Many tribes of the great John Bull family appear, of late years, to have abjured “red port” and “brown stout,” in favour of several breweries on the Continent, and especially in Germany. These breweries are deeply seated in the bowels of the Earth, and the art and mystery of their brewings are far beyond the sight and cognizance of man. Whether cocculus Indicus, logwood, sloe-juice, or opium enter into their gigantic vats and boiling cauldrons, it is hard to say; but, however manufactured, they are thrown up on the surface of our globe, pro bono publico—greatly to the detriment of doctors, druggists, and apothecaries, in this and in many other countries.

The subterranean distilleries are conducted on the homoeopathic principle—viz. that of employing the minutest quantities of active materials—probably in order to do the least possible harm. They have many and great advantages over the homoeopathic laboratories. They diffuse their ingredients through such immense potions of water, that, to get at a few grains of the former, we are obliged to ingurgitate some quarts of the latter. Now the mere mechanical flow of such prodigious doses of fluid through the various outlets—the bowels, kidneys, skin, &c. must sweep away morbid secretions, and contribute to the breaking down of obstructions in different organs, independently of the medicinal agents that are diffused through the mass of liquids in the greatest possible state of division and solution—circumstances which enable them to permeate and penetrate through innumerable capillary tubes and complicated glandular apparatuses, where grosser materials could never reach.

The natural fountains of Hygeia, however, have other advantages and auxiliaries, of which the laboratory of the chemist, and the pharmacy of the practitioner are deprived. Hope itself, though often resting on fallacious and exaggerated histories of cures, contributes much to the accomplishment of even marvellous recoveries. The severing, or even relaxing of that chain which binds care round the human heart, and augments the sufferings and the progress of disease, is no mean ally of the spa. It is true indeed, that the “splendid misery” of the great, and the corroding grief of the exile, cannot be thrown off by change of climate—

But the valetudinarian in pursuit of health, is somewhat differently circumstanced. The change of scene and air—of food and drink—of rising and retiring—of exercise and conversation—in short, of the whole moral and physical conditions around him, effect, in many cases, such a mental and corporeal improvement, as makes easy work for the mineral waters—especially when the extreme dilution of their contents is taken into consideration.

Let it not be supposed, however, that this picture is without any reverse. Many diseases—especially organic ones—are aggravated by the journey to a distant spa—by the imprudent use of the water—by the warm or hot bathing—by the enthusiasm or rather hydromania, of the spa-doctor, who, having little acquaintance with the constitution of the patient, extols his favourite spring, and recommends it in almost every complaint. To separate probabilities from improbabilities, and impossibilities from both, will be attempted occasionally in the following pages, as we pass in review some of the principal resorts of invalids on both sides of the Rhine.

THE STEAMER.

The Batavier, all humps and hollows—the reverse of what one would expect in anything Batavian—and as ugly a black whale as ever floundered through an Arctic Ocean, received an ample cargo on the 3rd. of August 183—. I shall not attempt to minutely analyse such a numerous as well as motley group, on the short acquaintance of twenty-six hours. It was pretty evident, however, that we had on board representatives of various classes of society—more especially of the arts, sciences, and professions. The lawyer had left his clients to live in peace—the doctor had left his patients to die in peace:—and the pastor had committed his flock to some vicarious shepherd. The merchant had handed his ledger, and the banker his money-shovel to their clerks—and it seemed as though half the shopocracy had left their counters in care of the shopmen.

All was bustle and confusion among the steamers starting for various destinations—and I verily believe that the inhabitants of Pompeii did not rush in greater haste or in greater numbers to the sea, when chased by the ashes and lava of Vesuvius, than did the inhabitants of the metropolis to the banks of the Thames on this beautiful morning! There were to be seen senators, who had patriotically injured their own constitutions while reforming that of their country—tailors from Bond Street, going to Vienna and Athens to measure the “Corinthian pillars of the state,” on the philosophical principles of Laputa—aldermen from Bucklersbury, to exude a portion of green fat and callipash in the valleys of Switzerland—geological chemists, with hammers, bags, and blow-pipes, bound for the mountains of Taunus to ascertain the age of Mother Earth, by means of the fish-bones, oyster-shells, and pebbles, which she had swallowed at some of her grand suppers—antiquarians journeying to the Roman forum to disinter the bones of M. Curtius and his horse, which had lain so long in their marble cerements—engineers from a new joint-stock company to survey a line of rail-road over the Great St. Bernard—candidates for the Traveller’s Club, going to qualify by crossing some pons asinorum over the Danube—tourists of all calibres; some to make a tour simply; some to write a tour badly; but the greater number to talk of a tour afterwards—nabobs from the East; some with the complexion of a star pagoda; some as pallid as a sicca rupee; and others as blue as Asiatic cholera—Cantabs, with their tutors, going to study spherics among the Alps of Oberland—Oxonians, to collate Greek and gibberish among the Ionian Isles—Missionaries from Paternoster-row and Albemarle-street, to convert foolscap into food for circulating libraries, and the “bitter wassers” of Germany into Burgundy and Champaigne for themselves—Conservatives flying from the “West-end,” to preserve the remnants of a shattered constitution—landlords from Green Erin going to spend their rack-rents in the fashionable saloons of Baden Baden—rouÉ’s from St. James’s, repairing, as a forlorn hope, to the Cur-saals (anglice, Cursed Hells) of Nassau and Bavaria—bacchanals, debauchees, and gourmands, hastening to Kissengen and Carlsbad, in hopes of restoring their jaded appetites and reducing their tumid livers—Judges from Westminster, who, in all actions of “Rus versus Urbem,” had lately determined in favour of the plaintiff, without reference to the jury—Bishops, who had left their black aprons on the Banks of the Thames, to have a peep at the lady with scarlet petticoats on the banks of the Tyber—aspiring youths of enlarged views and high pretensions, determined to see the world from the summit of Mont Blanc—pallid beauties, from Portman Square, with their anxious mammas, bound to Ems and Schwalbach, in hopes of transmuting their lillies into roses, by exchanging the midnight waltz for the “mittag” meal, and fiery port for the sparkling “wein-brunnen”—faded belles and shattered beaux, of certain and uncertain ages, repairing to Schlangenbad, for satin surfaces and renewal of youth. We had members of both houses who had inhaled sulphuretted hydrogen gas to such an extent, in St. Stephens, during the session, as to cause violent explosions of malodorous philippics, to the great annoyance of their opposite neighbours:—these were on their way to the Alps for pure air before the next eruption. Here were seen veterans from the “United Service,” whose memories had survived their hopes, bound on a pilgrimage to Waterloo and Camperdown, to heave a last sigh over the setting sun of martial glory, and the degenerate Æra of insipid peace. Here were whigs, tories, radicals and revolutionists; together with men of high church, low church, and no church doctrines, but all (incredible to relate) unanimously agreed on one principle, that of the “mouvement.”[2]

These and hundreds, not to say thousands of others, whose avocations, objects, and pursuits were only known to themselves—

were rushing to the Thames, and deserting the Metropolis, as though it were the “City of the Plague,” or the seat of Asiatic cholera.

But to return to the Batavier. Honour to the man who first applied steam to locomotion. His ingenuity has enabled him to distil from water a light vapour which conquers the ocean from whence it sprang. It more than half diminishes the terror of the sea and the miseries of the voyage. It brings Lisbon and Gibraltar within the same distance of London as Edinburgh used to be. Though lighter than the air we breathe, it can resist the impetuosity of the heaviest storm, and stem the torrent of the most rapid river. It has nearly broken the trident of Neptune, and owns little allegiance to his sceptre. Steam may now say to the watery god, what the ocean monarch once said to a brother deity—

Æolus may unchain the winds—Boreas may bluster, and Auster may weep; but steam heeds them not. Resistance only lends it strength, and oppression elasticity. The offspring of eternal and implacable enemies (fire and water), its birth is invariably and necessarily fatal to its parents. The new Being thus generated is as gigantic in power as it is transitory in existence. Imprisoned for a moment, it bursts its barriers—regains its liberty—and dies! But these struggles for freedom work the iron wings that impel the monster steamer through the briny waves. Deep in the womb of this moving volcano, we see the fires of Ætna glowing—cauldrons boiling—pumps playing—chains clanking—Ixion’s wheels incessantly revolving—steam roaring—and volumes of smoke belched upwards, to darken the skies with artificial clouds. Could some of our forefathers rise from their graves, and behold a steamer flying over the waves against wind and tide, and without oar or sail, they would be not a little astonished, and curious enough to know the name of the planet to which they had been wafted after leaving their native earth.

THE SEA.

Campbell, our immortal poet, has dedicated an amatory epistle to the sea, descriptive of her various charms. When in good humour, no lady has a smoother face, or a more smiling countenance, and she then well deserves the title of “mirror of the stars,” which the bard has gallantly conferred on her. But when ruffled in temper, she is one of the veriest termagants I have ever encountered. She will then fret and foam—aye, and proceed from words to blows, knocking about her friends and her foes, like stock-fish.

Many have been the philtres and objurgations proposed for securing her “crispid smiles,” and obviating her “luxurious heavings;” but few of them are of any value. I have found it best to lie down, bandage my eyes, and let the angry Goddess have her own way. In the present instance her marine majesty was in a singularly mild mood, during the passage. A nautilus might have spread his sail and gone to sleep in safety. We approached the low sand hills concealing a still lower surface of country—struck on the Brill—and after two or three rolls, the Batavier tumbled like a whale into the Maas. We were soon abreast of Schiedam, whence volumes of smoke and vapour redolent of gin were wafted over us by the northern breeze, while a hundred windmills were whirling round as far as the eye could reach. It is curious that in Holland, the most watery country in the world, grain is ground by means of wind; while in Switzerland, the most windy country in Europe, corn is ground by means of water. A moment’s reflection clears up the paradox. In Holland, water sleeps during seven days in the week, unmolested, save by the occasional crawling of the trackschuyt:—in Switzerland, every stream leaps joyously from rock to rock, grinding the corn, washing the linen, spinning the flax, turning the lathes, and performing a hundred domestic services.

ROTTERDAM.

In a few hours after passing the Brill, we arrived at the most bustling and thriving town in Holland. A protracted line of shipping, receiving and discharging their cargoes—an even jetty or quay, planted with majestic trees—and a long row of noble-looking houses facing the river, preclude all view of Rotterdam. It is impossible to get a prospect of any Dutch town except from its highest steeple. Immediately, as is my custom, I ascended the spire of St. Lawrence’s cathedral, and there enjoyed a magnificent coup-d’oeil of the fine sea-port, and the adjacent country, as far as the Hague. Each street is a kind of duplicate (double portrait) of the quay: the centre of almost every one being Macadamized, not with granite or gravel, but with the masts, yards, decks, and high bugger-luggs of ships. This species of Macadamization not being the most convenient for carriages or pedestrians, the broad trottoirs on each side, roughly paved and thickly planted, serve for all kinds of viators, and must give ample encouragement to corn-cutters, blacksmiths, veterinary surgeons, and coach-builders.

Nine-tenths of the houses present their gable-ends to the street—a high flight of steps leading to the hall—and a coach door at the side, leading to the court. Each mansion (where there is not an open shop) is a merchant’s castle, flanked with warehouses filled with goods, neatly furnished, and kept remarkably clean. The inhabitants differ from those of an English town much less than the inhabitants of any other continental city. The women are far more fair and handsome than either the French, Germans, or Italians—and the word “comfort,” unintelligible in any language but our own, is practically legible in every street of Rotterdam.

I made my bow to the statue of Erasmus, though the name called up some scholastic recollections, not of the most pleasant kind, as connected with his Naufragium: after which, we perambulated this city of “ships, colonies, and commerce,” till a late hour in the evening.

