form 
 a sort of old guard. Last of all came the regular staff 
 around a canopied throne, beneath which sat an old man 
 with a still higher head-dress and in a still richer mantle, 
 whose extremity was borne after the manner of pages by two 
 other old men clad in a similar manner. 
 
 The first monks went with folded arms in solemn silence, 
 but those with the high caps sang a most miserable and un- 
 happy psalm, so nasally, so shufflingly, and so gruntingly, 
 that I am perfectly convinced that if the Jews had formed 
 the great mass of the people, and if their religion had been 
 the established religion, the aforesaid psalmodizing would 
 have been characterized with the name of " mauscheln." 1 
 Fortunately one could only half hear it, since there marched 
 behind the procession with a full accompaniment of drums 
 and fifes, several companies of troops, besides which there 
 were on each side, near the priests in their flowing robes, 
 1 Mauscheln — a slang term signifying to speak like a Jew. 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 35 1 
 
 grenadiers going by two and two. There were almost as many 
 soldiers as clergy, but it requires many bayonets nowadays 
 to keep up religion, and even when the blessing is given 
 cannon must roar significantly in the distance. 
 
 When I see such a procession, in which clergymen amid 
 military escort walk along so miserably and sorrowfully, it 
 strikes painfully to my soul, and it seems to me as though 
 I saw our Savior himself surrounded by lance bearers and 
 led to judgment. The stars at Lucca felt beyond question as 
 I did, and as I sighing glanced up at them, they looked 
 down on me, one with my soul, with their pious eyes, so 
 clear and bright. But we needed not their light. Thousands 
 and fresh thousands of lamps and candles and girls' faces 
 gleamed from all the windows ; at the corners of the streets 
 flaring pitch hoops were placed, and then every priest had 
 his own private torch-bearer to keep him company. The 
 Capuchins had generally little boys, who carried their lights for 
 them, and the youthful fresh little faces looked up from time 
 to time right curiously and pleased at the old solemn beards. 
 A poor Capuchin like these cannot afford a greater torch- 
 bearer, and the boy to whom he teaches the Ave Maria, or 
 whose old aunt confesses to him, must, at the procession, 
 perform this service gratis; and beyond question it is not 
 done with the less love on that account. The monks who 
 came after did not have much larger boys; a few more 
 respectable orders had grown-up youths, and the high- 
 minded and mitered priests rejoiced in having each a real 
 citizen to hold a candle. But the one last of all, the Lord 
 Archbishop — for such was the man who in aristocratic 
 humility went along beneath the canopy, and whose train 
 was borne by gray pages — had on either side a lackey, each 
 brilliant in blue livery with yellow laces, and bearing a 
 white wax taper as ceremoniously as though he officiated at 
 court. 
 
 At all events this candle bearing seemed to me to be a 
 good arrangement, since it enabled me to see so plainly the 
 faces pertaining to Catholicism, and now I have seen them, 
 and in the best of lights at that. And what did I see ? 
 Well ! the clerical stamp was nowhere wanting. But if this 
 was not thought of, there was as great a variety in the faces 
 
352 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 as in those of other men. One was pale, another red, this 
 man held his nose well up, that one was dejected, here there 
 was a flashing black, there a flickering gray eye — but in 
 every face there was a trace of the same malady ; a terrible 
 incurable malady, which will probably be the reason why my 
 descendant, when he a century later looks at the procession 
 in Lucca, will not find a single one of all those faces. I fear 
 that I myself am infected with that illness, and that one 
 result of it is that languor which so strangely steals over me 
 when I see the sickly face of a monk, and read in it such 
 sorrows as hide under a coarse cowl ; aggravated love, gout, 
 disappointed ambition, spine complaint, remorse, hemorrhoids, 
 and the heart wounds which are caused by the ingratitude of 
 friends, by the slander of enemies, and by our own sins. Yea, 
 all of these, and far many more, which find no more difficulty 
 in settling under a coarse cowl than beneath a fashionable 
 dress coat. Oh ! it is no exaggeration when the poet cries 
 out in his agony, " Life is a sickness, all the world a lazar 
 house ! " 
 
 "And Death is our physician!" — Ah, I will say nothing 
 evil of him and disturb none in their confidence in him ; for 
 as he is the only physician, they may as well believe that he 
 is the best, and that the only remedy which he employs, his 
 eternal earth cure, is also the best. His friends can say at 
 least this much in his favor, that he is always at hand, and 
 that despite his immense practise, he makes no one wait 
 who earnestly desires to see him. And often does he follow 
 his patient, even to the procession, and bears for them 
 the torch. Surely it was Death himself whom I saw 
 walking by the side of a pale, sorrowful priest; bearing 
 in his thin, quivering bony hands a flickering torch, who 
 nodded pleasantly and consolingly with his anxious, bald 
 pate, and who, weak as he himself was on the legs, still 
 held up, from time to time, the old priest, whose steps seemed 
 growing weaker and readier to fall. He seemed to be whis- 
 pering courage to the latter, " only wait a few short hours, 
 then we will be home, and I will lay thee in bed, and thy 
 cold, weary limbs may rest as long as they will, and thou 
 shalt sleep so soundly that thou wilt not hear the whimper- 
 ing of the little St. Michael's bell." 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 353 
 
 " And against that man, also, I will write nothing," thought 
 I, as I saw the poor, pale priest, whom Death himself was 
 lighting to his bed. 
 
 Alas ! one ought really to write against no one in this 
 world. We are all of us sick and suffering enough in this 
 great Lazaretto, and many a piece of polemical reading invol- 
 untarily reminds me of a revolting quarrel in a little hospital 
 at Cracow, where I was an accidental spectator, and where 
 it was terrible to hear the sick mocking and reviling each 
 other's infirmities, how emaciated consumptives ridiculed 
 those who were bloated with dropsy, how one laughed at the 
 cancer in the nose of another, and he again jeered the locked- 
 jaw and distorted eyes of his neighbors, until finally those 
 who were mad with fever sprang naked from bed, and tore 
 the coverings and sheets from the maimed bodies around, 
 and there was nothing to be seen but revolting misery and 
 mutilation. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 " He then also poured forth to the other immortals assembled 
 Sweetest pleasantest nectar, the goblet quickly exhausting, 
 And still an infinite laughter rang from the happy immortals 
 As they saw how Hephaestus around was so cleverly passing. 
 Thus through the livelong day until the sun was declining 
 The feast went on, nor was wanting through all the genial banquet 
 Either the sound of the strings of the exquisite lyre of Apollo 
 Nor the soft song of the Muses with voices sweetly replying." 
 
 Suddenly there came gasping towards them a pale Jew, 
 dripping with blood, a crown of thorns on his head ; bearing 
 a great cross of wood on his shoulder ; and he cast the cross 
 on the high table of the gods, so that the golden goblets 
 trembled and fell, and the gods grew dumb and pale, and 
 ever paler, till they melted in utter mist. 
 
 Then there were dreary days, and the world became gray 
 and gloomy. There were no more happy immortals, and 
 Olympus became a hospital, where flayed, roasted and spitted 
 gods went wearily, wandering round, binding their wounds 
 and singing sorrowful songs. Religion no longer offered 
 24 
 
354 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 joy, but consolation; it was a woful, bleeding religion of 
 transgressors. 
 
 Was it, perhaps, necessary for miserable and oppressed 
 humanity ? He who sees his God suffer, bears more easily 
 his own afflictions. The merry gods of old, who felt no 
 pangs, knew not, of course, the feelings of poor, tortured 
 Man, who in turn could in his need find no heart to turn 
 to them. They were festival gods, around whom the world 
 danced merrily, and who could only be praised at feasts. 
 Therefore they were never loved from the very soul and 
 with all the heart. To be so loved — one must be a suf- 
 ferer. Pity is the last consecration of love, — it may be, love 
 itself. Of all the gods who loved in the olden time, Christ 
 is the one who has been the most loved. Especially by 
 the women 
 
 Avoiding the bustling throng, I lost myself in a solitary 
 church, and what you, dear reader, have just read, are not 
 so much my own thoughts, as certain involuntary words 
 which came to life in me, while I, reclining on one of the 
 old benches for prayer, let the tones of the organ flow freely 
 through my breast. Thus I lie in soul amid strange fan- 
 tasies, the wondrous music suggesting, from time to time, 
 a more wondrous text. At times my eyes sweep through 
 the dim-growing archways, seeking the dark visible echoes 
 of forms belonging to those organ melodies. Who is that 
 veiled figure kneeling yonder before an image of the Ma- 
 donna ? The swinging lamp which hangs before it, lights 
 up fearfully yet sweetly the beautiful Mother of Suffering 
 of a crucified love, the Venus dolorosa ; but pandering 
 gleams, full of mystery, fall, from time to time, as if by 
 stealth, on the beautiful outlines of the veiled and praying 
 lady. She lay, indeed, motionless on the stone altar steps, 
 but in the quivering light her shadow seemed to live and 
 often ran up to me and then retreated in haste, like a dumb 
 negro, the timid love messenger of a harem — and I under- 
 stood him. He announced the arrival of his lady, the Sul- 
 taness of my heart. 
 
 Minute by minute it grew darker in the empty house, here 
 and there an undefined form glided along the pillars, now 
 and then a soft murmur was heard in a side chapel, and the 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 355 
 
 organ groaned out its long-drawn tones, like the heart of a 
 sighing giant. 
 
 It seemed as though those organ notes would never cease, 
 as though the death notes of that living death would endure 
 forever. I felt an indescribable depression of spirits, and 
 such a nameless, anxious terror, as though I had been buried 
 in a trance. Yes, as though I, one of the long dead, had 
 risen from my grave, and had gone with dark mysterious 
 comrades of the night into the Church of Phantoms, to hear 
 the Prayer of the Dead and confess the Sins of the Corpse. 
 I often felt as though I saw seated near me, in the spectral 
 twilight, the long departed of the city, in obsolete Old Flor- 
 entine dresses, with long pale faces, with gold-bound books 
 of devotion in their thin hands, secretly whispering, nodding 
 in silent melancholy wise, one to the other. The wailing 
 tone of a far-away Bell of the Dead reminded me again of 
 the sick priest whom I had seen in the procession, and I 
 said to myself : he too is now with the departed, but he 
 will come here to read the first Night Mass, and then the 
 sad specter scene will begin in earnest. But suddenly there 
 arose from the steps of the altar the lovely form of the 
 veiled and praying lady — 
 
 Yes, it was she, her living shade had already driven afar 
 the white phantoms ; I now saw but her alone. I followed 
 her quickly from the church, and as she, on passing the door, 
 raised her veil, I saw it was Francesca's face, bedewed with 
 tears. It was like a white rose flowered to fulness by love 
 longing, pearled by the dew of night and gleaming in the 
 moon-rays. "Francesca, dost thou love me?" I asked much 
 and she answered but little. I accompanied her to the Hotel 
 Croce di Malta, where she and Matilda lodged. The streets 
 were empty, the houses slept with their window eyes closed, 
 only here and there, through their wooden lashes, there 
 gleamed a light. High in heaven, among the clouds, there 
 was a clear green space, and in it swam the half-moon, like 
 a gondola in an emeraldine sea. In vain I begged Francesca 
 to look up for once at our dear old trusty friend — but she 
 kept her head dreamily bent downwards. Her gait, once 
 so elate and spirited, yet gliding, was now as it were in 
 ecclesiastical measure, her steps were gloomy and Catholic, 
 
356 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 she moved as if to the music of an organ on some high 
 festival day; and as her limbs had in other nights been 
 inspired by Sin, so they now seemed to be inspired by 
 Religion. On the way she crossed her head and breast 
 before every saint's image; and in vain did I attempt to 
 aid her in this. But when we, on the market-place, passed 
 the Church of San Michiele, where the marble Mother of 
 Pain gleamed forth dimly from her dark niche, with a gilded 
 sword in her heart and a crown of lamps on her head, Fran- 
 cesca suddenly cast her arms around my neck, kissed me, 
 and whispered, " Cecco, Cecco, caro Cecco ! " 
 
 I calmly took charge of the kiss, though I well knew that 
 it was really intended for a Bolognese abbe, a servant of the 
 Roman Catholic Church. As a Protestant, I did not scruple 
 to appropriate to my use the goods of the Catholic Church, 
 and I consequently secularized the pious kiss of Francesca 
 on the spot. I know that when the priests come to hear of 
 this they will rage, they will scream out church robbery at 
 me, and, if possible, would gladly apply to me the French 
 Law of Sacrilege. To my sorrow, I must confess that the 
 aforesaid kiss was the only one which I got hold of, that 
 night. Francesca had determined to devote the night, kneel- 
 ing and in prayer, to the safety of her soul. In vain did I 
 beg leave to share her pious exercises ; when she reached 
 her room she shut the door in my face. In vain did I stand 
 a whole hour without, begging for entrance, sighing every 
 possible sigh, feigning pious tears and swearing the most 
 sanctified oaths — of course with clerical reservation. I felt 
 that I was, little by little, becoming a Jesuit, I grew altogether 
 depraved, and finally offered for one night to become Cath- 
 olic. 
 
 " Francesca ! " I cried, " star of my thoughts ! Thought 
 of my soul ! vita della mia vita ! my beautiful, oft-kissed, 
 slender, Catholic Francesca! for this one night, if thou wilt 
 grant it to me, I will become a Catholic — but only for this 
 night ! O the beautiful, blessed, Catholic night ! While I 
 am in thy arms, with deepest Catholicism, I will believe in 
 the Heaven of thy love, we will kiss the sweet confession 
 from our lips, Faith will become corporeal in body and in 
 form ! oh, what religion ! Ye priests, ring forth meanwhile 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 357 
 
 in joy your Kyrie Eleison, ring, burn incense, sound the bells ! 
 let the organ be heard, peal out the mass of Palestrina — 
 that is the spirit ! — I believe, I am blest, I sleep — but so 
 soon as I awake on the next morning, I will rub away sleep 
 and Catholicism from my eyes, and see again clearly the 
 sunlight and the Bible, and be as before Protestant, reason- 
 able and sober." 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 When the next day the sun smiled gloriously down from 
 heaven, it banished all the sad thoughts and somber feelings 
 which the procession of the previous night had awakened in 
 me. and had made life appear like a sickness and the world 
 like a hospital. 
 
 All the town was alive with a cheerful multitude — gaily 
 decked mortals — while here and there among them hastened 
 along a black little priest. All was noise and laughter and 
 gossip ; scarce could we hear the chiming of the bells, which 
 summoned us to grand mass in the Cathedral. This is a beau- 
 tiful simple church, whose facade of variegated marble is 
 ornamented with those short pillars, rising one above the 
 other, which look with such a merry melancholy on us. 
 Within, pillars and walls were clad in scarlet drapery, and 
 serene music swelled forth over the wavelike masses of 
 human beings. Francesca leaned upon my arm, and as I, on 
 entering, gave her holy water, and as our souls were electri- 
 fied by the delicious damp touch of each other's fingers, I re- 
 ceived, simultaneously, such an electric shock on my leg, that 
 I very nearly tumbled for terror over the kneeling peasant 
 women who, clad all in white and loaded with long earrings 
 and necklaces of yellow gold, covered in masses the floor. 
 As I looked around, I saw another kneeling female, fanning 
 herself, and behind the fan I spied my Lady's merry eyes. 
 I bent towards her, and she breathed at the same time lan- 
 guishingly into my ear, " Delightful ! " 
 
 "For God's sake!" I whispered to her, "be serious! If 
 you laugh, we shall certainly be turned out-of-doors ! " 
 
 But prayer and entreaty were in vain. Fortunately no one 
 
35^ PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 understood the language in which we spoke. For when my 
 Lady arose and accompanied us through the throng to the 
 high altar, she gave herself entirely up to her wild caprices 
 without the slightest caution, as though we had stood alone 
 on the Apennines. She ridiculed everything ; even the poor 
 painted pictures on the wall did not escape her arrows. 
 
 "Look there," she cried, "at Lady Eve nee Rib, how she 
 chats with the Serpent! It was a good idea, that of the 
 painter, to give the snake a human head with a human coun- 
 tenance ; but it would have been much more sensible if he 
 had adorned the face of the seducer with a military mus- 
 tache. Look there, Doctor, at the angel announcing to the 
 highly blest Virgin her blessed 'situation,' and laughing at 
 the same time so ironically. I know what the rascal is think- 
 ing of ! And that other Maria, at whose feet the holy alli- 
 ance of the East are kneeling with their offerings of gold 
 and incense — doesn't she look like Catalani? " 
 
 Signora Francesca, who, on account of her ignorance of 
 English, understood nothing of all this chatter, save the word 
 "Catalani," quickly remarked that the lady of whom our friend 
 spoke had really lost most of her celebrity. But our friend 
 did not suffer herself to be in the least put out, and passed 
 her comments on the pictures of the Passion to that of the 
 Crucifixion, an exquisitely beautiful painting, where, among 
 others, three stupid idle faces were painted, looking on at 
 their ease at the divine martyrdom, and as my Lady insisted 
 representing the deputies plenipotentiary of Austria, Russia, 
 and France. 
 
 Meanwhile the old frescos, which occasionally appeared 
 between the folds of scarlet drapery, had with their won- 
 drous earnestness of expression some influence in subduing 
 the British love of mockery. There were among them faces 
 from the heroic age of Lucca, of which so much is said 
 in Machiavelli, that romantic Sallust, whose spirit sweeps 
 towards us with such fire from the songs of Dante, the Cath- 
 olic Homer. In those faces the strong feelings and barbaric 
 thoughts of the Middle Ages are well expressed, although on 
 the mouth of many a silent youth there quivers a smiling con- 
 fession that in those days all the roses were not of stone or 
 unblown, and although through the pious down-drooping 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 359 
 
 eyelashes of many a maiden of the day there twinkles a rogu- 
 ish leer of love, as though she were willing to come down 
 from the wall to meet us. At all events it is a higher spirit 
 which speaks to us from those old Florentine paintings : it is 
 the truly heroic, which we recognize in the marble images of 
 the Gods of Antiquity, and which does not consist as our 
 esthetic philosophers suppose in eternal calm without pas- 
 sion, but in an eternal passionate emotion without unrest. 
 We also see in several oil paintings of a later day which hang 
 in the Cathedral of Lucca, the same old Florentine spirit — 
 perhaps as a traditional echo. I was particularly pleased 
 with a "Wedding of Cana," by a scholar of Andrea del Sarto, 
 though it was somewhat harshly and stiffly painted. In it 
 the Saviour sits between the soft fair bride and a Pharisee 
 whose stony law-table countenance is in amazement at the 
 genial prophet who so cheerfully mingles with the merry 
 guests, and treats them to miracles far surpassing those of 
 Moses ; for the latter, though he struck with all his force on 
 the rocks, brought forth nothing but water, while the former 
 needed only to speak a single word to fill all the jars with 
 the best of wine. Far softer, almost Venetian in color, is the 
 portrait of an unknown person hanging near it and in which 
 the pleasant blending of hues is strangely qualified by a pain 
 which thrills the soul. It represents Mary anointing the feet 
 of Jesus and drying them with her hair. Christ sits there 
 among his disciples, a beautiful, intelligent God, who with 
 human sorrow feels a fearful pious commiseration for his 
 own body, which erelong must suffer so much ; and to whom 
 the flattering unction of honor which the dead receive is al- 
 ready due and already realized. He smiles calmly on the 
 kneeling woman, who impelled by a presentiment of loving 
 anguish performs her pitying task, a deed which will never 
 be forgotten so long as suffering humanity shall endure, and 
 which will breathe forth a perfume for the refreshing of those 
 suffering for thousands of years. With the exception of the 
 youth who rested on the bosom of Christ, and who remarks 
 the deed, none of the Apostles appear to realize its peculiar 
 significance, and the one with the red beard appears, even as 
 the Scripture states, to make the morose remark, " Why was 
 not this ointment sold for three hundred pence and given to 
 
3Ö0 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 the poor ? " This economical Apostle was the one who car- 
 ried the purse, the familiarity with money and business 
 appears to have rendered him insensible to all the unselfish 
 perfume of love, he would gladly exchange it for pence for a 
 practical purpose, and it was just he, the penny changer, 
 who betrayed the Savior — for thirty pence. Thus does the 
 Bible symbolically in the history of the Banker among the 
 Apostles reveal the unholy power of seduction which lurks 
 in the money bag, and warn us against the faithlessness of 
 money-brokers. Every rich man is a Judas Iscariot. 
 