From the moment that John Bull first sets foot on any part of the Continent between Scandinavia and Cape Coast Castle, he begins to pay daily the penalty of early-acquired and long-continued bad habits. But this is not all. Some of his good habits stand in the way of his comfort and health. The sooner he makes up his mind to the change, the better. And first, of sleep. If he means to enjoy the blessings of “tired Nature’s sweet restorer,” he must repair to his chamber as soon as possible after the sun has taken his evening bath in the Atlantic. And he should spring from his couch before, rather than after, Apollo pleases to—

In most of the continental towns, the streets are as silent as those of Pompeii after ten o’clock; but the bustle begins at day-light, and he must have taken a strong dose of opium who can sleep after that hour! The cocks are crowing, the carts are clattering, the waiters are knocking up the travellers going off by diligence or steamer, the travellers themselves are bawling out for “eau chaude,” “warm wasser,” “boots,” “coffee,” or the “billet”—in short, the jargon of different languages resounding through the lobbies for an hour or two after day-light, would put Babel to shame. And last, not least, the eternal ding-dong of bells, especially in Catholic countries, from dawn of day till eight o’clock, might convince the most sceptical Protestant that purgatory is no fable, but an actual punishment inflicted by the priests on this side of the grave, as a foretaste of the future!

Still, in most of the continental towns, there is an interval of five or six hours in the night, during which the wearied limbs of the traveller may rest, and his ears may be relieved from discordant sounds. Not so at Rotterdam. The night is infinitely more noisy than the day. It is then that the real bustle begins at the Hotel des Pays Bas, and along the whole line of the quay. The absence of light appears to operate on this amphibious race in the same way as it does on frogs, bats, and owls, and various animals addicted to nocturnal depredation. By midnight the sailors of different nations begin to get sober for the second or third time since morning, and the work of loading and unloading, craning and carting, &c. begins in good earnest. The eternal chorus of “yo heave ho,” from a thousand throats, o’ertopping, but not drowning the boisterous din of unutterable discord on all sides, would rouse the god of sleep from his bed of ebony, and put his prime minister, Morpheus, to flight.

How the Rotterdamers preserve their lives in the midst of stagnant water surrounding and pervading every habitation, and ingurgitated by man, woman, and child, is only explicable on one of two principles—perhaps of both. They are accustomed to it, as the eels are to skinning:—or the neighbouring Scheidam poisons the animalculÆ, and prevents their poisoning the people. There is yet one other supposition. In every habitation and chamber of Rotterdam, and indeed of Holland, there is very perceptible to the senses a malodorous effluvium, composed of three different gases, and emanating from gin, peat and tobacco. This “tertium quid”—this “tria juncta in uno”—may possibly tend to counteract, or, at all events, to cover the malarious exhalations continually rising from a quiescent pool, into which the debris of all utterable and unutterable things are daily and nightly plunged![3]

THE HAGUE.

I have long been tired of rambling through museums and picture-galleries—churches and palaces—gardens and promenades; but I am absolutely sick of the endless and reiterated descriptions of all these and a thousand other things, which every tourist delineates anew, as if he had been the first visitor that ever saw the lions!

In these catalogues there can be nothing new, even to the fire-side traveller, and I shall pass them by, with merely an occasional reflection or remark. I find but one or two notes in my diary of the Hague—one, the record of a most capital BULL—not made by an Irishman, but by a Dutchman—the “Jeune Taureau,” by Paul Potter. This sturdy, stiff-necked, sandy-haired representative of my countrymen, is no bad sample of the breed. I wish a certain animal of this species, which stands in Fleet Street, with a mouth wide open, and greedy for all kinds of provender, were to be brushed up a little, a la Paul Potter. I am sure it would increase the number of spectators, if not of subscribers, to our witty, keen, and sarcastic hebdomadal of Temple-bar.[4]

At the dull aristocratic and academic town of Leyden, we crossed a sad memorial of fallen greatness—the drivelling descendant of the majestic Rhine, reduced to the dimensions of a canal, and, like the degenerate offspring of some renowned hero, disgracing the line of his noble ancestor! Restive and perverse in its last act, it only flows when the tide ebbs, and stands motionless during the flood. Leyden being a university “open to all parties,” and influenced by merit only (with a little gold), it imposes no oath on the candidates for its degrees—whatever may be the creed of the aspirant.

HAERLEM.

This is a phrenological city, distinguished by a remarkable bump—the largest “organ of music” in the world. But there is a greater lion in Haerlem than the great organ—one whose distant roarings have struck more terror into the heart of John Bull than did ever Napoleon, with his legions at Boulogne. This monstrous birth of the French revolution—this offspring of atheism and education, in which the orthodox light is extinguished—

is neither more nor less than a “normal school.” As this term is not in Johnson’s Dictionary, it is inferred by our home oracles, that it exists not in any language, ancient or modern. As I cannot give its derivation, I shall try at its definition. It is a school where “boys and girls are taught the rudiments of knowledge without wrangling about creeds.” It is alike open to the Jew and the Gentile, the Protestant and Catholic, the Baptist and Anabaptist, the Unitarian and Trinitarian. Now as each of these sects holds its own theology to be the true orthodox one, I do not see how any one form of religious instruction can be combined with elementary education. We might as well try to force the same note on all the inmates of a menagerie, as the same creed on all the elÈves of a normal school. And, after all, why should theology be taken out of the hands of the pastor, to be put into those of the pedagogue? May not letters be taught without a Liturgy—and cyphering without a Catechism? We see that, in two of the most Protestant countries—Prussia and Holland—the system works well, at least peaceably. The children of various sects can learn to read without ridiculing, and to write without stigmatizing each other’s creeds. They live in peace while acquiring the rudiments of human knowledge at school—and they repair to the chapels or synagogues of their parents to hear the word of God, where it is most properly delivered. A youthful harmony or even friendship is thus generated among all persuasions, and is never afterwards entirely obliterated.

But I imagine that an unnecessary dread of this “tree of knowledge,” whose mortal fruit—

is entertained by the good people of England. Reading, writing, and arithmetic do not constitute knowledge, but merely the machinery by which it may be afterwards acquired. These rudiments are, like the types of the printer distributed in their compartments—void of learning or science in themselves, till they are worked up by the compositor—who, himself is only an instrument in the hands of a higher agent. “The instruction given in the schools (says an excellent observer, Mr. Chambers) is deficient of nearly all that bears on the cultivation of the perceptive and reflective faculties, and consequently the expansion of the intellect.” This education rarely extends beyond reading, writing, arithmetic, and geography—while the superior orders are taught the French language. At or under 14 years of age, the child leaves school and merges on the ordinary avocations of life. There is in Holland nearly a total absence of scientific instruction. Words not things are taught, and no taste is generated for literature. Yet this elementary education at school, and religious instruction at home, have rendered the people remarkable for order, piety, and morality. In no other country is there so little crime or squalid poverty.

I wish I could say as much for civil as for religious liberty in this country. The press is more completely muzzled than any cart-dog in London. The latter may open his jaws so far as to growl; but the press is hermetically sealed in this submarine territory. No book can be translated or published without the censor’s license—nay, a hand-bill, announcing the importation of Warren’s blacking or Morrison’s pills, cannot be printed or affixed to a wall, without a license and a stamp! In a conversation with an intelligent Dutchman respecting this restriction on the press, I was completely silenced by the following argument. I believe, said the gentleman, that in your profession, prevention is considered to be better than cure. I assented. Then, said he, I observe in all your newspapers that people are tried, and sometimes severely punished, for publishing libels, although the authors may not believe them to be such at the time of writing them. Now the paternal Government of Holland prevents such misfortunes and evils from happening to its subjects, by examining the document before publication, and thus taking on itself the responsibility, in case it should turn out afterwards to be libellous. There was no answering this argument. The Dutch are the most patient animals that ever lived beneath a yoke, or bowed beneath a load of taxes. Talk of John Bull’s rates and taxes! They are bagatelles compared to those in Holland! Every species of business, from the cobbler to the ship-builder, is taxed after a graduated scale, varying from a few shillings to twenty or thirty pounds annually. Every dwelling, every window, door, fireplace—even the furniture, is taxed according to its value! The taxes on houses are more than a fourth of the rent! The necessaries of life are, in fact, extremely dear, and were it not for the solace of tobacco, gin, and coffee, the poorer classes of Dutchmen would die in their dykes under the pressure of hunger and taxation, notwithstanding their loyalty to King, and love of Vaderland!

AMSTERDAM.

How often does the monotonized traveller in Holland and Belgium sigh for the luxury of a zig-zag mule-track along the steep acclivity of some alpine height, as a change of scene from the eternal right-lined chaussÉe, terminating out of sight, beyond the verge of the horizon, or dipping apparently, like Pharaoh’s route, into a lake or the ocean! The Haerlem pavÉ is constantly menaced by the Zuyder-Zee on the right, and the German Ocean on the left; but it escapes a watery grave, and safely lands the weary tourist in Amsterdam. Ascending the tower of the Stadthouse, or palace, I cast my wondering eyes over the largest community of beavers that ever lived upon logs, or drove their far-fetched piles into the muddy bottom of lake or pool! Strange that the dry land of this our globe should not afford space enough for cities or towns, without invading the Adriatic and the Zuyder-Zee for the sites of Venice and Amsterdam! From this bird’s-eye view, the confusion and commixture of land and water is inextricable and incalculable. The city stands on nearly one hundred detached islets, connected by more than three times that number of drawbridges—the houses rising bolt upright out of the water—each street being a quay lined with trees—and each mansion a warehouse, as evinced by the crane and rope at the attic for hoisting in goods, furniture, fuel, and provisions. The space between the houses and the water, is much narrower than at Rotterdam, and I think the bustle and activity of commerce are far less conspicuous in the northern than in the southern entrepÔt. The water, though capable of floating ships, is unfit for cooking or drinking—and, were it not for the springs of Seltzer, and the distilleries of Scheidam, I imagine that hydrophobia would universally prevail.

I suspect that the Amsterdammers were originally a colony from Palestine. Like the “chosen people,” they are much fonder of conveying merchandize from one hand to another, than of manufacturing any article of trade or commerce. The only fabrications that I could see, were those of ships to carry, and houses to contain goods. The building of houses has long been limited to the re-construction of those whose foundations had given way—and naval architecture has received many checks—the annihilation of the whale-fishery among others. But the red-herring still cheers the heart of the Hollander, and qualifies the brackish water of the Zuyder-Zee. While wandering through the streets in the evening, I found that gin-palaces were not confined to England. They are on a splendid scale here, and frequented by better classes of society than in the British metropolis. We saw burgesses—probably burgomasters—with their wives, and sometimes with their children, drinking, smoking, and listening to the dulcet sounds of Swiss or Bavarian hurdi-gurdies. This was not quite in keeping with the grave, moral, and religious character of the Dutchman.

It is not my inclination—to say the truth, it is not my forte—to describe the lions of Amsterdam—or of any of the other dams in this hybrid offspring of land and water. It was quite enough for me to see the shows—their pictorial delineation I leave to those of my tourist brethren who have studied under that inimitable painter, and hero of the hammer, Geo. Robins, Esq. They can readily transmute a varnished treckschuyt into a Cleopatra’s barge—a buggerlugg into a bust of bronze—a Flanders mare into a prancing Bucephalus—a brick trottoir into a tesselated pavement—or a Belgian flat into a garden of the Hesperides. The worst of this is, that, by the time they have ascended the Rhine, or entered Switzerland, their stock of the picturesque is expended, and they have only the sublime to draw upon for the remainder of the tour.

To see the sights of Amsterdam, the gilders and stivers must be in perpetual motion. Even at the doors of the churches, the padrÉ’s demand your money for admittance into their cold, damp, and dreary tabernacles—a most unusual practice on the Continent.

In order to vary the journey, we returned by Utrecht to Rotterdam:—but although the route was alter, the scene was idem—and I will not detain the reader with any account of it.

BATAVIAN CHARACTERISTICS.