 "You are making faces as though you were trying to 
 choke down your piety, dear Doctor," whispered my Lady. 
 "I was just looking and — excuse me if the remark is slan- 
 derous — but I really thought that you looked like a good 
 Christian." 
 
 "Between you and me I am so; yes, Christ — " 
 " Do you believe, perhaps, that he is a God ? " 
 " That, of course, my good Matilda. He is the God whom 
 I mostly love — not because he is a legitimate God whose 
 Father since time immemorial ruled the world ; but because 
 he, though a born Dauphin of Heaven, is democratically 
 minded, loving no courtly ceremonial splendor, because he 
 is not a God of shaven and shorn bookish pedants and laced 
 men-at-arms, and because he is a modest God of the People, 
 a citizen God, un bon Dieu citoyen. Truly, if Christ were no 
 God, I would vote that he should be such, and much rather 
 than an absolute God who has forced himself to power would 
 I obey him, the elected God, the God of my choice." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Archbishop, a solemn gray old man, read mass in 
 person ; and to tell the truth, not only I, but even to a certain 
 degree my Lady, was moved by the spirit latent in this holy 
 ceremony and by the sanctity of the old man who officiated ; 
 — albeit every old man is in and by himself a priest, and the 
 ceremonies of the Catholic world are so primevally old that 
 they are perhaps the only ones which have remained from 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 361 
 
 the infancy of the world and have a claim on our pious feel- 
 ings as a memorial of the first forefathers of all mankind. 
 "Look, my Lady," said I, "every gesture which you here 
 behold, the manner of laying on the hands and the spreading 
 out of the arms, this bowing, this washing of the hands, this 
 burning and offering of incense, this cup, yes, the entire 
 clothing of the man from the miter to the hem of the stole 
 — all is ancient Egyptian and the remains of a priesthood 
 of whose wondrous existence the oldest records only tell us a 
 little, an early hierarchy which investigated the first wisdom 
 of the world, which discovered the first gods, which invented 
 the first symbols, and by whom young humanity — " 
 
 "Was first cheated and betrayed," added my Lady, in a 
 bitter tone, " and I believe, Doctor, that of this earliest age 
 of the world there remains nothing but a few dreary formulas 
 of deceit. And they are still active and potent. Only look 
 there, for instance, at the fearfully benighted faces ! — par- 
 ticularly at that fellow who is planted on his stupid knees, 
 and who, with his wide, staring mouth, looks so much like 
 an ultrablockhead." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake!" I remarked, in a soothing manner, 
 " what does it matter if that head has received so little of the 
 light of reason ? What is that to us ? Why should that 
 irritate you ? Don't you see every day oxen, cows, dogs, 
 asses, which are quite as stupid without suffering your 
 equanimity to be disturbed at the sight or being excited to 
 angry expressions ? " 
 
 "Ah, that is an entirely different matter," rejoined my 
 Lady, " for those beasts have tails behind, and I vex myself 
 just for that, to think that a fellow who is so bestially stupid 
 has, however, behind him no tail at all." 
 
 "Yes — that is a very different matter, indeed, my Lady ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 After the mass there was still much to see and to hear, 
 especially the sermon of a great two-fisted monk, whose bold, 
 commanding old Roman countenance contrasted singularly 
 
362 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 with his coarse cowl, so that he looked like the Emperor of 
 Poverty. He preached of heaven and of hell, falling at 
 times into the wildest enthusiasm. His description of heaven 
 was somewhat barbarously overloaded, since he filled it with 
 gold, silver, jewels, costly food and wine of the best vintages. 
 He made, too, such inspired mouth-watering grimaces, and 
 rolled himself to and fro in his gown as though he believed 
 himself to be flying among white-winged angels and one of 
 them. Much less delightful, yes, even very practically 
 earnest, was his description of hell. Here the man was far 
 more in his element. He was especially zealous against 
 those sinners who do not believe, as Christianly as they 
 should, in the old fires of hell, and even think that they have 
 somewhat cooled down of late preparatory to a general 
 extinguishment. " And," he cried, "if hell were going out, 
 then would I with my breath blow up the last glimmering 
 coals till they should blaze up again into all the first fury of 
 their flame." Had any one heard the voice, like the north 
 wind, with which these words were howled forth, and could 
 he have seen the glowing face, the red neck strong as a 
 buffalo's, and the mighty fist of the monk, he would not have 
 regarded this hellish threat as a hyperbole. 
 
 " I like this man," said my Lady. 
 
 " There you are right," I replied, " and he pleases me, 
 too, better than our soft homeopathic spiritual doctors, who 
 dilute their one ten-thousandth grain of reason with a bucket 
 of moral water, and with it preach us to repose of a Sun- 
 day." 
 
 " Yes, Doctor, I have respect for this hell, but I can't quite 
 agree with him as to his heaven. In fact I very early had 
 my doubts as to the nature of heaven. While I was still 
 very young in Dublin, I often lay on my back in the grass, 
 and looked up at heaven and wondered if it really contained 
 so many splendid things as people said ! ' And,' thought I, 
 ' if it does, why is it that none of these fine things ever fall 
 down — say a diamond earring or a pearl necklace, or at 
 least a piece of pineapple cake ? and why is it that nothing 
 but hail, snow or common rain ever comes down ? That isn't 
 exactly as it should be,' thought I — " 
 
 "Why do you say that, my Lady? Why not rather be 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 363 
 
 silent with such doubts ? Unbelievers who put no faith in 
 heaven should not make proselytes ; I much less blame — on 
 the contrary I rather praise — the efforts of those convert 
 makers who have a splendid heaven and who, so far from 
 wishing to keep it to themselves, invite their fellow mortals to 
 share it with them, and who never rest till their invitations 
 are accepted." 
 
 " I have always wondered, Doctor, that so many rich peo- 
 ple of that sort, such as Presidents, Vice-Presidents or Secre- 
 taries of societies for converting unbelievers, take such pains 
 to make, for instance, some rusty old Jew beggar fit for 
 heaven, and to secure his future society there, without ever 
 so much as dreaming of letting him take part in the things 
 which they enjoy here on earth — such as inviting him during 
 summer to their country-seats, where there are beyond ques- 
 tion dainties which would taste as good to the poor rogue as 
 though he were in heaven itself." 
 
 " That is intelligible enough, my Lady ; the heavenly 
 delights cost nothing, and it is often a double pleasure when 
 we can make our fellow beings happy at so slight an expense. 
 But to what pleasures can the unbeliever invite any one ? " 
 
 " To nothing, Doctor, but to a long peaceful sleep, which 
 may, however, be very desirable to a suffering mortal, espe- 
 cially if he has been previously tormented with importunate 
 invitations to heaven." 
 
 The beautiful woman spoke these words with bitter accents 
 which went to the heart, and it was not without some earnest- 
 ness that I replied : " Dear Matilda, in all that I have seen 
 and done in this world I have not once troubled myself as to 
 whether there were a heaven or a hell. I am too great and 
 too proud to be tempted by heavenly rewards or alarmed by 
 the punishments of hell. I strive for the good because it is 
 beautiful and irresistibly attracts me, and I hate the bad 
 because it is ugly and repulsive. Even as a boy when I read 
 Plutarch — and I still read him every night in bed and often 
 feel as if I would fain jump up and take extra post and 
 become a great man — even then I was pleased with the 
 story of the woman who went through the streets of Alexan- 
 dria, bearing in one hand a burning torch and in the other a 
 leathern bottle of water, crying to the multitude that with the 
 
364 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 water she would quench the fire of hell and with the torch 
 would set fire to heaven, so that people should cease to do 
 evil merely from fear of punishment and not do good for the 
 sake of reward. All our deeds should spring from the source 
 of an unselfish love, whether there is to be a continuance 
 after death or not." 
 
 "Then you do not believe in immortality ? " 
 
 " Oh, you are shrewd, my Lady ! I doubt it ? I, whose 
 heart ever strikes deeper and deeper root into the most dis- 
 tant millenniums of the past and of the future, — I, who am 
 myself one of the most immortal of men, whose every breath 
 is an eternal life, whose every thought is an undying star — I 
 disbelieve in immortality ! " 
 
 " I think, Doctor, that it must require an inordinate share 
 of vanity and presumption, too, after enjoying so much that 
 is good and beautiful on earth, to ask immortality of the Lord 
 in addition to it all ! Man, the aristocrat among animals, who 
 thinks himself better than his fellow creatures, would like also 
 to work out for himself this privilege of endless life by court- 
 like hymns of adoration and praise and kneeling prayer. Oh, 
 I know what that twitching of the lips means, my immortal 
 gentleman! " 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Signora begged us to accompany her to a convent 
 where a miraculous cross, the most remarkable in all Tus- 
 cany, was preserved. And it was well that we left the Cathe- 
 dral, for my lady's eccentricities would soon have got us into 
 a scrape. She foamed over with brilliant caprices, pretty 
 and pleasant foolish fancies, which leaped about self-willed 
 and wild as kittens. On leaving the Cathedral she dipped 
 her forefinger three times in the holy water, and sprinkled 
 herself with it each time, murmuring, " Dem zefardeyim 
 kinnim," which is, according to her assertion, the Arabic 
 formula used by sorceresses to transform a human being to 
 an ass. 
 