Of all the geological ups and downs which the surface of this globe presents, none is more remarkable, or less remarked, than that which the land of Holland has undergone. Every particle of its soil must once have occupied some higher land or even mountain of the Continent, before it travelled down to take its bath in the ocean—ultimately to rise to nearly the level of the sea—then to be rescued from the waters, partly by the operations of Nature, and partly by the industry of man. Even now the mighty Alps are daily crumbling down, and every shower of rain, and mountain torrent washes down its quota of soil to the Mediterranean or the German Ocean.[5] Should no volcanic revolution interrupt these watery changes, a period must come—ten thousand years are but a dot in the stream of time—when the high lands will be worn down into alluvial deposits which, rising from their oceanic beds, will become annexations to the existing plains. The lower heights will of course shew the effects of this “wear and tear” sooner than the snow-clad Alps; but even these last must one day undergo that transmutation and transplantation to which all sublunary things are destined. This is no imaginary speculation. It is not in Holland alone that we see vast tracts of land carried down from the hills—buried in the deep, for a time—and afterwards rescued from their watery beds. The Delta of the Nile was once among the mountains of Abyssinia—the Sunderbunds have spread far and wide to the south of Calcutta, dividing the Ganges into a hundred mouths—extending the land into the bay of Bengal, and sustaining myriads of animals, and even man himself—the Mississippi and the St. Lawrence are digging the grave of the Alligagny mountains—the mighty Andes—“Giant of the Western Star,” who now

is silently and slowly suffering disintegration by the Plata and Amazon, committing its atoms to the depths of the Atlantic, thence to emerge, at some remote epoch, the habitation of races of animated beings that have no types, perhaps, in the present or past creations. Even the cloud-capt Himalaya, whose base extends over thousands of miles, feeds with its substance the insatiate mouths of the Indus, the Ganges, the Burrhampooter, and the Yrawaddy, whose turbid waves roll down to distant seas the alluvial tribute; themselves the unconscious ministers of an Almighty will!

Thus it would appear that the levelling principle is as operative in the physical as in the moral world—among mountains as well as among men. But there is one great and essential difference between the two. The Himalaya may require thousands of years longer to wear down than the Cordillera. This is merely a difference in time. But no time, or space, or circumstance can effect an equilibrium in the moral or intellectual world. If such a level could be obtained, it would instantly perish, or recede to a greater distance than ever. Equality of this kind, like Heaven’s bright bow—

Equal right can never lead to equal might.

But to return from this digression. How is it that the Helvetian and the Hollander, whose countries are the very antipodes of each other—whose manners, customs, and pursuits are as different as Alps are from sand-hills, should yet present a more striking similarity in one moral feature, than the inhabitants of any other two countries? Of all the nations of Europe, the Helvetians and Hollanders, inhabiting the highest and the lowest grounds in the world, are most enthusiastically attached to their native soils, and experience the greatest degree of nostalgic yearning when separated from home. The amor patriÆ of the Swiss is proverbial—that of the Dutchman is quite as strong, though not so well known.

“The Hollander (says Mr. Chambers,) is bred up from his infancy to have the highest ideas of his “Vaderland”—of her people—her warriors—her wealth—her power. He is taught to consider this Vaderland as standing highest in the rank of nations—that every thing belonging to her is best. He is an admirer, without being a benefactor of his country—a patriot without public spirit—contented and self-satisfied with his country and every thing belonging thereto.”

The Helvetian can hardly be more enamoured of his mountains than is the Hollander of his alluvial plains! But whence this coincidence? Is it that the Dutchman remembers the high descent of his native soil—that it floated down from the Alps and other highlands—that it was redeemed from the ocean by his labour and skill—enriched, fertilized, and adorned by the industry of his forefathers—and, finally, that it had become, under his fostering care, a second “Garden of Eden,” the pride of Batavians, and the envy of the world?

Or is it that extremes approximate?—That the hardy Helvetian, raised above the storm’s career, but whose—

can look, with feelings of pride and independence, from his airy citadel of health and activity, down on surrounding nations—whilst the phlegmatic Hollander, secure from winds and waves, under the shelter of his break-water ramparts, surveys with kindred feelings and self-gratulations his fertile flats, his irrigated fields, and commerce-bearing canals—his senses steeped in that musing mood, that “fool’s paradise” suspended midway between the excitement of gin, and the tranquillity of tobacco?

Be this as it may, there can be little doubt that the moral and physical character—the inward temperament and outward man—are all very much modified by the climate, the soil, and the circumstances around us. It might not be difficult to shew that the prominent characteristics of the people in question are modified by these external agencies. The Hollander is accustomed to watch, with the patience of a cat, for that precise period when the alluvial deposits on his shores have attained that level which permits him to stretch out his mounds of earth, and grasp the piece of newly-emerged ground for future culture:—hence his patience and vigilance through life, while watching the opportunity of benefiting himself. He observes, from infancy, the labour and expense of realizing this property in the soil:—hence his economy, even to parsimony. His climate is damp and cold: his temperament is therefore phlegmatic. The surface of his country is flat and monotonous; without monuments of antiquity, historical renown, or classical recollections:—there is, consequently, no more poetry in his composition than in a Dutch cheese, or a stagnant canal. Living beneath the level of the ocean, he is liable to inundations from the watery element:—he is therefore habitually cautious of all contingencies. The equinoxes, the vernal and autumnal floods, the changes of the moon, are all important epochs and events in a submarine territory;—he is, therefore, a calculating animal, from his cradle to his grave. At war with the elements, he is naturally brave even to obstinacy, whether the cause be right or wrong; and will fight to the knees in blood, rather than either advance or retreat. Monotony being almost universal, ideality is nearly null:—the Dutchman, therefore, smokes during the greater part of his time, in default of conversation—tobacco being, at once, the cause and the excuse for taciturnity. In Holland there are nearly as many canals for communication, as there are dykes for defence:—the Batavian is, therefore, eminently commercial:—but the limits of the soil being narrow, and the population dense, colonization became necessary, despite of the “Vaderlandsleifde,” and emigration continues though the colonies have dwindled away. The intellectual views of the Hollander are nearly as limited as his geographical. There are no mountains, whence a wide and varied prospect can be taken in by the eye—neither are there academic eminences, from which the mind can soar into the regions of literature, science, art, or philosophy. As it is infinitely more difficult to raise dykes than children—to extend the soil, than to swell the census—so the Batavian has been a political economist long before the science was taught by Malthus, or practised by Martineau, in this country. As a merchant, he is honest and honourable in his negociations abroad—punctual as his pipe in receipts and disbursements at home. Exclusively occupied with the concerns of self—whether ruminating, fumigating, or calculating—he has little time, and less inclination, to meddle with affairs of state. The measure of his patriotism is amply sufficient for an abundance of loyalty—and if “passive obedience and non-resistance” be cardinal virtues in subjects, then the Dutch ought to be dear to the heart of their sovereign. I have no doubt that they are so. It is only a matter of reciprocal feeling—for assuredly the sovereign is dear to the Dutch.

Embarking at Rotterdam, the steamer ploughs its weary way through the muddy Maas for three long days, before it reaches Cologne. One night is spent in the malodorous town of Nymeguen—and the other on board—so that, altogether, this is one of the most monotonous voyages that could well be projected. There is not even the satisfaction of finding one bank or place more ugly, or more uninteresting than another—which would be some little variety, and afford some subject for remark. All is puddle-dock in the near, and sand-bank in the distance. Here and there the spire of a church, the roof of a house, or the mast of a schuyt appears on the horizon, for a time, and vanishes again in the blank.

COLOGNE.

If the narrow streets of Cologne be famous, or rather infamous, for bad smells, it is to be recollected that the waters of that ancient city are more valuable than the wines of the neighbouring Rhine:—that they are carried to every corner of the earth—and prized for their delicious flavour, beyond the richest productions of Rudesheim or Johannisberg. Thus good cometh out of evil—and the most grateful perfume is exhaled from the most malodorous city of Europe. “Give a dog a bad name,” and the sooner you shoot him the better. Yet if a stranger arrived at Cologne, by day or by night, not knowing the name of the place, he might traverse its numberless and crooked streets, without remarking more disagreeable scents than his nose would encounter on the banks of the Tiber, the Arno, or the Seine—in the wynds of Auld Reekie, the Gorbals of Glasgow, the purlieus of the Liffey—or even of father Thames, between Puddle-dock and Deptford. I will not maintain that all the little rivulets which meander the streets of this town, after a shower of rain, are the veritable “Eau de Cologne” of Messieurs Farina; but I must say that the olfactories of my fair countrywoman of the “Souvenirs,” were more delicate than impartial, when she penned the following sentence. “But the dreadful effluvia of the black, filthy streams that defile every street, penetrated even through the folds of pocket-handkerchiefs soaked in perfume.”—Souvenir, p. 93.

Fiction being the “soul of poetry,” we need not wonder that the Bard should seize the opportunity of having his fling at poor Cologne. Accordingly Coleridge exercised his wit and his acrimony in the following lines, in which he apostrophises Cloacina, and the nymphs, “who reign o’er sewers and sinks.”

Probably it was this real or supposed pollution which caused the noble river to dive into the sands, soon after passing Cologne, and hide its head for ever. It cannot be denied that Cologne is a city of the dirty and malodorous order—and we cannot much wonder at the fact, seeing that it was Roman in the beginning, and has never changed its nature or name from the days of Germanicus to the present moment. After passing from the Romans to the Franks, and from the Franks to the Germans, it became a “Holy City”—and that was enough to ruin Rome itself. It became, of course, the rendezvous of priests, monks, and nuns, and the seat of abbeys, monasteries, nunneries, and churches. Notwithstanding these misfortunes, it rose into a rich and flourishing entrepÔt of commerce, when its bigotted ecclesiastical government took the wise resolution of banishing the merchants, because most of them were Jews and Protestants. The exiles settled in other cities on the Rhine, and left the swarms of monks and priests among their rotten relics, to starve and “stink in state.” Here we have a key to the malodorous effluvia that penetrated the perfumed handkerchief of the lady of the “Souvenirs”—for I will be bold enough to aver that she did not leave a nook or corner unexplored in Cologne, where anything curious was to be seen. It is a great pity that Napoleon, when he suppressed the convents and monasteries, did not order the scavengers and police to sweep out all the mouldering bones, putrefying flesh, and decomposing integuments of saints and martyrs that have been congregated in churches, chapels, and other monastic institutions for two thousand years. If this had been done at Cologne, there would have been no occasion for perfumed handkerchiefs to the noses of travellers.

By the way, where were the brains of the three magi, or wise men of the east, (whose skulls are crowned and impearled here,) when they allowed the suicidal decree to go forth against the merchants of Cologne? These relics of the church perform miraculous cures of physical ills; but they never, by any accident, prevent, much less punish, the perpetration of moral mischief. The schoolmaster is much more wanted than the scavenger in Cologne!

The first rush is made to the hotel—and the next to the Dom Kirche—an unfinished cathedral, of course—like all great abbeys—for, if finished, no more contributions could be levied. A tower of the cathedral, intended—abbeys, like some other places, are “paved with good intentions”—to be 500 feet high, but which only attained the altitude of 20 feet, throws all sentimental tourists into ecstasies. From its brother, which grew up much taller, a good panoramic view of Cologne and vicinity is obtained. Then comes the tomb of skulls—the crania of the three magi—Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar—stolen by the mother of Constantine from the Holy Land—conveyed by some mysterious agency from Constantinople to Milan—and thence pillaged by Barbarossa, and presented to the Bishop of Cologne! For 700 years these empty skulls have been gazed at by the millions of numbskulls still emptier, that have come to visit them! They are decorated with gilt crowns, set with pearls—and their names are written in ruby characters!

Near these holy, but harmless relics, are deposited, among many masses of bones and filth—“les entrailles” of Queen Marie de Medicis, together with the head of St. Peter, &c. &c. &c. But in the church of St. Ursula, things are done on a grander scale. The bones of 11,000 English ladies, who were wrecked in the Rhine, on their voyage to Rouen!! are here deposited—the owners having taken the veil rather than join in wedlock with the Huns, who then possessed the Holy City. Other records say that, in imitation of Lucretia, they sacrificed their lives to preserve their honour—and their bones were carefully preserved from that time to this! Did the fair lady of the “Souvenirs” hold her “perfumed handkerchief” to her nose, while contemplating these blanched remains of her heroic sisterhood?

The city of Cologne measures seven miles in circumference—her streets are narrow—and her houses are high. Yet the population scarcely exceeds 50,000 souls—with bodies attached to them!! Thus then, it is evident that this Holy City is one vast cemetery, partly above, and partly under ground—a huge museum of mouldering anatomy, useless alike to the living and the dead, and only commemorative of the weakness, darkness, ignorance, and superstition of the human mind!

I confess that I was silly enough, nearly twenty years ago, to spend some days and dollars in exploring these mummeries at Cologne; and those who prefer such pursuits to the pure air of the mountains, and the smiling landscapes of Nature on the banks of the Rhine, may follow the example.