 On the Piazza, or open place before the Cathedral, a body 
 of troops, nearly all clad in Austrian uniform, were exercis- 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 365 
 
 ing, the word of command being given in German. At least 
 I heard the German words — " Präsentirts Gewehr ! Fuss 
 Gewehr ! Schlüters Gewehr ! Rechts um ! Halt ! " 2 I be- 
 lieve that in all the Italian, as well as in several other Euro- 
 pean states, they command in German. Ought we Germans 
 to plume ourselves on it ? Have we so many orders to give 
 in this world that German has even become the language of 
 command ? Or have we been ordered about so much that 
 those who are obedient and subject best understand the Ger- 
 man tongue ? 
 
 My Lady did not seem to be a friend to parades and re- 
 views : " I do not like," said she, "to be near such men with 
 sabers and guns, particularly when they march along in great 
 numbers, and in regular rows in great reviews. What if 
 some one among these thousands of men should suddenly go 
 mad, and shoot me dead on the spot with the musket which 
 he holds in his hand ? Or what if he should suddenly be- 
 come rational and think: 'What have I to risk? or lose? 
 even if they should take my life ? Perhaps the other world, 
 which they promise us, isn't so brilliant after all, as they say, 
 and if it be ever so bad they certainly cannot give me less 
 than six kreutzers a day — suppose, then, just for the joke 
 of the thing, that I stab that little English lady with the 
 impertinent nose ? ' Wouldn't I be in the greatest danger of 
 my life then ? If I were a king I would divide my soldiers 
 into two classes, and one of them should believe in immortal- 
 ity, so that they might be brave in battle, and not fear death, 
 and I would only use them in war. But the others should 
 be employed in parades and reviews, and lest it should come 
 into their heads that they have nothing to lose (and so kill 
 somebody for the sake of a joke), I would forbid them on 
 pain of death to believe in immortality, — yes, I would even 
 give them some butter on their ammunition bread, so that 
 they might have a real fancy to live. But the first, those 
 immortal heroes, should have a right hard life of it, so that 
 they might despise mortality and regard the roar of the 
 cannon as the introduction to a better life." 
 
 " My Lady," said I, " you would be but an indifferent 
 
 1 Present arms ! Ground arms ! Shoulder arms ! Right-about face ! 
 Halt ! 
 
366 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 ruler. You know but little of government, and nothing at 
 all of politics. If you had read the ' Political Annals ' — " 
 
 " I understand them, perhaps, even better than you, my 
 dear Doctor. While I was very young, I tried to instruct 
 myself in them. While I was still young in Dublin — " 
 
 "And lay on your back in the grass — reflecting or not — 
 as at Ramsgate — " 
 
 A glance as of a light reproach of ingratitude shot from 
 my Lady's eyes, but she then smiled again, and continued : 
 "While I was yet young in Dublin, and used to sit on a 
 corner of the cricket where mother's feet rested, I had all 
 sorts of questions to ask, what the tailors, the shoemakers, 
 the bakers, in short, what all sorts of people had to do in the 
 world ? And mother explained that the tailors made clothes, 
 the shoemakers made shoes, the bakers baked bread. — And 
 when I asked what the kings did, mother told me that they 
 governed. 'Dear mother,' I replied, 'do you know that if 
 I were a king, I'd go one whole day without reigning, just to 
 see how it looked in the world.' * Dear child,' said mother, 
 ' many a king does that and yet the world looks just the 
 same as ever.' " 
 
 "Yes, my Lady, your mother was really in the right. 
 Particularly here in Italy are there such kings, as we see for 
 instance in Piedmont and Naples — " 
 
 " Well, Doctor, we shouldn't blame an Italian king for not 
 reigning on some days when it is so terribly warm. The 
 only danger is that the Carbonari may turn such a day to 
 account, for I have remarked that nowadays revolutions 
 always break out on those days when no reigning is going 
 on. If the Carbonari made a mistake and believed that it 
 was a day without reigning, when contrary to all expectation 
 the king did reign, they all lost their heads. Therefore the 
 Carbonari can never be careful enough and must be particu- 
 lar in choosing their time. So that the most delicate and 
 difficult duty of the king is to keep secret those days when 
 there is no reigning, and then they should at least sit down 
 three or four times on the throne, and perhaps mend a pen 
 or seal up envelopes, or rule white paper — all for show of 
 course — so that the people outside who peep into the palace 
 windows may believe in all sincerity that the reigning is still 
 going on." 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 367 
 
 While such remarks came from my Lady's delicate little 
 mouth, there swam a smile of tranquil happiness around the 
 full rosy lips of Francesca. She scarcely spoke, but her 
 gait was no longer inspired with the sighing rapture of self- 
 denial so manifest on the previous evening. She now walked 
 triumphantly along, every step the sound of a trumpet ; and 
 yet it seemed to be rather a spiritual victory, than one of this 
 world, which inspired her movements. She was almost the 
 ideal image of a church triumphant, and around her head 
 swept an invisible glory. But the eyes, as if smiling through 
 tears, were again those of a child of this world, and in the 
 varied stream of humanity which swept past us no single 
 article of clothing had escaped her searching glance. 
 
 " Ecco ! " was her exclamation, " what a shawl ! — the Mar- 
 quis shall buy me such a cashmere for my turban when I 
 dance Roxelana. Ah ! and he has promised me a diamond 
 cross too ! " 
 
 Poor Gumpelino ! you will agree to the shawl without much 
 demurring — the cross, however, will cost you many a bitter 
 hour. But Signora will torture you so long and keep you so 
 long on the rack that you must at last give in to her wishes ! 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The church in which the miraculous crucifix of Lucca is to 
 be seen belongs to a monastery, the name of which at this 
 instant has escaped me. 
 
 As we entered the church there lay on their knees before 
 the high altar a dozen monks in silent prayer. Only now and 
 then they spoke, as if in chorus, a few broken words which 
 echoed as it were awfully through the solitary columned 
 aisles. The church was dark, except that through small 
 painted windows fell a many-colored light on bald heads and 
 brown cowls. Unpolished lamps of copper dimly illuminated 
 the blackened frescos and altar-pieces, while from the wall 
 projected carved wooden heads of saints, coarsely colored, 
 which in the dubious flickering light seemed grinning at 
 us in grim life. Suddenly my Lady screamed aloud, and 
 
368 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 pointed to a tombstone beneath our feet, on which in relief 
 was the stiff image of a bishop with mythra and crozier, folded 
 hands and trodden-away nose. "Ah!" she whispered, "I 
 just then trod rudely on his stone nose, and now he will 
 appear to me in dreams, and then his nose — who knows?" 
 
 The sacristan, a pale young monk, showed us the miracu- 
 lous cross, and narrated the miracle which it had effected. 
 Whimsical as I am, I probably did not appear incredulous on 
 this occasion. I have now and then my attacks of belief in 
 marvels, especially when, as in this instance, the place and 
 the hour are favorable to them, and I then believe that every- 
 thing in the world is a miracle and all history a legend. Was 
 I inspired with the faith in marvels of Francesca, who kissed 
 the cross with the wildest enthusiasm? I was vexed and 
 annoyed with the wild mockery of the witty English lady — 
 perhaps I was the more irritated by it since I felt that I was 
 not myself entirely free from the contagion, yet still regarded 
 it as by no means praiseworthy. It cannot be denied that the 
 passion for ridicule and mockery, the delight in the incon- 
 gruity of things, has something evil in it, while seriousness is 
 more allied with the better feelings — virtue, the sense of 
 liberty, and love itself are very serious. Meanwhile there are 
 hearts in which jest and earnest, the bad and the holy, heat 
 and cold mingle so strangely, that it would be difficult to pass 
 a separate judgment on either. Such a heart swam in the 
 bosom of Matilda ; often it was a freezing island of ice on 
 whose polished mirror-like ground there bloomed forth deeply 
 longing, glowing forests of palms — as often an enthusiastic 
 blazing volcano, which was suddenly overwhelmed by a laugh- 
 ing avalanche of snow. She was by no means evilly inclined, 
 with all her abandon — not even sensuous ; nay, I believe that 
 she had only caught the humorous side of sensuality, and 
 delighted herself with it as with a merry, ridiculous puppet- 
 show. It was a humorous longing, a sweet curiosity to know 
 how this or that queer character would behave when in love. 
 How entirely different was Francesca ! There was a catholic 
 unity in all her thoughts and feelings. By day she was a 
 pale yearning moon, by night a glowing sun — moon of my 
 days ! sun of my nights ! I shall never see thee again ! 
 
 "You are right," said my Lady, "I also believe in the 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 369 
 
 wonder-working powers of a cross. I am convinced that if 
 the Marquis does not higgle and hesitate too long over the 
 diamond cross, it will certainly work a brilliant miracle on the 
 Signora, and she will be at last so dazzled by its brilliancy as 
 even to be enamored of his nose. And I have often heard of 
 the miraculous powers of crosses of nobility vvhich have the 
 power of changing an honest man into a rascal." 
 
 And so the beautiful lady ridiculed everything. She flirted 
 with the poor sacristan — made the drollest excuses to the 
 bishop with the worn-out nose, declining in the politest man- 
 ner any return of her call, and as we came to the holy-water 
 font, she again attempted to turn me into an ass. 
 
 Whether it was a sincere mood inspired by the place, or 
 whether it was that I felt inclined to rebuff as sharply as 
 possible this jest, which really vexed me, I know not, but I 
 assumed the appropriate pathos, and spoke : — 
 
 " My Lady, I have no liking for those of your sex who 
 despise religion. Beautiful women without religion are like 
 flowers without perfume, resembling those cold sober tulips 
 which look upon us from their porcelain vases, as though 
 they themselves were of porcelain, and which if they could 
 speak would, without doubt, explain to us how very naturally 
 they grow from a bulb, how all-sufficient it is for any one 
 here below not to smell badly, and how, so far as perfume is 
 concerned, a rational flower has no need of it whatever." 
 
 Even at the very mention of a tulip, my Lady was in a 
 state of the most passionate excitement, and as I spoke her 
 idiosyncrasy against the flower acted so powerfully that she 
 held her ears as if desperate. It was half of it acted, but 
 half was piqued earnestness, as she cast at me a bitter glance, 
 and asked from her very heart, and with all the sharpness of 
 irony : — 
 
 "And you, dear flower, which of the current religions do 
 you profess ? " 
 
 " I, my Lady, have them all ; the perfume of my soul rises 
 to Heaven and overcomes even the immortal gods themselves." 
 
 25 
 
37° PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 As Signora could not understand our conversation, which 
 was carried on principally in English, she conceived the idea 
 — Lord knows how ! — that we were quarreling about the 
 preeminence of our respective nations. She, therefore, be- 
 gan to praise the English and the Germans also, although 
 at heart she regarded the former as wanting sense, and the 
 latter as stupid. And she had a peculiarly bad opinion of 
 the Prussians, whose country, according to her geography, 
 lay far beyond England and Germany, while her worst ill 
 will was reserved for the King of Prussia, the great Federigo, 
 before whom, her enemy, Signora Seraphina, had danced the 
 previous year in a ballet at her benefit ; for singular enough, 
 this king, that is to say, Frederick the Great, still lives on 
 the Italian stage and in the memory of the Italian people. 
 
 "No," said my Lady, without paying the slightest attention 
 to Signora's sweet caresses and blandishments — " no, it is 
 not necessary to change this man into an ass. Why, he not 
 only changes his opinions every ten steps and continually 
 contradicts himself, but now he even turns missionary, and, 
 upon my word, I believe he is a Jesuit in disguise. I must 
 make up devout faces myself to be safe, or else he'll give me 
 over to his fellow hypocrites in Christ, to the dilettanti of the 
 Holy Inquisition, who will burn me in effigy, since the police 
 does not as yet permit them to throw people in person into 
 the fire. Oh ! honorable gentleman, dear sir, don't believe 
 that I am as intelligent as I seem to be ; indeed, I am not 
 wanting in religion, I am not a tulip, on my honor, no tulip ! 
 for heaven's sake, no tulip — I had rather believe anything ! 
 I believe now in the principal things in the Bible. I believe 
 that Abraham begat Isaac, that Isaac begat Jacob, and that 
 Jacob begat Judah, and that Judah in turn met his daughter- 
 in-law Tamar on the highway. I believe, too, that Lot 
 drank too much with his daughters. I believe that Poti- 
 phar's wife kept in her hands the robes of Joseph. I be- 
 lieve that both the elders who surprised Susanna in her 
 bath were very old. Moreover, I believe that the patriarch 
 Jacob cheated first his brother and then his father-in-law, 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 37 1 
 
 that King David gave Uriah a good appointment in the 
 army, that Solomon got himself a thousand wives and then 
 complained that all was vanity ! I believe in the Ten Com- 
 mandments, too, and even keep most of them. I do not 
 covet my neighbor's ox, nor his maid-servant, nor his cow, 
 nor his ass. I do not work on the Sabbath, the seventh day 
 on which the Lord rested ; yet, to be on the safe side, since 
 we don't know exactly which was the seventh day of rest, I 
 often do nothing through the whole week. But, as for the 
 commandments of Christ, I always obeyed the one which is 
 most important — that we should love our enemies — for, ah ! 
 those persons whom I have best loved were. always, without 
 my knowing it, my worst enemies." 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Matilda, do not weep ! " I cried, as 
 there once more darted forth a tone of the acutest anguish 
 from the most genial mockery like a serpent from a bed of 
 flowers. I well knew that tone which often thrilled the wild 
 and witty crystal heart of the strange and lovely woman, 
 powerfully it was true, but never for a long time, and I well 
 knew that it would vanish as readily as it had risen, before 
 the first jest which one would utter to her, or which would 
 flit through her own soul. While she stood leaning against 
 the monastery gate, pressing her burning cheeks against the 
 cold stone, and wiping the tears from her eyes with her long 
 hair, I tried to revive her merry mood by mystifying poor 
 Francesca ; giving the latter the most important particulars 
 of the Seven Years' war, which appeared to be to her a 
 matter of especial interest, and which she believed to be still 
 going on. I told her many interesting things of the great 
 Federigo, the witty gaiter god of Sans Souci who invented 
 the Prussian monarchy, and when young played right well 
 on the flute and made French verses. Francesca asked me 
 if the Prussians or the Germans would conquer? For, as I 
 have already intimated, she supposed the former to be an 
 entirely different race, and it is indeed common enough in 
 Italy to imply by the name " Germans " only the natives of 
 Austria. Signora was not a little astonished when I told her 
 that I myself had lived for a long time in the Capitale della 
 Prussia, that is to say in Berelino, a city which lies very far 
 up on the map, not far from the North Pole. She shuddered 
 
37 2 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 as I depicted to her the dangers to which one is there exposed 
 from the Polar bears which stray about the streets. " For, 
 dear Francesca," I explained to her, "in Spitzbergen there 
 are by far too many bears which lie there in garrison and 
 they sometimes visit Berlin, either inspired by desire to see 
 the bear and the Bassa, or else to eat a good dinner at 
 Bergermann's in the Cafe Royal — an indulgence which some- 
 times costs more money than they have with them, in which 
 case one of the bears is bound down there until his compan- 
 ions return and pay for him, whence the expression of 'to 
 bind a bear ' originated. Many bears live in the city itself ; 
 yes, some people even assert that Berlin owes its origin to 
 the bears and ought really to be called Bearlin. The town 
 bears are, however, very tame, and some of them are so highly 
 educated that they write the most beautiful tragedies and 
 compose the finest music. Wolves are also very common 
 there, but as they generally go clad in sheep's clothing on 
 account of the cold, they are difficult to recognize. Snow 
 geese 1 flutter about there and sing bravura airs, while rein- 
 deer, 2 who are dear enough to their tenants, reign with 
 undisputed sway as connoisseurs in art. On the whole the 
 Berliners live very temperately and industriously, and most 
 of them sit buried up to their navels in snow, writing works 
 of positive religion, devotional books, religious tales for daugh- 
 ters of the higher classes, catechisms, sermons for every day 
 in the year, Elohim poems, and are meanwhile very moral — 
 for they sit up to the navel in snow." 
 
 " Are the Berliners then Christians ? " cried Signora, in 
 amazement. 
 
 " Their Christianity is of a peculiar species. This religion 
 is at bottom utterly and entirely wanting in them, and they 
 are also much too reasonable to seriously practise it. But 
 as they know that Christianity is necessary in a state, so that 
 the subjects may be nicely obedient, and so that people may 
 not steal and murder too much, they endeavor with great 
 eloquence to convert at least their fellow beings to Christian- 
 ity, seeking as it were substitutes in a religion, whose main- 
 
 1 Lat. Anser hyperboraus, soft white pretty misses of the kind which 
 reminded Thackeray of rabbits. 
 
 2 Rennthiere* a reindeer. Rentirer, one who lives on his rents. 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 373 
 
 tenance is desirable to them, and whose strict practise as well 
 as profession would give them too much trouble. In this 
 dilemma, they employ the zealous service of poor Jews, who 
 are obliged to become Christians for them, and as this race will 
 do anything for gold, and for good words, they have at length 
 exercised themselves completely into the very depths of Chris- 
 tianity. Yes — so deeply that they cry out as well as the best 
 against unbelief, fight as for life and death for the Trinity, 
 believe in it even in the dog-days, rage against the naturalists, 
 slip secretly around in many lands as missionaries and spies 
 of the faith, circulate tracts, roll up their eyes better than any 
 one in the churches, make the most hypocritical faces, and 
 act piety with such success, that the old two of a trade envy is 
 beginning to show itself, and the old masters of the business 
 secretly bewail that Christianity is at present entirely in the 
 hands of the Jews." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Though Signora did not understand me, you at least, dear 
 reader, will have no difficulty in doing so. My Lady also 
 understood me, and the effect thereof was to revive her good 
 humor. But as I (I do not really know if it was done with 
 a serious expression) undertook to assert that the multitude: 
 needed a settled religion, she could not refrain from again, 
 attacking me in her peculiar manner. 
 
 "People must have a religion ! " she cried. " Always must: 
 I hear that text preached by a thousand stupid, and by endless , 
 thousands of hypocritical lips — " 
 
 " And yet, my Lady, it is true. As the mother cannot an- 
 swer every question to the child with truth, because its power 
 of comprehension is not sufficient, so in like manner there 
 must be a positive religion, a church which can answer for 
 the people according to their comprehension, and reduce to. 
 the test of the senses all such questions as transcend sensa- 
 tion." 
 
 " Oh, misery ! Doctor, your very comparison puts me in, 
 mind of a story which in its application is not very favorable 
 to your theory. While I was yet young in Dublin — " 
 
374 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 " And lay on your back — " 
 
 " Pshaw ! Doctor, there's no speaking a reasonable word 
 with you — stop laughing at me, I say, in that indecent way 
 and listen. While I was still young in Dublin and sat at my 
 mother's feet, I once asked what people did with the old full 
 moons. ' My dear child,' said mother, ' the Lord breaks the 
 old moons to pieces with the sugar hammer, and makes little 
 stars of them.' One shouldn't blame my mother for telling 
 such a story, for with the very best astronomical knowledge, 
 she could never have explained to me the whole system of 
 the sun, moon and stars, and she accordingly answered the 
 supernatural question in a natural way. But it would have 
 been better had she put off the question until I was older, or 
 at least told me the plain truth. For when I afterwards was 
 looking with little Lucy at the full moon, and explained to 
 her how stars were to be made from it, she laughed at me 
 and said that her grandmother, old Mrs. O'Meara, had told 
 her that the full moons were eaten in hell for fire melons, and 
 because there was no sugar there, they sprinkled them with 
 pepper and salt As Lucy had at first laughed at my naive 
 evangelic opinion, so I now laughed at her gloomy catholic 
 idea, from laughing we got to fighting ; we scratched, and we 
 spit at each other in the real polemic style, until little O'Don- 
 nell came out of school and separated us. This boy had been 
 better instructed than we in the heavenly science, he under- 
 stood mathematics, and calmly explained to us our mutual 
 errors, and the folly of our quarrel. And what was the 
 result ? Why we two girls at once stopped our quarrel, and 
 united our forces to give the quiet little mathematician a good 
 beating." 
 