At nine o’clock in the morning, we left the Hotel du Rhin, and repaired to the busy banks of the river, where steam was hissing, and tourists were bustling into the vessels. Five or six arches of the bridge suddenly slipped their cables, and swinging round by the impulse of the stream, opened a free passage for the ascending and descending boats. Away they went upwards and downwards, full of passengers—some on the tiptoe of expectation to see the wonders of the Rhine—others, having satisfied their curiosity, were winging their way home, to the chalky cliffs of Old England.

THE RHINE.

And here we change the land of facts for the land of fictions. We now enter the regions of romance and robbery—of love and murder—of tilts and tournaments—of dungeons deep and turrets lofty—of crusades against the creed of the Ottoman abroad, and of forays against the property or life of the neighbour at home—of riot and revelry in the castle, and of penury and superstition in the cottage—of beetling precipice and winding river—of basaltic rock and clustering vine—of wassail war and vintage carol. It is probable that few ascend this famous river without experiencing some feelings of disappointment, although none will acknowledge it, lest their taste should be condemned, and themselves voted to be barbarians, insensible alike to the beauties of nature and the wonders of art. But the Rhine, like many a fine child, has been spoiled—especially by poets and painters. The tourists and romance-writers, too, have combined to spoil the Rhine-child—for although all romance-writers are not tourists, yet all tourists are, ex officio, romance-writers.

Thus the mountains of the Rhine, though none of them are much higher than the rock of Gibraltar—are represented as “stupendous”—every dingle and dell that opens between the hills, is painted as more beautiful than the valley of Rasselas, Chamounix, or Grindenwalde—the river itself is made to flow like liquid emeralds or sapphires, though it receives so many muddy streams, after its partial filter in Constance, that it is nearly as yellow as the Tiber, and as turbid as the Thames, before it gets half-way between Schaffhausen and Dusseldorf.[6] The vines too, which are strung on stunted sticks, like onions,—enclosed between rude stone terraces—and which more frequently disfigure than embellish the banks of the Rhine, are extolled beyond those of Italy, which are gracefully festooned from tree to tree, bending down the branches with the weight of delicious grapes. Notwithstanding these and many other deficiencies on the one hand, and exaggerations on the other (which all will acknowledge in their hearts, though none will declare by their tongues), the Rhine is the most picturesque, beautiful, romantic, and interesting river on the face of our globe. I have twice ascended, and thrice descended the stream, from its source in the Alps to its sepulture in the ocean—with various lateral excursions—and still with undiminished pleasure. But then I came to the survey with a conviction that, like all other places of the kind, it was flattered by the painter, falsified by the poet, and dressed in meretricious ornaments by the tourist and novellist. I was therefore not disappointed, but highly gratified.

DRACHENFELS.

Knowing, from experience, that the first twenty miles of the Rhine from Cologne, are totally devoid of interest, I left my companions at their wine in the Rhenischer, and started in the diligence for Bonn—and thence to Godesberg, where I slept. Long before sunrise I had crossed the Rhine, and threaded my way up the steeps of the Drachenfels. This is probably the finest view on the Rhine—far superior to that which Sir F. Head has described as taken from the top of a tree on the hill behind the Bad-haus at Schlangenbad.

“The Drachenfels, which is the steepest of the Seven Mountains, has infinitely the advantage of situation, rising abruptly from the river to a stupendous height, clothed midway with rich vines and foliage, and terminating in red and grey rock. On its brow are the ruins of an ancient castle, standing on their colossal and perpendicular base—a type of man’s perseverance and power. The magnificent and picturesque prospects which encompass on all sides this enchanting spot, as if Nature, with a profuse and lavish hand, had diffused around so many and varied beauties, that having exhausted her wonted combination of mountain, hill, and dale, with water, flowery mead, cultivated field, mantling forests, and luxuriant vineyards, she had by this profusion of witching scenery peculiarly marked it for her own.” This description is not exaggerated—which is saying a great deal for it. The Drachenfels, indeed, has been immortalized by legendary tale, poetic lore, and pictorial delineation. An ingenious artist of the present day, (Mr. Leigh,) has recently given a panoramic view from the summit of this rock, with all the fidelity and minuteness of the painter. I can corroborate the description, though I could not imitate the picture. A short extract or two will serve as specimens.

“The whole of this delicious panorama was bathed in a flood of subdued golden light, which intermingled its luscious hues with the cooler tones of twilight. As if preparing to receive the setting sun with glory, the horizon emitted a deep yet brilliant crimson lustre, spangled with flakes of gold, while richer and more fantastic streaks of purple appeared ready to envelop its glowing form as it slowly and majestically sailed behind the darkened curtain of the distant hills. The nearer features of this lovely scene, illumined by the silvery aspect of lingering day, were invested with a tranquil dignity and beauty which soothed the vision as it embraced their harmonious contours, softened by the genial light. The more distant objects partook of the hue of the glowing west, and, by their deep tone, enhanced the paler radiance of the more immediate prospect.

“The character of the entire scene is extremely imposing: the site whence it is beheld is sufficiently lofty to command an immense extent, yet not so elevated as to make all around dwindle into collections of spots. Its beauty is not of that uniform description which presents an endless succession of cultivated points, without offering any features of striking interest; for, while on the one side, the eye glides along vast and varied plains, on the other, it ranges over all the diversities of a mountainous country, from the bare and rugged castled crags to the green uplands shelving down to picturesque valleys and streams.

“To the north the series of gentle eminences and valleys lose their individual distinctions, and blend into one extensive plain, patched with the varied colours of their produce, and dotted with the divisions of trees and hedges which unite by their graceful lines the numerous villages that intersect it. On this variegated expanse the serpentine course of the unruffled Rhine may be traced like a stream of molten silver, flowing onwards towards Cologne, its bright bosom continuously seen, occasionally bearing specks of vessels gently descending with the current. Innumerable towers and spires gleam amidst the verdant glades, or peer from the deepening woods; and as the eventide breeze flows through the gentle air, the pleasing and varied harmonies of chiming bells, afar and near, break upon the ear.”

“On the same side, a series of gradual elevations, shelving down to the Rhine, forms the commencement of the cluster of the Drachenfels, whose bold forms sweep majestically around the towering rock of the Dragon, like the turbulent waves of the ocean against the soaring lighthouse. Turning to the west, the conical form of the Godesberg, surmounted by its picturesque towers, and relieved by the sparkling habitations at its base, stands out conspicuously from the deeper toned ridge of hills, by which it appears shut in between Bonn and Rolandseck. Behind this wooded screen are the diversified forms of the Eifel chain, extending in various ramifications towards Spa, Treves, and Luxembourg, occupying the territory between the Mosel and the Maas.”

“On the shore beyond, embowered amidst the surrounding uplands, is the partially concealed town of Oberwinter; beyond which, a sharp point of land juts into the Rhine, nearly opposite the village of Unkel. From this point commences the interminable series of mountain summits, which stretch along the horizon in all the grandeur of form, harmony of composition, and fascination of colour. The eye rises from the placid bosom of the Rhine, in which the pure sky is serenely mirrored, and, after dwelling with rapture on the gorgeous hues of the nearer landscape, it glides with increasing fervour over the air-drawn bulwarks which tower around this lovely scene. These choice materials of redundant Nature, tipped with the magical hues of a gorgeous sunset, and a translucent twilight, and invested with the majesty of sweeping yet mellow shadows, sufficiently account to my own mind for the lengthened description in which I have with all humility indulged.

While viewing this magnificent scene from the little CaffÉ, perched as close to the edge of a precipice as the ruined castle itself, it was impossible not to recall the words of our immortal bard and country’s boast—Byron.

From this spot the ruined tower of Godesberg, all lonely on a conical mount, looks like a solitary vidette on his out-post, while the seven mountains around us—

It is here that the poetry of the Rhine commences, together with its legendary lore, and romantic scenery. After a comfortable breakfast at the Eagle’s Nest Inn, and a slight survey of the topography of the rock’s narrow crown, I climbed to the highest practicable part of the ruin, and seating myself securely, had several hours of leisure to contemplate the scene, and indulge in meditation. On former occasions, I had read the legends of the Rhine, while wandering on its banks, more for amusement than instruction, yet it never till now crossed my mind that, in the comparatively rude ages when they were written, they might have been intended, each to convey some moral lesson. The more I reflected on this subject, the more I was impressed with the idea, and, at all events, I determined to try my hand at the extraction of a moral from each tale, whether such moral were originally intended or not. I could not do better than begin with the—

LEGEND OF THE DRACHENFELS.
(No. 1.)

Every visitor to this place is shewn the cavern, once occupied by a huge dragon, to whom the neighbouring inhabitants paid divine honours, and even offered human sacrifices. The prisoners of war were considered to be the most agreeable victims to this Pagan monster. Among a number of recent captives was one day found a beautiful young lady, educated in the Christian religion. Her beauty was raising a quarrel among the conquering chiefs, when the Elders advised that the cause of the contention should be consigned to the dragon. She was accordingly led to the summit of the rock, and chained to a tree. Multitudes were assembled to view the sacrifice. The first rays of the sun that darted into the cavern, roused the voracious reptile, who issued from his den, and directed his tortuous course to the usual place of his bloody feast. As soon as he came in sight, the destined victim drew from her bosom the crucifix and image of her Saviour—fixed her eyes on the emblem of redemption—and calmly awaited her fate. The monster gazed on his lovely and helpless prey, already within his grasp—slackened his pace—stopped—appeared petrified, with his basilisk eyes rivetted on the virgin. She stood as firm as the rock beneath her or the faith within her! A thrill of horror ran through the assembled crowd, and the silence that prevailed was still as the grave. The moment of suspense was agonizing to the spectators; but continued only a few seconds, when the dragon sent forth a horrible and unearthly yell—darted over the precipice—and disappeared for ever! The multitude flew to the lady, unbound her chains, and fell at her feet, as if she were an angel from Heaven. Conversion to the true faith among the neighbouring people followed—a chapel was erected on the spot where the miraculous interposition took place—and it was thenceforth considered the cradle of Christianity in that part of the country.

MORAL.

The moral of this legend is sufficiently obvious. But it goes far beyond the miraculous interposition of Providence, too commonly and too impiously proclaimed in Protestant as well as in Catholic states. The legend illustrates a great principle of human nature—the power of religion over the fear of death—even when that death is aggravated by the horrors of merciless cruelty and ignominious torture! Nor is it any drawback on true religion that a false faith will sometimes exert a similar influence in the hour of trial. The Hindoo widow mounts the funeral pyre of her husband, under the influence of a religious persuasion that she is performing a sacred duty to the dead—and braves the devouring element in the hope of joyful immortality. It is also true that a few minds of a certain mould will spurn the fear of death, under the influence of a greater fear—that of dishonour. The Roman stoics, without the aid of religious faith, might prefer falling on their own swords, to the disgrace of dragging the captive’s chains behind the triumphal chariot of the conqueror:—but neither Cato nor Cassius would have stood unmoved before the dragon of Drachenfels.

The serenity of the Christian in the hour of peril, the agony of sickness, and the approach of death, contrasts greatly with the sullen abandonment of the stoic, and the reckless desperation of the infidel.

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Here my meditations were broken by seeing the long black banner of the steamer wreathing over the placid river, and impinging against the sides of the hills. Descending from my airy seat, I soon joined my companions on the crowded deck, and proceeded on our voyage. It is fashionable for modern tourists to draw characteristic sketches of the passengers in steam-boats on the Rhine. I think it is one of the worst theatres that could be selected for that purpose. The scenery itself, and the legendary tales which fix the localities in the memory, are quite sufficient for ordinary attention, without attempting to dive into the peculiarities of individual character, which are not so easily fathomed as the sentimental tourist would have us to suppose.

We have scarcely got disentangled of the Drachenfels, when we find ourselves between a ruined tower on the summit of a volcanic peak on the right, and a spruce hotel in the midst of the Rhine, on a little island to our left. The former is the far-famed Rolandseck, and the latter is the ancient convent of Nonnenwerth converted into a modern caravansera.

ROLAND AND HILDEGUND, OR THE FATAL AFFIANCE.
(Legend the Second.)