 " My Lady, I am troubled, grieved at what you say, for 
 you are in the right. But matters can't be changed, people 
 will always go on fighting as to the preeminence of the con- 
 ceptions of religion which were first instilled into their minds, 
 and the reasonable men among them will thereby be doomed 
 to double suffering. Once, of course, things were different, 
 when it never occurred to any one to extol particularly the 
 doctrines or solemnity of his religion, or to press it on any 
 one. Religion was a dear and beautiful tradition, holy narra- 
 tives, commemorative festivals and mysteries were handed 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 375 
 
 down from ancestors as the sacred family rites of the people, 
 and it would have been a harsh and cruel thing for a Greek, 
 if a foreigner, not of his race, had demanded fellowship in 
 the same religion with him ; and it would have seemed to him 
 a still more inhuman thing to induce any one, by compulsion 
 or cunning, to give up the religion to which he was born, and 
 to substitute for it a strange one. But there came a race 
 from Egypt, from the fatherland of the crocodile and of 
 priesthood, and in addition to cutaneous diseases, and the 
 stolen vessels of gold and silver, this race brought with it a 
 so-called positive religion, a so-called church, a structure of 
 dogmas, in which men must believe, and holy ceremonies 
 which men must celebrate — the first type of later religions 
 of state. Then arose the endless finding of faults in human 
 nature, the making of proselytes, the compulsion of faith, and 
 all that holy torture which has cost the human race so much 
 blood, and so many tears." 
 
 " God damn this -primevil race ! " 
 
 " Oh, Matilda, it has long been damned, and has dragged 
 the agonies of its damnation with it for thousands of years. 
 Oh, this Egypt ! her works defy time, her pyramids still stand 
 unshattered as of old, her mummies are as imperishable as 
 ever, and not less imperishable is that mummy of a race, 
 which wanders over the world wrapped in most ancient 
 swathing bands of letters, a petrified fragment of the History 
 of the World, a specter which gets its living by trading in 
 bills of exchange and old pantaloons. My Lady, do you see 
 yonder that old man with a white beard, the point of which 
 seems to be growing black again, — a man with ghostlike 
 eyes ? " 
 
 "Are not the ruins of the old Roman graves there ? " 
 
 " Yes — and there he sits offering his prayer, a fearful 
 prayer, in which he bewails his sufferings, and accuses races 
 which have long since vanished from the earth, and now live 
 only in nursery legends — while he in his pain scarce marks 
 that he sits on the graves of those very enemies for whose 
 destruction he prays to Heaven." 
 
376 PICTURES OF TRAVEJ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 I spoke in the previous chapter of positive religions, only 
 so far as they are especially privileged by the state, as 
 churches, under the name of state religions. But there is a 
 pious dialectic, dear reader, which will prove to you in the 
 most convincing manner, that the opponent of the ecclesias- 
 tical system of such a religion of state is also an enemy of 
 religion, and of the state, an enemy of God and of the king, 
 or as the common formula reads, an enemy of the throne and 
 of the altar. But I tell you that it is a lie, I honor the real 
 holiness of every religion, and conform myself to the inter- 
 ests of the state. And if I do not render homage, and devote 
 myself to Anthropomorphism, I still believe in the power and 
 glory of God, and even though kings are so insane as to resist 
 the spirit of the people, or even so ignoble as to oppress 
 their organs by neglect and persecution, I still remain, in 
 accordance with my deepest conviction, an adherent to the 
 kingdom and to the monarchical principle. I do not hate the 
 throne, but I do those windy nothings of aristocratic vermin 
 which have nestled in the crannies of the old throne, and 
 whose character Montesquieu has described so accurately with 
 the words : " Ambition hand in hand with Indolence, Vul- 
 garity allied to Pride, the longing to become rich without 
 labor, the dislike of truth, flattery, treachery, faithlessness 
 and the breaking of words, the contempt of the duties of the 
 citizen, the fear of princely virtue, and an interest in princely 
 vice ! " I do not hate the altar, but I hate the serpents which 
 lurk amid the loose stones of the old altar ; those malignantly 
 cunning snakes which can smile innocently as flowers, while 
 they secretly spurt their poison into the cup of life, and hiss 
 slander into the ear of the pious one praying ; those glossy, 
 gliding worms with soft sweet words : — 
 
 " Mel in ore, verba lactis 
 Fel in corde, fraus in factis." 
 
 And just because I am a friend of the state and of relig- 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 377 
 
 ion, do I hate that abortion termed the religion of state. 
 If there were no such religion of state, no privilege of dogma 
 and of a religion, Germany wouid be united and strong, and 
 her sons lordly and free. But as it is, our poor Fatherland 
 is torn by divisions of creeds, the people are separated in c o 
 warring parties in religion, Protestant subjects quarrel with 
 Catholic princes, or vice versa, everywhere there is mistrust, 
 or crypto-Catholicism or crypto-Protestantism, accusations of 
 heresy, espionage of views and opinions, pietism, mysticism, 
 smelling of rats by church journals, sectarian hatred and zeal 
 for conversion, so that while we fight for heaven above, we 
 are all going to the devil here on earth below. An indiffer- 
 entism in religion would be, perhaps, the only thing which 
 could save us, and by becoming weak in faith, Germany 
 might grow politically strong. 
 
 But it is as ruinous for religion itself, and for her holy exist- 
 ence, when she is clad with privileges, and when her servants 
 are especially endowed by the state with power to represent 
 it, so that one hand as it were washes the other, the religious 
 the worldly, and vice versa, from which a wish-wash results 
 which is to the blessed Lord a folly, and to man a torture. 
 If the state has opponents, they will become foes to the relig- 
 ion which confers privileges on the state, and consequently 
 renders them allies ; and even the innocent believer will be- 
 come mistrustful when he detects political objects in religion. 
 But the most repulsive of all is the pride of the priests when 
 they, for the service which they think they have done the 
 state, presume to count upon the support of the latter, and 
 when they in return for the spiritual fetters which they have 
 lent the state to bind the people, betake themselves to the 
 protection of the state's bayonets. Religion can never sink 
 so low as when she is in such a manner raised to a relig- 
 ion of state, her last claim to innocence is then vitiated, and 
 she becomes as brazenly proud as a declared concubine. Of 
 course, more homage and assurances of reverence are then 
 made her, she every day celebrates new conquests in gleam- 
 ing processions, where even generals who once served under 
 Bonaparte bear torches, the proudest spirits swear fidelity to 
 her banner, day by day unbelievers are converted and bap- 
 tized — but all this pouring on of water butters no parsnips, 
 
378 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 and the new recruits of the religion of state are like those of 
 Falstaff — they fill the state. As for self-sacrifice no one 
 even speaks of such a thing, the missionaries with their 
 tracts and books travel about like commercial agents with 
 their samples — there is no longer any danger in the business, 
 and all goes on in a regular mercantile economical form. 
 
 Only so long as religions are rivals and more persecuted 
 than persecutors, are they noble and worthy of honor, and 
 only then do we find inspiration, sacrifice, martyrs and palms. 
 How beautiful, how holy and lovely, how strangely sweet was 
 the Christianity of the early ages while it as yet resembled its 
 divine Founder in the heroism of suffering ! Then there was 
 still the legend of a god, all their own, who, in the form of a 
 gentle youth, wandered under the palms of Palestine and 
 preached human love, and set forth those doctrines of freedom 
 and of equality, which at a later day were recognized as true 
 by the reason of the greatest thinkers, and which as a French 
 gospel inspired our age. But let any one compare that 
 religion of Christ with the different Christianities which have 
 been formed in different countries as religions of state — for 
 instance, the Roman Apostolic Catholic Church, or even that 
 Catholicism without poetry which we see ruling as " High 
 Church of England," that dismal, crumbling skeleton of faith 
 from which all fresh life has departed! The monopoly of 
 system is as injurious to religions as to trades, they are only 
 strong and energetic by free competition, and they will again 
 bloom up in their primitive purity and beauty so soon as the 
 political equality of the Lord's service, or, so to speak, as soon 
 as the trades-freedom of the divinities, is introduced. 
 
 The noblest-minded men in Europe have long since asserted 
 that this is the only means to preserve religion from an utter 
 overthrow ; but its present servants would sooner sacrifice the 
 altar itself than the least thing which is sacrificed on it; just 
 as the nobility would sooner give up to utter destruction the 
 throne and the illustrious Highness seated thereon, than that 
 he should seriously give up the most improper of his proper 
 privileges. But is the affected interest for throne and altar 
 only a mocking show played off before the people ? He who 
 has been behind the scenes and peeped into the mysteries of 
 the business, knows that the priests do not so much as the 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 379 
 
 laity respect that God, whom they, for their own profit and at 
 will knead from bread and words, and that the nobility respect 
 the king much less than a serf would have them do, and that 
 they in their hearts scorn and despise even that royalty for 
 which they in public manifest so much honor, and seek to 
 awaken respect in others ; in fact, they resemble those people 
 who exhibit for money to the gaping public in booths on the 
 market-place, a Hercules, or a giant, or a dwarf, or a savage, 
 or a fire-eater, or some other remarkable man of whom they 
 praise the strength, size, bravery and invulnerability ; or if he 
 is a dwarf, his wisdom. All this they do with the most 
 incredible readiness of speech, blowing at times their trumpet, 
 and wearing a gaily colored jacket, while in their hearts they 
 laugh at the ready faith of the staring people, and mock the 
 poor be-praised subject, who by dint of daily intercourse has 
 become very uninteresting to them, and whose weaknesses and 
 whose arts acquired by training they understand only too 
 accurately. 
 