The beautiful Hildegund and the valiant Roland (nephew of Charlemagne) were ardently beloved by, and betrothed to each other. Roland, however, postponed his marriage, till he had, once more, unsheathed his sword against the infidels in Palestine. Every day of his absence seemed a year to his Hildegund, who often listened in her bower to the praises of her lover carolled by the boatmen of the Rhine. News arrived that the Holy City was rescued from the Saracens, and that peace was signed:—But Roland returned not. One evening a military knight craved hospitality at her father’s castle. He had just returned from the seat of war, and, to eager enquiries respecting Roland, related the manner of his death on the field of battle, covered with honourable wounds! The effect on the amiable Hildegund may be easily conceived. After a short noviciate in the convent of Nonnenwerth, she took the veil, and next morning her lover arrived at her father’s castle, expecting to fly into her arms! Petrified by the astounding intelligence that Hildegund was wedded to Heaven, Roland abjured all society—built himself a hermitage on the hill overlooking the convent, and sat at its door from morning till night, listening to the matins and vespers that ascended from the living sepulchre of his betrothed. One day he saw a funeral on the island, and soon learnt that it was that of his Hildegund! The next day he was found dead, sitting at the door of his hermitage, his face turned to the convent!

MORAL.

The moral of this tale is homely, but not the less important on that account. The misery resulting from long-existing affiances, where time, or space, or adverse circumstances separate the betrothed, is of daily occurrence, and comes within the observation of every one. How often do we see females kept in this state of uncertainty till every prospect of other settlement in the world has vanished—and, after all, where the happiness of one party is blasted for ever by the death or inconstancy of the other! Protracted courtships are bad enough; but prospective marriages are far worse! Sat verbum sapientibus—or rather amantibus.

A certain personage in the drama of the above legend, is deserving of a passing word—viz. the eaves-dropper—one of those unlucky tale-bearers, whose officious tongues too often destroy the peace of whole families, and that without malice prepense on the part of the babbler!

THE LAST NUNS OF NONNENWERTH.
(Legend the Third.)

The history of Nonnenwerth discloses a curious trait of human nature, which has seldom been noticed. In the first moral storms of the French revolution, a number of nuns and novices of noble families, took refuge in the Sestertian convent of Nonnenwerth. They remained tranquil till Napoleon came to the throne, when a great disaster threatened to overwhelm their peaceful asylum. The emperor was a calculating philosopher, as well as an able general. He foresaw that monasteries and convents—especially the latter—were bad nurseries for conscripts; and therefore, in imitation of our Eighth Henry, of blessed and pious memory, he suppressed them all, with one stroke of his pen! The nuns of Nonnenwerth petitioned for an exemption from the proscription, but petitioned in vain. Josephine, like Juno, interceded with the sceptre-bearer, and begged that the convent on the Rhine might be made an exception to the general rule—that the nuns might be suffered to remain, and add to their number as death thinned their ranks. Napoleon, like Jove—

They were permitted to retain possession of the convent during their natural lives—after which, Nonnenwerth was to revert to the state. This was a great concession, and the nuns were satisfied, as they themselves were provided for—and some favourable revolution might occur when they were gone.

Time rolled on smoothly,—and, although a sister occasionally paid the debt of nature, the event did not make a very serious impression, but only afforded topics of reflection on the uncertainty of human life, or perhaps recalled to the memory of the living some traits of goodness and amiability in the dead, that had, somehow or other, escaped their notice while their sainted sister resided amongst them. But every year diminished the number of the survivors, till, at length, the vacant chambers and the contracted circle at prayers and refection, forced themselves on the notice of even the most inobservant of the sisterhood. And now it was that the unwelcome question began to obtrude itself on the thoughts of the nuns:—“Who shall go next to her long abode?” It required no great extent of arithmetic to shew the strength of the establishment at present, as compared with ten or twelve years before—and each sister began to assume the office of actuary, and calculate the probable duration of life within the walls of the convent! From this time, the serenity of their minds was somewhat disturbed. The question would obtrude itself on their thoughts, even in their devotions, and rise occasionally in the troubled dream.

Meanwhile the inexorable tyrant did not fail to knock as regularly at the gate of the convent as at the door of the peasant’s hut on the neighbouring mountain.

The social circle was narrowed every year—the number of nuns fell to 20—15—12! About this time a new question, still more appalling than the other, flashed across the mind of every inmate of Nonnenwerth. It was not as to who should be the first to—

but who was likely to be the last to wander in solitude round the deserted chambers, recalling the well-known features of each departed tenant,—or, who was to be the last on the bed of sickness or death, without a sister’s smile to soothe her sufferings—or a sister’s tear to mark the spirit’s flight? This new subject of reflection absorbed all others. Even religion failed to calm the troubled imagination of frail mortals placed in such singular and unnatural circumstances! Any one of them could reconcile herself to the idea, however triste, of dying in society—but none of them to the horrible thought of living in solitude, and departing unwept!

This little community resembled a Tontine, but with all the advantages of such an institution completely reversed and turned into calamities. In the civil Tontine, every lapse of life renders the remaining lives more valuable—in the Tontine of the convent on the Rhine, it rendered them more miserable—the consummation, the ultimatum of human misfortunes, being still reserved for—the last Nun of Nonnenwerth!

In one short year of epidemic influence and moral depression, the solemn requiem was six times heard in the convent chapel, for the repose of souls no longer to be troubled by mundane cares or fears. This reduced the sisterhood to six.

There are physical pains which the body cannot long sustain—and so are there moral prospects on which the eye of reason is unable to dwell. This was one of them. The remaining nuns took immediate steps to secure other asylums—and soon afterwards separated from each other, and from Nonnenwerth—for ever! The island reverted to the state, and the convent was converted into a caravansera, whose doors are ever open to the travelling novice, without reference to age, sex, creed, or country.

This short history will suggest various reflections to the mind. The legislator will see that solitude is more formidable to many minds than death itself—while the philanthropist will be convinced that monastic institutions are contrary to nature, and, as such, can never exist, without constant supplies from society at large. The vanity of human wishes is well illustrated by the history of Nonnenwerth. The nuns thought themselves fortunate in securing a beautiful, healthy, and tranquil asylum for life—little knowing how soon the convent would appear to them more horrible than the dungeon of a prison!

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Reverting from history to romance, we cannot leave the Seven Mountains without noticing the—

TREUENFELS; OR, THE ROCK OF FIDELITY.
(Legend the Fourth.)

In a lonely and desolate valley near the Rhine, some remains of a tomb are seen, with an inscription, of which the word “Liba” only is legible. Liba was the beautiful daughter of the Chevalier Balther, and betrothed to the brave and amiable Count de Grunstein, whom she loved. But, the “days of true love seldom do run smooth.” Balther owed a grudge to the pious but severe Englebert, Archbishop of Cologne, and instigated some of the prelate’s vassals, who were also indisposed to the Archbishop, to take away his life. Several of the malefactors were seized and executed; all confessing at the scaffold that Balther was the person who prompted them to the murder. These confessions induced the Emperor to order a troop of soldiers to burn the original conspirator’s castle and all within its walls. The order was duly executed, and, in the middle of a stormy night, the flames ascended to the apartments of Balther and Liba. The affectionate daughter, with the greatest difficulty, and with wonderful presence of mind, conducted her aged father through a subterranean passage, to the neighbourhood of the chateau; but not before the old man was dreadfully scorched by the fire. A cavern in the mountain’s side afforded them shelter from the vengeance of the Emperor, and the affectionate daughter sustained her parent by fruits and roots collected every night in the vicinity of their retreat. Meantime Balther’s eyes were entirely destroyed by the inflammation resulting from the flames of the castle; but he became reconciled, or at least resigned, to his afflictions and fate. One day, he begged to be conducted to the mouth of the cavern, where he might inhale the pure air, though he could no longer enjoy the cheerful light of Heaven. The dutiful Liba indulged the wish of her afflicted father, and, while they were sitting there, she espied, at no great distance, her faithful lover, Grunstein, leaning in melancholy mood against a tree, his javelin and dogs at his side. The first impulse of nature was to rush into his arms, and implore his assistance; but love and reason instantly checked her. She reflected that the asylum in Grunstein’s castle would only expose her betrothed lover to the persecution of the Emperor. At this moment, her father cried out that he saw the sun and the blue sky, though his eyes were entirely destroyed. The maiden looked around, and beheld a black speck in the heavens. She fell on her knees, and implored the mercy and forgiveness of the Almighty towards her parent. Balther joined in the prayer, and, at that instant, the thunder roared, and a flash of lightning reduced the father to a cinder, and the pious daughter to a corpse! Grunstein roused from his reverie, commenced his descent, and, in his way down into the valley, beheld the fair form of his betrothed Liba, apparently asleep—but totally lifeless! He erected a chapel on the spot, dedicated to “Notre Dame des Douleurs,” and a tomb in the rock for his Liba, where the name still remains legible.

MORAL.

The moral of this tale is two-fold. It illustrates the force of filial affection, and the certainty of retributive justice.

The artful instigations of Balther, which induced others to commit murder, evaded the law of the land, but did not escape the Eye of Heaven. The cruel and illegal steps of the Emperor, in burning the castle, thus involving the innocent with the guilty, cannot be too severely reprobated, though it was consonant with the tyranny of those dark ages. It may seem inconsistent with divine justice, that the innocent and affectionate daughter should have been struck down by the same thunderbolt that hurled vengeance on her father’s guilty head. But although “the ways of Providence are dark and intricate” in appearance, they are not, as the Roman philosopher asserts, “puzzled in mazes and perplexed with errors.” The amiable Liba may have escaped a life that might have been embittered by the memory of her father’s fate, and tainted, in the eyes of the world, by a father’s crime. She might have involved her faithful lover in ruin—and thus have made a bad exchange of easy death and eternal happiness, for a lingering existence of misery and degradation!

The fidelity of Liba, in this legend, is only a fair sample of that moral heroism and natural affection, that pervade the breasts of the daughter, the mother, and the wife, as compared with those of the son, the father, and the husband. The comparison is by no means flattering to the “stronger sex.”

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At a very short distance from Nonnenwerth, we pass the town of Unkel on our left hand; and here the stream of the Rhine is narrowed by some remarkable basaltic rocks on the opposite side of the river. These ought to be observed by those who have not seen specimens of this production of volcanic fire. It is the same kind of rock as that which is seen at the Giant’s Causeway in Ireland, and at Staffa in the Hebrides. These basaltic columns had so much obstructed the navigation of the river at this place, that some of them were obliged to be blown up, about forty or fifty years ago.

Passing by Remagen on the right hand, and Linz on the left, we soon come to the ruins of Argenfels, close to the banks of the river, with its legendary tale, which need not be noticed. Near this we have a specimen of the Flying-bridge, so common on this and other continental rivers. A mooring is fixed in the middle of the stream, from which a long chain or rope, suspended by small boats at convenient distances, extends to the passage-boat, which swings from bank to bank, at the end of this long rope, exactly like the pendulum of a clock, only it is horizontal, not perpendicular. There is no occasion for oar or sail. The helm of the passage-boat being turned to port or starboard, the stream of the river acting on it, swings the tail of the pendulum, with its load of passengers, from one bank to the other in a few minutes. Nothing can be more simple or philosophical—but not one in one thousand of the passengers, up and down the Rhine, comprehend the principle.

We soon get so accustomed to “castled crags” and mouldering castles, that we are rather surprised, on turning our eyes from the ruins of Argenfels on our left, to see an ancient chateau (Rheineck) on our right, resuscitated from the sepulchre of its forefathers, and perched in new life on an airy cliff. An old tower stands at one end, like the head-stone of a grave, reminding the modern mansion that it too will be a ruin in its turn!

Rheineck has undergone some of the transmigrations of Vishnou. It was a Roman fort, and bore the imperial eagle on its banner. Then it became a robber’s castle, and received the spoils of its master, torn from their rightful owners. And now it is the residence of a philosopher (Professor Holweg)—the seat of science, letters, and humanity. It is said to be constructed in strict imitation of the castles of feudalism on the Rhine. But although Rheineck has changed masters, it is still under the protection of the same tutelar divinity—Mercury, among his other numerous avocations, having been the god of letters as well as of robbers.

Passing by Brohl on the right, we come to one of the most imposing and extensive ruins on the left—the shattered and scattered fragments of Hammerstein Castle, crowning the mount and craggy rocks of the same name. The precipices descend in rugged and jutting promontories to the shores of the Rhine, each crowned with some remains of the ancient royal and magnificent chateau, and presenting scanty terraces of the vine, creeping up the crevices.

We soon afterwards range along the ancient town of Andernach, the ruins of which, with modern towers and spires, are backed and flanked by a vast screen of basaltic mountains of sombre hue and antique grandeur. Here Drusus Germanicus erected one of his fifty towers, in his Rheinish campaigns, and in the time of Julius CÆsar.

The banks of the river now become more approximated, and the stream more rapid. Steam, however, bids defiance to stream, and the vessel ploughs its way, though with greatly retarded velocity. There is but little remarkable between this and Coblentz, except the beautiful little town of Neiwied, with its flying-bridge, near which Julius CÆsar crossed the Rhine—and, eighteen centuries afterwards, General Hoche, with the victorious French army, performed the same feat, but with far more difficulty. Here the Jew and the Gentile—the Protestant and the Catholic—the Quaker and the Sceptic—all live upon equal terms, and with equal rights, unmolested in the free enjoyment of their various beliefs or disbeliefs—and travelling quietly towards the grave, or whatever “undiscovered country” may lie beyond that bourne, without jostling each other on the road, or forcing their creeds down the throats of their reluctant neighbours!

When will the “liberty of conscience,” in our own proud country, be uncoupled with inequality of political rights, or unattended by the rancour of the odium theologicum!

COBLENTZ.

The cities, towns, villages, hamlets, and even the houses along the Rhine, bear a closer resemblance to one another (each in its class) than in any part of the world through which I have wandered. Even the old castles, and the rocks on which they are built, are often such fac-similes of each other—that it is next to impossible for the acutest perception, joined with the most retentive memory, to retain distinct ideas of these objects, passing in rapid succession before the eye of the tourist!—

Coblentz, like Macedon, has a river—nay, a brace of them—one brown, the other blue.[9] As necessary consequences, there are two bridges, as unlike one another, as any two things of the same kind can well be. One rests its foundations on the rocky bed of the Moselle—the other on the turbid surface of the Rhine. There is a number of streets—a great number of houses—and a still greater number of people, amounting to some 12,000. Then there are churches enough, considering the number of church-goers—and in some of them, there are more dead bodies present at divine service, than living souls. There is a palace—not that of a prince, but of justice. There is good water and good wine; but both of them are brought over the Moselle bridge. Of hotels, there is no lack; the masters and “kellners” of which can tell a “hawk from a handsaw”—and more than that, they can distinguish an Englishman from a native, as readily as they can a Thaler from a Kreutzer. Coblentz has evidently more strength than wealth—more soldiers than merchants—more shells than yolks—more articles of war than of commerce. Her high loop-holed walls along the banks of the river, with one or two wharves, shew that she is compressed into a military fortress, rather than expanded into a fine mart of commerce!

EHRENBREITSTEIN.

The following are the sentiments of two pictorial artists. “The whole surface of the rock, glowed with the richest hues of sunset—its naturally deep-toned and richly coloured form assuming an endless diversity of tints combined with a focus of harmonious light, and relieved by the broad shadows of the surrounding objects.”—Leigh.

“We behold the mighty and stupendous rock of Ehrenbreitstein, crowned with fortifications—the Gibraltar of the Rhine—rising in towering majesty, and frowning in sullen grandeur on the beautiful and picturesque city of Coblentz, casting its deep and darkened shadow over the calm and glassy surface of the Rhine beneath.”—Tomlinson.

I have been often past, and sometimes over this “broad stone of honour,” and, I confess that, to my eye, it is about as shapeless and unpicturesque a mass of mountain as I ever beheld. It is a huge truncated cone—the lower-fourth of an enormous sugar-loaf—an Egyptian pyramid, cut down to the first floor—or rather it is a gigantic butcher’s block, on which a good bit of mangling has been done in its time. There is really but little that excites interest about the fortress, except its massive and passive strength—its vis inertiÆ—its impenetrability by shot or shells. You might as well batter Ben Nevis as Ehrenbreitstein! You might sweep its rugged brow of every man, mortar, parapet, and bastion, but the rugged, dogged rock would stand in all its “brute force,” unmoved by the iron showers that fell on its head!

“The Gibraltar of the Rhine!” No man who ever viewed that renowned fortress, would have made the comparison. I resided on the rock several months, and every feature of it is as fresh in my mind’s eye, as it was 40 years ago, when I last left it. Imagine a gigantic rock rising out of the ocean to a height of fifteen hundred feet, connected with the main land only by a narrow, low isthmus of sand—with three sides perpendicular (North, East, and South), and one sloping at an angle of 45 degrees from the summit of the mountain to the water’s edge, sprinkled with little gardens and lodges—while the sea-line is bristled with batteries and flanked by spit-fire tongues, bearing the heaviest artillery, behind which lies a town, containing specimens of every nation between the Ganges and the Atlantic. Through the perpendicular cliffs that overhang the neutral ground, vast galleries for cannon, and profound excavations for ammunition, are cut, tier over tier, pointing destruction upon every foot of the isthmus below. Then the ruins of the old Moorish castle, perched on the crags at one extremity of the rock, while Europa Point, a high table-land a hundred feet above the level of the sea, stretches out to the South, like a splendid parade, with barracks, hospitals, &c. But oh! from O’Hara’s tower on the summit, what a glorious prospect! The boundless and tideless Mediterranean to the East—the vast and heaving Atlantic to the West—the fantastic mountains of Grenada to the North—and Africa fading away towards Carthage and Algiers to the South.

There is not, there cannot be a spot on this earth where such an extensive, magnificent, varied, and beautiful view (one hundred miles in radius) can be obtained, as from the summit of Gibraltar—a spot unique, between two mighty oceans, and two great continents—having Africa and Europe, the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, as it were, at your feet!

Is it nothing to stand on one of the “Pillars of Hercules” and contemplate the other within a few miles of you? Descending into St. Michael’s cave, near the apex of the rock, we find ourselves surrounded by thousands and tens of thousands of stalactitic figures, assuming the grotesque forms of everything which the most fertile imagination could conceive—dispersed through caverns where human step has never been able to trace the depth or extent—and supposed to form subterranean, or rather submarine, communications with the opposite fortress of Ceuta in Africa! Wander through the town, and you will observe the costume, the language, the manners, the habits, the productions, the features—almost the passions and thoughts of every people on earth—from the Calmuc Tartar of the East, to the Red Indian of the West—from the Laplander of the North, to the Hottentot of the South. To compare Gibraltar with Ehrenbreitstein, then, is to compare “Hyperion with a Satyr”—or Vesuvius with the funnel of a steam-boat. I leave the prodigies of valour performed by Englishmen, in taking and retaining the key of the Mediterranean, out of the question, believing that Prussian arms would, under similar circumstances, have achieved equal exploits. Of all nations, we have the least reason to doubt the prowess of Prussia. She fought at our side, when the destinies of Europe vibrated in the balance!

COBLENTZ TO MAYENCE.

Between Cologne and Coblentz it is mere child’s play for the tourist. The stream is wide, and the attractive objects are so reasonably distant from one another, that the traveller has time to consult his map, peruse Schreiber, and even con over some of the shorter legends, between castle and castle. But it is another affair above Coblentz. The stream becomes more confined and tortuous—the banks more abrupt and contiguous—the ruins, towns, and villages more numerous—the embarkations and debarkations more frequent, with all their consequences of hurly-burly among the passengers, topsyturvy of luggage, scrambling after books, charts, and sacs-de-nuits, bowings, kissings, and embracings, or, as Hood would say, “omni-bussings,” among goers and comers, together with the clattering of plates and dishes, and the chattering of all known and unknown tongues—these, and many other interruptions, sadly discompose the contemplations of the philosopher, and the musing meditations of the tourists in pursuit of the picturesque, or the Syntaxes in search of the sublime.

The “Rhenish Confederacy” must have had a most salutary influence in fraternising the people of these provinces. Not only does every German in the steamer salute his “cousin Germans” on both cheeks; but, if his neck were long enough, he would kiss every man, woman, and child, on both banks of the river, from Cologne to Constance! These palpable inosculations, however, being impracticable, the caps and hats are converted into social telegraphs, which

and establish a chain of sympathies and reciprocities between land and water along the whole course of the Rhine.

STOLZENFELS.

We have proceeded but a little way above Coblentz, when we find ourselves between two remarkable ruins—one on the banks of the Lahn, (Lahenec), and one on our right—Stolzenfels. This last has a short legend attached to it, which may be glanced at, en passant.

The robber chief of this strong-hold was remarkable, even among the Rhine-robbers, for cruelty and ferocity. This was not all. He contemned the gods, and laughed at religion as the superstition of the ignorant. In the intervals of robbery and murder, he amused himself with tormenting his vassals, whose lives hung upon the mere caprice of their tyrant lord. One evening, while carousing and scoffing, the light of the moon was suddenly obscured—flocks of ravens flew screaming through the air—darkness overspread the Rhine—and distant thunder was heard growling among the mountains. The Stolzenburger turned pale, and, for the first time in his life, fell on his knees to pray. Before he could utter a word, a dreadful crash was heard—a thunderbolt had struck the castle—and the tyrant was buried in the ruins!

MORAL.

A death-bed repentance may be better than none; but that piety which is extorted by terror, hardly deserves the name.

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The long and straight reach of the river, from the entrance of the Lahn to the chateau of Liebneck, presents no striking feature, except the frowning castle (now an hospital) of Marksburg, crowning an apparently inaccessible mountain, which modern art might render impregnable. In another reach or two, we pass Boppart, and come to the scene of a legendary tale.

THE BROTHERS; OR, LIEBENSTEIN AND STERNFELS.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
(Legend the Fifth.)

A little above Boppart, but on the opposite side of the river, two mouldering ruins, on two craggy rocks, close to each other, arrest the attention of even the most indifferent passenger. The legend attached to them is of a very melancholy character. A nobleman had two sons and an amiable ward, of whom both of the brothers were enamoured. The elder resigned his pretensions, and retired to Rheuse, a part of the family estate. The younger was affianced to, and beloved by, the beautiful ward, Eloise, whose name deserves to be transmitted to posterity. The Holy, but insane Crusades, however, induced the intended bridegroom to join the military bigots of that day, in a war of extermination against the Musselmen. The result of his religious zeal was the conquest—not of the Holy City, but of a Grecian mistress, with whom he returned to his castle on the Rhine. The elder brother (Liebenstein), incensed at this double crime (profanation of the crusade and breach of his vows to the lady), challenged him to mortal conflict. The amiable ward (Louisa) rushed between the combatants—prevented fratricide—and immediately took the veil. The guilty pair led, at first, a riotous, but soon a wretched life. The Grecian lady proved faithless, and eloped! The brothers became reconciled—lived in the contiguous castles, whose ruins are still seen—and died without issue!—The property of the ward was dedicated to the purpose of founding a convent (Bornhoffen) at the foot of the mountain on which the castles were built. As to the brothers—

MORAL.

The darker features of this drama are every day seen on the stage of life. Lovers’ vows plighted, soon to be broken—man’s promises of eternal love cancelled—women’s hopes and happiness blighted—but perfidy sooner or later punished.

It was enough for Sternfels to bring home a mistress from Palestine, without parading his guilty partner before the eyes of his betrothed and insulted Louisa. Yet this, and worse, we every day witness! Sternfels’ punishment was not light. The ingratitude of his mistress, and a life of solitude and remorse, were severe chastisements!

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Winding along from the ruins last-mentioned, we come to a very striking object, a little short of St. Goar, which attracts the attention of all passengers. It is a dismantled fortification, still black with the powder by which it was blown up in the French revolution. The Rheinfels was long a robber-fortress of the first water, and its tyrant chiefs carried their depredations and extortions to such a height as to league all the adjacent provinces against them. The chiefs held out and defied the country; but at length the strong-hold fell—and, with it, the whole of the brigand castles on both sides of the Rhine.

LURLEY, OR THE ECHO.
(Legend the Sixth.)