 Whether the blessed Lord will long suffer the priests to pass 
 off a bugbear for him, and make money by the show, is more 
 than I know; at least it would cause me no surprise if I should 
 some day read in the " Hamburg Impartial Correspondent," 
 that the old Jehovah warns every one against giving credit in 
 his name to any one, no matter who he be, or even to his 
 own son. But I am convinced — and time will show it — that 
 there will come a day when kings will no longer submit to be 
 the show puppets of their high-born despisers, when they will 
 burst loose from etiquette, and break down the marble booths 
 in which they are shown. Then they will disdainfully cast 
 aside the shining frippery intended to impose upon the people, 
 the red mantle which terrified, in such a headsman-like man- 
 ner, the diamond tiara which was pulled over their ears that 
 they might not hear the voices of the people, the golden rod 
 given as a sham sign of supremacy into their hands — and the 
 kings set free will become free as other men, and walk freely 
 among them, and feel free, and marry free, and express their 
 opinions freely, and that will be the emancipation of monarchs. 
 
380 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 But what are the aristocrats to do when they have been 
 robbed of their crowned means of subsistence, when kings are 
 a special property of the people, maintaining an honorable and 
 stable government according to the will of the people — the 
 only source of all power ? What will the priests do when kings 
 perceive that a little consecrated oil cannot make any human 
 head guillotine proof, just as the people on their part learn from 
 day to day that no one can grow fat on sacramental wafers ? 
 Well, of course nothing will then remain for the aristocracy 
 and clergy, save to join hands, and cabal and intrigue against 
 the new order of things in this world. 
 
 Vain efforts ! The age like a fiery giantess tranquilly 
 advances, giving no heed to the chatter of the snappish priest- 
 lings and lordlings down below. How they howl whenever 
 one of them has burnt his snout on the foot of the giantess, 
 or when she has trodden unwittingly upon a head or two, so 
 that the dark reactionary poison spurts forth ! Then their 
 vindictiveness turns all the more bitterly against single chil- 
 dren of the age, and, powerless against the mass, they seek to 
 assuage their cowardly spark of spirit on individuals. 
 
 Ah ! we must confess that many a poor child of the age 
 feels none the less the stabs which he receives in the dark, 
 from lurking lords and priests, and oh ! though a glory gathers 
 around the wounds of the conqueror, yet they still bleed and 
 smart ! It is a strange martyrdom, that which such con- 
 querors endure in our days, and one which cannot be done 
 away with by bold confession, as in those early ages when 
 the martyrs found a speedy scaffold, or the burning pile with 
 its wild hurrahs ! The spirit of martyrdom to sacrifice all 
 earthly things for a heavenly jest, is still the same as ever; 
 but it has lost much of its deepest cheerfulness of faith, it has 
 become rather a resigned endurance, a firm holding out, a 
 lifelong dying, and it even happens that in cold gray hours 
 even the holiest martyrs are assailed by doubts. There is 
 nothing so terrible as hours like those wherein Marcus Bru- 
 tus began to doubt the reality of that virtue for which he had 
 suffered all things. And, ah ! he was a Roman who lived in 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 38 1 
 
 the palmy days of the Stoa ; but we are of modern softer 
 stuff, and withal we witness the successful course of a philos- 
 ophy, which grants to any inspiration whatever only a rela- 
 tive significance, and thus in itself annihilates it, or at any 
 rate neutralizes it into a self-conscious Don Quixotery. 
 
 The cool, calm, cunning philosophers ! How compassion- 
 ately they smile on the self-torture and mad freaks of a poor 
 Don Quixote, yet with all their school wisdom do not perceive 
 that this Don Quixotery is the most laudable thing in life, 
 yes, life itself, and that it inspires to bolder effort the whole 
 world, and all in it which philosophizes, plays, plants and 
 gapes ! For the great mass of the people, with the philoso- 
 phers, is, without knowing it, nothing but a colossal Sancho 
 Panza who, despite all his sober dread of whippings, and 
 homely wisdom, still follows the knight in all his dangerous 
 adventures, lured by the promised reward in which he believes, 
 because he longs for it, but still more attracted by the mystic 
 power which enthusiasm always exerts on the masses — as 
 we see in all political and religious revolutions, and it may be. 
 also, daily in the smallest events. 
 
 Thus, for example, you, dear reader, are in spite of your- 
 self the Sancho Panza of the insane poet, whom you follow 
 through the erratic mazes of this book — it may be while 
 shaking your head misgivingly — but whom you still follow. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Strange ! " The Life and Deeds of the Sagacious Knight 
 Don Quixote de la Mancha," written by Don Miguel de Cer- 
 vantes Saavedra, was the first book which I read after I had 
 attained a tolerably boy age of discretion, and had become to 
 a certain degree familiar with the nature of letters. I can 
 well remember the bit of leisure time, when I early one morn- 
 ing stole away from home, and hastened to the Court Garden, 
 that I might read " Don Quixote " without being disturbed. It 
 was a beautiful May-day, the blooming Spring lay lurking in 
 the silent morning light, listening to the sweet praises of her 
 flatterer the nightingale, and the bird sang so softly and 
 
382 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 caressingly, with such melting enthusiasm, that the most 
 shamefaced buds sprang into life, and the love-longing grass 
 and the sun-rays quivering in perfume kissed more hurriedly, 
 and trees and flowers trembled for sheer rapture. But I sat 
 myself down on an old mossy stone bench in the so-called 
 "walk of sighs," and solaced my little heart with the great 
 adventures of the daring knight. In my childish uprightness 
 of heart, I took it all in sober earnest, and ridiculously as the 
 poor hero was treated by luck, I still thought that it was a mat- 
 ter of course, and must be so, the being laughed at as well as 
 being wounded, and that troubled me sadly as I sympathized 
 with it all in my soul. I was a child, and knew nothing of 
 the irony which God had twined into his world as he created 
 it — and I could have found it in my heart to weep the bit- 
 terest tears, when the noble knight, for all his heroic courage, 
 received only ingratitude and blows ; and as I, who was as 
 yet unpractised in reading, pronounced every word aloud, it 
 was possible for birds and trees, brook and flowers, to hear 
 everything with me, and as such innocent beings of nature 
 know as little as children of the irony of the great world, they 
 took it all for sober earnest, and wept with me over the sor- 
 rows of the poor knight ; even a worn-out old oak sighed 
 deeply, and a waterfall shook more rapidly his white beard 
 and seemed to scold at the wickedness of the world. We felt 
 that the heroic will of the knight was not the less worthy of 
 admiration, when the lion turned tail on him without wishing 
 to fight, and that his deeds were the more praiseworthy in 
 proportion to the weakness and meagerness of his frame, the 
 brittleness of his armor, and the worthlessness of his palfrey. 
 We despised the base mob who treated him with such thrash- 
 ing rudeness, and still more that mob of a higher rank, which, 
 ornamented with gay silk attire, aristocratic phrase and ducal 
 titles, scorned a man who was in strength of soul so immeas- 
 urably their superior. Dulcinea's Knight rose higher in my 
 estimation, and gained more and more in my love, the more I 
 read in that wondrous book — and that I did every day in the 
 same garden, so that by the Autumn I had concluded the 
 story — and never, in all my life, shall I forget the day on 
 which I read of the sorrowful combat wherein the knight was 
 so shamefully subdued ! 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 383 
 
 It was a gloomy day, hideous clouds swept along the gray 
 heaven, the yellow leaves fell painfully from the trees, heavy 
 tears hung on the last flowers, which fading in sorrow sank 
 their dying heads, the nightingales had long been silent, the 
 image of all things passing away stared at me still and death- 
 like on every side, — and my head was all but broken as I 
 read how the noble knight lay bewildered and crushed on the 
 ground, and without removing his vizor spoke with weak and 
 sickly voice to the victor as though from the grave : " Dul- 
 cinea is the fairest woman in the world, and I am the most 
 unfortunate Knight on earth, but it is not fit that my weak- 
 ness should give the lie to this truth — so on with thy lance, 
 Knight ! " 
 
 Ah ! this gleaming Knight of the silver moon, who con- 
 quered the bravest and noblest man in the world, was a dis- 
 guised barber ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 That was all long, long ago. Many fresh springs have 
 bloomed since then, but they were all wanting in their great- 
 est charm, for alas ! I no longer believe in the sweet false- 
 hoods of the nightingale, the flatterer of Spring, I know how 
 quickly its bloom passes away, and when I see the latest 
 rosebuds, I see them blooming forth glowing with pain, grow- 
 ing pale and scattering in the wind. On every hand I per- 
 ceive a winter in disguise. 
 