Almost immediately after passing the ruins of the Rheinfels, we enter a narrow and sombre river gorge, where the stream is impetuous, turbulent, and tortuous; the cliffs of dark basalt rising almost perpendicular, but in rugged strata or layers, inclining in all directions from the horizontal to nearly the vertical. Here the Rhine like its sister the Rhone—

And here is still heard that prattling nymph, Miss Echo, who, like many a descriptive tourist, repeats her parrot-note for the tenth time—with no other variation than that of diminished force and distinctness. This lady, who, when young, was dismissed from the skies for allowing her tongue to wag too freely, has since endured the severe punishment of keeping silent, except when spoken to! She is not permitted to ask, but only to iterate questions—having the privilege, on some rare occasions, and in some peculiar places, of repeating the said question, or rather the last word or syllable of it twice or even many times. The present spot is one of these favourite localities—and the voices which she loves to hear and to imitate are those of the cannon, the bugle, and the horn. The clanking and plashing of the steamers are unfavourable to the delicate iterations of Echo, and often drown her voice entirely. Though not so witty as her sister of Killarney, who answers, instead of repeating the questions put to her, yet she occasionally cracks a joke on the mayor of the neighbouring town, when some stentorian German bawls out from the opposite rock, “Who is the mayor of Oberwesel?” The damsel, with a faint but clear titter, replies, “esel”—or ass! so that lord mayors on the banks of the Rhine, as well as of the Thames, are sometimes treated with ridicule.

There can be little doubt that boat-wrecks, raft-wrecks, and loss of life were of frequent occurrence in a locality like this, where the rapid stream is twisted into whirlpools, between rugged banks, the very proximity of which increases the difficulty of the passage, and the danger of drowning, where the vessel or flotilla is stranded. The eddying surge, the sunken rock, and the serrated perpendicular shore, in a dark and tempestuous night, must render the navigation of this dreary ravine most hazardous—and escape, in case of an overturn, all but hopeless.

That a place so singular and so perilous, coupled with a remarkable and musical echo, should become the scene of some popular or superstitious legend, is not at all wonderful. Accordingly a fourth Siren was added to the classical list, and located on the banks of the Rhine, instead of the coast of Sicily, to lure (lurlei) the enchanted mariner from his helm or oar, by her melodious song, and wreck himself and bark on the treacherous rocks. Lurley carried on the trade of her elder sisters for some time, with considerable success, but not without some redeeming qualities; for she often pointed out the best places for the poor fishermen to cast their nets. At length a young Palatine Count determined to emulate the hero of Ithaca, and break the spell of the enchantress. For that purpose he embarked on the Rhine, and steered towards the dangerous pass, but without taking the precaution of the wily Greek, to stop the ears of the crew with wax, and cause himself to be bound to the mast. As the count’s barge approached the rocks, Lurley poured forth one of her most melodious lays over the face of the river. The men dropped their oars, and the count’s senses were all absorbed in listening to the divine strains. A sudden eddy of the stream whirled the boat’s head towards the shore—another dashed her against the rocks—and, in another instant, all were engulphed in the boiling whirlpool!

This catastrophe caused a great sensation, and the count’s father sent a veteran warrior, with a select party of soldiers, to surround the rock, and seize the sorceress. On approaching the summit, Lurley was seen for the first time by human eyes, with arms, ankles, and neck encircled with corals, and even her flowing tresses braided with the same emblems of the deep. She demanded their purpose. The veteran announced his determination to force her into the Rhine, there to expiate the death of the young count. Lurley replied, by throwing her corals into the river, singing at the same time—

Instantly a great storm arose—the river boiled with foam—and two towering waves, bearing some resemblance to milk-white steeds, surged along the rock, and bore Undine (for such was the nymph) to her paternal grottoes under the waters. From that time the song of Lurley was never heard; but her spirit still hovers about her favourite rocks, and mimicks the voices of the boatmen as they pass the place.

The veteran warrior returned to the count’s father, and was agreeably surprised to find the son safely returned to his paternal mansion by the kind Undine.

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A contemplation of this locality irresistibly leads me to the conclusion that, here existed in some remote period, a cataract, similar to that now existing, but rapidly crumbling down, as at Schaffhausen. The alluvial plains between Heidelberg and the present bed of the Rhine, were unquestionably a large lake, which would be drained by the wearing down of a cataract at some lower part of the river. When the falls of the Rhine at Schaffhouse are reduced to mere rapids, it is probable that the lake of Constance will become an alluvial valley. The valley of the Rhone was once a lake, till the flood-gate at St. Maurice gave way, and converted the lake into a plain. The huge walls of basaltic rock piled up in strata on each side of the Rhine at Lurley, torn by fire and worn by water, draw the mind to contemplate the myriads of years which must have rolled along, since first they upsprung from the bowels of the earth in liquid lava—and the countless ages required to form this sombre gorge by the mere attrition of the unceasing current!

SCHOMBERG.

While passing the picturesque little town of Oberwesel, and just beyond the Lurley-rocks, we raise the eye to the ruins of Schomberg, possessing some interest to the British traveller, as the patrimonial castle of Duke Schomberg, who lost his life in the battle of the Boyne. Alas! that the very name of a mouldering ruin should, after the lapse of a century and a half, engender in the breasts of the same people, living under the same government, professing the same religion, speaking the same language, and having the same interests, such deadly sentiments of hatred and animosity! No two feudal robbers and enemies on the banks of the Rhine, ever viewed each other with such cut-throat propensities, as do the Orange-man and White-boy on the banks of the Boyne! A century and a half hence, when the fiery passions of the present day shall have long been quenched in the grave, and the immortal spirits shall be awaiting the verdict of a final tribunal, posterity will scarcely believe that, amongst their ancestors, Christian charity meant murderous extermination—and that the surest road to Heaven was that which was tracked with the blood of our neighbours! The glorious orb of day shines as joyously over those mouldering ruins, as when the proud castle first rose in majesty over the frowning precipices—nay, as when the Rhine itself first began to trickle from the virgin snows of the Alps:—and why should not the heavenly light of Christianity shed its benign influence over the professors of that faith, as well now, as when the Redeemer inculcated charity and forbearance during his mission on earth? No! It is much easier to preach than to practise the Christian virtues—and the former is considered the more efficacious of the two, by the disciples of Faith.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE FATE OF COQUETTES.
(Legend the Seventh.)

Cupid is not a god that may be safely tampered with. His arrows are sharp, his feelings are keen, and his resentments are sometimes implacable. Seven beautiful sisters resided in the castle of Schomberg, overhanging the Rhine; and their hearts were as insensible to love as are the seven rocks in that river near Oberwesel, which now bear their names. Their charms and their wealth attracted crowds of suitors from various quarters. The sisters, however, gave smiles to all, yet favours to none of their admirers. Proffers of marriage were always declined, and sometimes treated with levity. Vanity was their ruling, almost their only passion, and adulation was its food. Their public suitors were the subjects of their private merriment. But mischief sometimes mingled with their mirth. By words, looks, or demeanour, they occasionally seemed to shew a preference to certain of their admirers. This led to jealousies, quarrels, bloodshed, and even death. The ranks, however, were constantly filled up by adventurous and ardent lovers, as the Byzantine throne (according to Gibbon) was never without a tenant, though the grave was always ready dug at its foot! But beauty, which is the gift of Nature and Chance, is the first charm which falls before the hand of Time. The sisters had only this one personal attraction, and it began to fade. The suitors diminished in number, and at length totally disappeared! It was then too late to remedy the evil of their own vanity and cruelty. The scene of their former flattery had now become insupportable, and they prepared to remove across the Rhine to a sequestered retreat, where their wounded pride and present humiliation might alike be buried in obscurity. They selected a dark night for leaving their castle and passing the river. When near the Lurley Rocks, the gnome of that place, who had often witnessed the imprudent and unfeeling conduct of her neighbouring sisters, lured the boatmen towards a treacherous sunken shoal, when the vessel was overturned, and all were buried in a watery grave! The Seven Sisters are still seen occasionally, in very low states of the river, raising their heads out of the water, in the form of rocks, and struggling with the foaming and impetuous current!

MORAL.

The moral of this short legend is transparent. The coquette, the flirt, the jilt, is a kind of moral swindler who, having no feelings or affections herself, trifles with those of others. It must be confessed that there are similar characters among the other sex, who are, if possible, still more reprehensible. But the female who plays this disreputable game, runs a greater risk, for obvious reasons, than the male deceiver. The foregoing legend illustrates the danger of relying on mere personal charms, as the great magnet of attraction. Qualities and accomplishments of mind are more durable, and more to be depended on, than beauty of form or feature!

PFALZ.

The robbers of the Rhine were not content with building depÔts for stolen, or rather plundered goods, on every eminence, and levying “black mail” on every kind of land carriage; but they invaded “the free navigation of the Rhine,” as some of their descendants now do. A rock on the river whereon to erect a toll-bar was a great treasure in days of yore. The quadrupeds of the mouse-tower were much less voracious and graminivorous, than the bipeds of the same. The latter might not perhaps have nibbled at the body of a bishop, but they took good care to shear his flocks, in their transit up and down the Rhine. Nearly opposite Caub we pass close to an object which looks like a dwarf castle, sailing up the stream on the back of a whale. This was a very convenient edifice for the Rhenish palatines of the adjacent castle of Stahlee. It served the purpose of a custom-house, to collect the “rint,” and a prison to secure the refractory:—in other words, it performed the double function of dungeon and douane. One of the involuntary tenants of this narrow crib, was the own and the only daughter of Conrad, the palatine himself, whose name was Agnes. The lady had been betrothed, with her parents’ and her own consent, to Henry Duke of Brunswick; but a king having offered his hand, Conrad commanded her to change her affections, and set them on a higher rank than that of a duke. Agnes demurred in her own breast, though not openly; for affection, like faith or belief, will not come or go at our own bidding—much less at that of another. In the temporary absence of the father, Agnes, with the consent and privity of her mother, was privately married to the duke. When Conrad learnt this, he ordered his daughter to the Pfalz, till the marriage could be dissolved. Meantime it soon became evident that certain proofs of prior attachment on the part of Agnes, would be too unequivocal to escape the notice of the regal suitor, if the marriage were annulled; and Conrad, after a double confinement of Agnes in the Rhine prison, became reconciled to the duke—and all ended happily.

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Passing Bacharach and the “Ara Bacchi,” which shews its propitious face in fertile vintages, we soon come to Lorch, where we have a legend that must not be passed unnoticed.

TEMPTATION, OR THE HALL OF A HUNDRED MIRRORS.
(Legend the Eighth.)

Three students from Nuremburg, determined, during one of their vacations, to make the tour of the Rhine. Arrived at Lorch, they learnt that the sombre and triste valley of Wesperthal, behind Mount Kedrick, was the habitation of hobgoblins, who failed not to harass and frighten every one who penetrated into its dreary recesses. This account only stimulated their curiosity, and tempted their courage. They therefore repaired to the valley, and were soon treading on fairy ground. While wandering about, they came to an enormous mass of rock, bearing some rude resemblance to an old castle. In its sides were several apertures, like gothic windows, and its summit was something in the shape of a dome. Presently at one of these apertures there appeared three young ladies of surpassing beauty, who, instead of frowning on the young cavaliers, invited them, by their smiles and signals, to approach the castle. They soon found a narrow door, through which they entered, and passing along a kind of avenue, they came to a stair-case, which they mounted, and entered a vast and magnificent vestibule. They had scarcely time to cast a glance around them, when they were involved in the most Cimmerian darkness. After groping about, for some time, they discovered a door, which they managed to force open, when they found themselves in a splendid hall, illumined by hundreds of chandeliers, and covered from the dome to the floor with brilliant mirrors. But instead of finding the three nymphs, who had beckoned them from the windows, they were astounded by the sight of at least three hundred, who all stretched out their hands, at once, while welcoming the three youths to their father’s mansion! The students were stupified, not knowing which to address, or whom to salute, so bewildered were they by the reflection of three hundred beauties, and double that number of hands, from the surrounding mirrors! Their embarrassment was not lessened by the peals of laughter set up by the mischievous nymphs. In the midst of this scene, a door opened, and a venerable old man, with locks like snow, but clothed in jet black vestments, entered. “Welcome, my children,” said he; “you are come, no doubt, to demand my daughters in marriage. You shall have them, and with each a hundred weight of solid gold. But there is one condition. My daughters have lost their pet birds, and you must search for them, and bring them back from yonder wood.” “Take each your partner,” then said the old man, in a voice of thunder. The youths stepped forward, each to seize the hand of his mistress—but grasped only empty air. At this, the father joined his daughters in a peal of laughter. When the merriment had subsided, the old man led the young suitors to the real nymphs, whose salutes assured the students that they were real flesh and blood, and whose beauty soon captivated their whole souls. They were now eager to fulfil the condition imposed upon them. “You will recognize the Starling,” says the old man, “by the riddles which it has got by rote and is always propounding—the Rook by its hoarse croak—and the Magpie, by the burthen of its chatter, being the birth, parentage, and education of its grandmother.” They set out for the forest, and soon found the three birds, perched on the branch of an oak, chattering and chanting the ditties which they had been taught in the chateau. I have only room for the magpie’s theme—