 But in my breast that flaming love still blooms which rises 
 full of longing over the whole earth and sweeps dreamily and 
 wildly through the yawning realms of heaven, is struck back 
 by the cold stars, sinking again to this little ball of earth, and 
 which with sighs and shouts of exultation must confess that 
 in all creation there is nothing more beautiful or better than 
 the heart of man. This love is Inspiration, ever of a divine 
 nature whether her deeds be of folly or of wisdom. And so 
 it happened that the little boy by no means lavished those 
 tears in vain, which he shed over the sorrows of the mad 
 knight, any more, indeed, than the youth did in later years, 
 when he many a night in his narrow study wept over the 
 
3 §4 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 death of the holiest heroes of liberty — over King Agis of 
 Sparta, over Caius and Tiberius Gracchus of Rome, over 
 Jesus of Jerusalem, and over Robespierre and Saint Just of 
 Paris. Now that I have donned the toga virilis, and must 
 myself be a man, there is an end to weeping, and the busi- 
 ness in hand is to act like a man, after the manner of great 
 predecessors, and if God so wills to be wept in turn in future 
 years by boys and youths. Yes — these are the ones on 
 whom we may count in this cold age ; for they will be in- 
 spired by the gloomy breath which is wafted to them from 
 ancient lore, and it is thus that they appreciate the hearts of 
 flame of the present age. Youth is unselfish in thought and 
 in feeling, and therefore thinks and feels the truth most 
 deeply, and is not backward when a bold participation in 
 faith or deed is called for. Older people are selfish and 
 small-souled ; they think more of the interest of their money 
 than of the interest of mankind; they let their little boat 
 swim calmly along in the gutter of life, troubling themselves 
 but little as to the sailor who on the high seas fights the 
 billows, or they creep with sticky obstinacy to the summit of 
 a mayoralty, or to the presidency of a club, and shrug their 
 shoulders at the images of heroes which the storm cast down 
 from the pillars of renown, telling, perhaps, meanwhile, how 
 they too, when young, also ran their heads against the wall, 
 but that they afterwards made friends with the wall because 
 the wall was the Absolute, that which was appointed so to 
 be, the existing in and for itself, that which because it is, is 
 also reasonable, and that, therefore, he is unreasonable who 
 will not endure a sublimely reasonable undeniably exist- 
 ing, firmly grounded Absolutism. Alas! these rejecters and 
 challengers, who philosophize us into a mild servitude, are 
 always more worthy of regard than the rejected, who, in the 
 defense of despotism, never take stand on the reasonable 
 ground of reason, but strong in their familiarity with history 
 defend it as a right of prescription and custom with which 
 men have gradually grown familiar in the course of time, 
 and which is now legally and equitably impregnable. 
 
 Perhaps you are in the right, and I am only a Don 
 Quixote, and the reading of all manner of strange books has 
 turned my head as the Knight of La Mancha's was turned, 
 
THE CITY OF LUCCA 385 
 
 and Jean Jacques Rousseau was my Amadis de Gaul, Mira- 
 beau was my Roldan or Agramanto, and I have studied too 
 deeply in the heroic deeds of the French Paladins, and of the 
 Round Table of the National Convention. It is true that my 
 madness and the fixed ideas which I have gathered from 
 those books are of a diametrically different description from 
 the monomania and madness of the Manchan. He was 
 desirous of restoring decaying chivalry to its pristine splendor, 
 while I, on the contrary, would utterly destroy all that there 
 is as yet remaining from those days ; and we, consequently, 
 work with views at utter variance. My colleague regarded 
 windmills as giants — I, however, in the braggart giants of 
 the day see only noisy windmills ; he thought that leathern 
 wine sacks were mighty magicians, while I, in our contempo- 
 rary enchanters, see nothing but leather-headed wine sacks ; 
 he took beggarly pot-houses for castles, ass drivers for cava- 
 liers, low women for court ladies — while I take our castles 
 for mere inns for blackguards, our knights for ass drivers, 
 our court ladies for common women, and as he mistook 
 a puppet-show for the deeds of a state, so do I regard our 
 state deeds as mere puppet comedies ; yet just as bravely 
 as the bold Knight of La Mancha do I let drive into the 
 wooden trash. Ah ! such a heroic deed often costs me as 
 much as it did him, and I must like him often suffer much 
 for the honor of my lady. If I would only be false to her 
 from fear or base avarice, I might live comfortably in this 
 absolute existing reasonable world, and I could lead some 
 lovely Maritornes to the altar, and be blessed by sleek magi- 
 cians and banquet with noble ass drivers, and beget harmless 
 novels and the like base little slaves ! Instead of that, 
 adorned with the three colors of my lady, I must constantly 
 be taking my place on the combating ground, and dash 
 onward through fearful toil and tumult — and I fight my 
 way through no victory which does not also cost me some 
 heart's blood. By day and night I am in extremity, for 
 those enemies are so treacherous that many whom I long 
 ago struck down to death still give themselves the guise of 
 living forms, and, changing into every shape, weary and dis- 
 gust me by day and by night. How many sufferings have 
 I endured through these wretched ghosts ! Where love 
 26 
 
386 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 bloomed for me, they stole in, the false stealthy specters, and 
 broke even the most innocent buds. Everywhere, and most 
 unexpectedly, I found on the ground their silvery trace of 
 slime, and unless I beware I may slip on it to my destruction 
 in the house of the nearest and dearest love. You may 
 laugh, and regard such anxious feeling as to idle phantoms 
 as the delusions of a Don Quixote. But imagined woes pain 
 none the less, and if one believes that he has drunk hemlock, 
 he may waste away, and at least certainly will not fatten on 
 the thought. And it is a slander to say, that I have grown 
 fat on it ; at least, I have as yet gained no fat sinecure, though 
 I have the talent which would qualify me for one. As for 
 fat, my fatality drives every trace of it from me. I fancy 
 that every means has been taken to keep me lean ; when I 
 hungered they fed me with snakes ; when I thirsted they 
 gave me wormwood to drink, and they poured hell into my 
 heart till I wept poison and sighed fire. Yes — they stole by 
 night into my very dreams — and there I see horrible 
 specters, the noble lackey faces with gnashing teeth, the 
 threatening banker noses, the deadly eyes glaring from cowls, 
 the white ruffled hands with gleaming knives. 
 
 Even the old lady who lives next to me, my neighbor 
 through the wall, thinks that I am insane, and declares that 
 I talk the maddest stuff in my sleep, and that last night she 
 distinctly heard me call out that, " Dulcinea is the fairest 
 woman in the world, and I am the most unfortunate Knight 
 on earth, but it is not fit that my weakness should give the 
 lie to this truth — so on with thy lance, Knight ! " 
 
POSTSCRIPT 
 
 (NOVEMBER, 1830) 
 
 I DO not know what the peculiar feeling of reverence 
 was, which impelled me to modify even the most trivial 
 of several expressions in the foregoing pages, which on 
 a subsequent reading appeared to be rather too harsh. The 
 manuscript had already become as yellow as a corpse, and I 
 could not persuade myself to mutilate it. Everything which 
 has been written for years seems to have an inherent right to 
 remain uninjured — even these pages, which to a certain 
 degree belong to a dark past. For they were written nearly 
 a year before the third Hegira of the Bourbons, at a time 
 which was harsher than the harshest phrase, a time when it 
 seemed as if the battle for liberty might yet be delayed for a 
 century. It was, to say the least, a matter for critical and 
 nice reflection, when we saw our knightly nobility looking so 
 confident — how they had their faded coats of arms freshly 
 painted, how they tourneyed with shield and spear at Munich 
 and Potsdam, and how they sat so proudly on their high 
 steeds as though they would ride to Quedlinburg to have 
 themselves retouched by Gottfried Basse. 
 
 Still more insufferable were the triumphant and treacherous 
 eyes of our priests, who hid their long ears so slyly under 
 their cowls, that we continually anticipated the most deadly 
 wiles. No one could know beforehand that the noble knights 
 would shoot so wretchedly wide of the mark, and generally 
 from an ambuscade, or at least in galloping away with averted 
 heads, like flying Bashkirs. Just as little could one know 
 beforehand that the serpent-like sagacity of our priests could 
 be so brought to shame — ah ! it is enough to awaken one's 
 pity to see how stupidly they use their best poison, and how in 
 their rage they throw the arsenic in great lumps at our heads, 
 instead of sprinkling it by the ounce and amiably in our 
 soup ; how they rummage among the long-forgotten children's 
 
 387 
 
388 PICTURES OF TRAVEL 
 
 clothes of their enemies to discover some obsolete baby wrap- 
 pings from which to nose out trouble, how they even rake 
 the fathers of their enemies out of their graves to see if they 
 perhaps were baptized — oh, the fools ! who imagine that they 
 have discovered that the lion belongs to the feline race, and 
 with this natural historical discovery go hissing about so long, 
 that finally the great cat exemplifies the ex ungne leonem on 
 their own flesh ! Oh ! the obscure wights upon whom no 
 light shines until they hang in person on the lamp-post ! 
 With the entrails of an ass would I string my lyre that I 
 might worthily sing them — the shorn blockheads ! 
 
 A mighty joy seizes on me ! While I sit and write, music 
 sounds under my window, and in the elegiac grimness of the 
 long drawn out melody, I recognize that Marseilles hymn with 
 which the beautiful Barbaroux and his companions greeted 
 the city of Paris, that rans des vaches of liberty, whose tones 
 gave the Swiss in the Tuileries the homesickness, that trium- 
 phant death song of the Gironde — the old sweet cradle song. 
 
 What a song ! It shudders through me with fire and joy, 
 and lights up in me the glowing stars of inspiration, and the 
 rockets of scorn and mockery. Yes, they shall not be want- 
 ing in the great fireworks of the age. Ringing fire streams 
 of song shall pour forth in bold cascades from the summit of 
 Freedom's revels ; as the Ganges leaps from Himalaya ! And 
 thou, dear Satyra, daughter of the just Themis and of goat- 
 footed Pan, lend me thine aid, for thou art by the mother's 
 side of Titanic blood, and hatest like me the enemies of thy 
 kin, the weak usurpers of Olympus. Lend me the sword of 
 thy mother that I may execute the hated brood, and give me 
 the pipes of thy father that I therewith may pipe them to 
 death. 
 
 Already they hear the deathly piping, and panic fears seize 
 them, and they again take to flight in bestial forms as of old, 
 when we piled Pelion upon Ossa. 
 
 " Aux armes citoyens ! " 
 
 They did great injustice to us poor Titans, when they blamed 
 the dark ferocity with which we raged upward in that storm- 
 ing of heaven — ah ! down there in Tartarus it was terrible 
 and dark; we heard there only the howls of Cerberus and 
 
POSTSCRIPT 389 
 
 the rattling of chains, and it is pardonable if we appear 
 somewhat savage, in comparison with those divinities, comme 
 il faut, who so refined and elegant in manners enjoyed in the 
 cheerful saloons of Olympus so much exquisite nectar and so 
 many sweet concerts given by the Muses. 
 
 I can write no more, for the music under my window intoxi- 
 cates my head, and still more forcibly am I moved by the 
 refrain. 
 
 "Aux armes citoyens!" 
 
31+77-9 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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