The young gentlemen soon secured the pet birds, and returned with them to the castle. But what a change presented itself to their horrified senses! The chateau was gray with moss—the hall deprived of its mirrors and lustres, and only exhibiting naked walls! In three niches, sate three withered, tawny, toothless hags, with wine and fruit before them, on three small tables! They instantly rose, and stretched out their wrinkled, yellow, and skinny arms to embrace their lovers, while they mumbled and snivelled, from mouths and noses, their nauseous welcomes, and most loving assurances of eternal attachment and fidelity! To add to the mortification of the bridegrooms, the three pet birds joined their mistresses in such a chorus of squallings, croakings, and catterwaullings, that the young men were obliged to stop their ears to keep out the infernal din! Meanwhile the withered witches led their paramours to the tables, and presented them refreshments, for which they had little stomach. Each, however, took a glass of exquisite wine, which they had scarcely swallowed, when they fell into a state of complete insensibility! When they awoke, which was not till mid-day, they found themselves lying among prickly bushes at the foot of a tall rock, worn into furrows by the storms and rains, their limbs so cold and stiff that they had the greatest difficulty in retracing their steps! While dragging their weary limbs along, they were saluted from every projecting rock by the old hags—and from every branch of tree by the chatterings and croakings of the cursed pet birds! On clearing the valley, the young gentlemen made a vow never again to pay attention to the allurements of female beauty, when proffered on the “voluntary system” of the nymphs of Wesperthal.

MORAL.

I think the allegory of Wesperthal is little inferior to that of Circe, or even of the Syrens. It combines, indeed, the morals of both. Under the head of curiosity and thirst of rash adventure, are shadowed forth the headstrong passions of youth. Then the allurements and temptations by which they are so easily led from the paths of virtue—the Cimmerian darkness in which they are plunged—the blaze of false light, glittering tinsel, and meretricious splendour that attracts them on to their ruin—the penalties which are soon exacted from this short-lived felicity—the stupor in which their senses are drowned—and the remorse and horror in which they finally wake from the delirium of “passion’s wild career.”

Among some sly strokes of irony conveyed in this allegory, the accomplishments of the “pet birds” are biting satires on the education and mental habits of their mistresses in the chateaus of that time. Happily for us, there are now no charades of the starling, croakings of the rook, or magpie chatterings about ancestral honours, among the wives and daughters of the nineteenth century.

THE DEVIL’S LADDER.
RUTHELM AND GARLINDA, OR LOVE REWARDED AND INHOSPITALITY PUNISHED.
“Omnia vincit amor.”
(Legend the Ninth.)

There cannot be a doubt that the legend of the “Devil’s Ladder,” was clearly intended to convey a double moral, as will presently be seen.

Over the little town of Lorch, rises abruptly the craggy, and apparently inaccessible mountain of Kedrick, on which is a solitary tower. Sibo, the Chief of Lorch, was a gloomy, eccentric, and rather misanthropic character. One stormy night, a decrepid old creature, of extremely dwarfish stature, rapped at his door, and demanded the usual rights of hospitality, commonly accorded in that age of chivalry. Sibo drove him from his gate with rudeness, and even brutality. Next day, when the dinner-bell rang, Garlinda, the only child of Sibo, a beautiful girl, twelve years of age, was nowhere to be found! Search was made in all directions, but in vain. A shepherd, however, reported that, early in the morning, he saw a young girl, who was culling flowers at the foot of the Kedrick, surrounded and seized by a number of little old men, who climbed with her up the mountain. The chevalier cast his eyes towards the summit of the steep, and clearly discerned his daughter there, who appeared to be stretching her arms towards her parent’s habitation! The vassals were summoned, and numerous efforts were made to scale the rock; but every attempt was frustrated by fragments of stone coming down the precipices with such fury, that the men were forced to fly for their lives. The wretched Sibo now endeavoured by penances, prayers, donations to the churches, monasteries, and convents, as well as distributions among the poor, to propitiate the powers above, and regain his only child. Heaven seemed hardened against him, and the gnomes of Kedrick retained their captive. The only consolation of the father was, that Garlinda was seen at sunrise and sunset, looking from her airy prison down to the valley of Lorch. Days, months, and years rolled on, without any prospect of regaining his lost treasure. Meantime, every care was taken of Garlinda’s health and comfort by the fairies of the rock—and especially by an aged female gnome, who watched her assiduously, and occasionally gave her hopes of deliverance from captivity.

Four years had now elapsed, and Sibo gave up all expectation of recovering his daughter; when Ruthelm, a brave young knight, who had distinguished himself in the wars against the Infidels, returned to the place of his nativity, near Lorch. On learning the fate of Garlinda, he determined to effect her rescue, or sacrifice his life. Her father promised the hand of the lady to her deliverer. Ruthelm reconnoitred, with anxious eye, every side of the rocky mountain; but no part offered the least prospect of escalade. It rose like a rugged wall in every direction! Returning to his chateau in pensive meditation, he met a diminutive dwarf on the road, who accosted him, and asked him if he had heard the story of Garlinda’s captivity on the summit of Kedrick? On replying in the affirmative, the dwarf hinted that he could effect her freedom if Ruthelm promised to marry her. The lover eagerly closed with the proposal, and the dwarf vanished from his sight.

The youthful knight began to fear that the promise of the dwarf was a deception, when an aged female gnome stood before him, and presenting him with a small bell, desired him to repair to the valley of Wesperthal, a gloomy and haunted ravine behind the Kedrick, and there seek the entrance of a deserted mine, which he would recognize by two old pine trees that grew at its mouth. When he had descended a few steps into the mine, he was to ring the bell thrice, and abide the result. Ruthelm was punctual to the directions, and found the place. As soon as the bell was rung, a light was seen rising from the bottom of the mine, and presently a dwarf appeared, and demanded what Ruthelm wanted. He related the promise of the female dwarf, and her injunction to ring the bell which she had given him. The dwarf examined the bell. The inhabitant of the mine commanded Ruthelm to be at the foot of the mountain before the dawn of next morning. Then drawing a small trumpet from his girdle, he sounded it thrice, when instantly the ravine and the whole valley swarmed with gnomes carrying ropes, hatchets, saws, and hammers. In a few minutes trees were heard falling down the sides of the ravine, felled by the axes of the gnomes, while hundreds of these nimble gentry were busily employed in forming the wood into the different parts of the ladder.

Ruthelm slept little that night, and was at his post before the dawn of morn. He found the ladder placed against the perpendicular precipice, and reaching to its highest pinnacle. He began to mount the ladder; but the terrific vibrations and oscillations of the slender machine, required all the courage of a hero, and all the devotion of a lover—

At length he reached the summit of the rock, and was rewarded for his hazard, by the sight of Garlinda reclining asleep in a bower of roses and eglantine. Her beauty surpassed all that had been reported, even by her own friends. While gazing on the sleeping nymph, she awoke, and Ruthelm dropped on his knee. At that instant the little old man, who had carried off Garlinda, stood before them, and, with frowning looks, demanded the name of the intruder, the cause of his visit, and the means by which he had ascended the mountain? Ruthelm firmly replied, that he came to deliver Garlinda from her prison, and restore her to an affectionate, but broken-hearted parent—that the means of his access would be explained by the bell, which he held in his hand. Garlinda, at these words, burst into a flood of tears, and entreated the dwarf to allow her to visit her father. The dwarf paused for a moment, and then replied:—“Your father, Garlinda, has been amply punished for his inhospitality, and you deserve reward for your patience and resignation. For you, Sir Knight, (addressing Ruthelm,) the jewel you seek is not yet purchased, even by the perils you have encountered. A more dangerous task remains—the descent from this mountain. You must return by the ladder; I will conduct Garlinda by a secret path to her father’s mansion.”

Ruthelm, in descending the ladder, found infinitely more difficulty than in his ascent: and several times his head turned giddy, and he was nearly precipitated to the bottom of the ravine. When he reached Sibo’s castle, he found the daughter in the arms of her father, who was weeping for joy. Sibo, from that moment, kept his gate open to every object of distress—a practice which was continued by Ruthelm and Garlinda, during a long series of years.

MORAL.

To counterpoise the baser passions and propensities of our nature, the Omniscient Creator has implanted others in the human breast of an ennobling kind. Thus charity and benevolence antagonise selfishness and avarice. But these passions and propensities, good and bad, are not left to contend with each other in anarchy, like jarring elements. Over them is placed a power without passion, an emanation from the Deity, designed to control the vicious and foster the virtuous workings of the spirit, either by direct influence, or, which is more common, by nullifying the bad by the good propensities.

It is this God-like Reason, which distinguishes Man from the Brute creation. The latter have but one governing passion or instinct, each, from which they cannot deviate, and which never fails to lead them to their proper objects. But even in Man, and especially in uncultivated states of mind, Reason is too often unequal to the governance of the unruly passions, and requires the aid of another and higher power—Religion.

Reason may, and too often does, err; but instinct is as undeviating in its course as the earth in its revolutions round the sun. Whenever the voice of Reason and the dictates of Religion are resisted, and ultimately disregarded, some prominent passion from the vicious side of human nature is sure to gain and to retain the mastery. The consequences need not be told! Every day that vice retains possession of the soul, diminishes the chance of virtue regaining the ascendancy:—Hence the evil of procrastination in the work of reformation!

But to return. Hospitality to the stranger, and charity to the indigent are virtues so universally acknowledged, that few are bold enough to deny them in theory, though there are many Sibos who are chary of the practice. The sums which were lavished on monasteries and convents, in useless remorse, would have saved the Chieftain of Lorch many a bitter hour of reflection, had they been judiciously applied to the relief of penury and misfortune, before he was made to taste the bitter cup of anguish himself!

The other part of the legend illustrates the well-known fact that—

And not only hope, but accomplish things apparently impossible of achievement. Ruthelm was not the only one who has fallen in love of unseen objects, and only known through pictorial or descriptive representations. Few have passed the juvenile period of life without having some imaginary goddess or hero in their thoughts, endowed with all the virtues and charms which—

Whether time and experience have always realized (as Jonathan would say) these golden dreams, can only be determined by the knowledge of each individual.

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Leaving Lorch, then, on our left, (in ascending the river) our attention is strongly attracted to a renovated chateau on our right—Rheinstein. Here we must halt for a few minutes.

THE BRIDAL OF RHEINSTEIN; OR, THE RUNAWAY MARRIAGE.
(Legend the Tenth.)

About midway between Lorch and Bingen, on our right hand, stands the renovated castle of Rheinstein, on a romantic eminence, and very near the Rhine. It is no longer a desolate pile of ruins, but the habitation of a royal prince of Prussia, whose proud banner floats on its lofty turret. No destructive missile or drawn sword now repels the inquisitive stranger. The draw-bridge falls at the approach of Jew or Gentile, rich or poor—and the renovated halls are thrown open to the inspection of all visitors.

Tradition informs us that the original castle was inhabited by a Baron Sifred, a dissolute young robber, who carried off from France, a beautiful maiden, and detained her in durance vile within his impregnable fortress. The captivity of the lady, however, made a wonderful revolution in the baron’s life. The noise of revelry and arms was superseded by the sounds of the lute—and Yutta became the bride of Sifred. Twelve months of love and happiness flew rapidly round, and Yutta presented her husband with a pledge of their affection—a female child. The mother survived the birth only a few hours. The baron shut himself up in his castle, and dedicated his time to the education of his daughter.

Guerda grew up to the delight of her father’s declining years—and to the relief of wandering pilgrims, who sought refuge in the castle, and who sounded the fame of Guerda’s beauty far and near.

Hosts of suitors now flocked to the castle, but they were referred by Sifred to an approaching tournament at Mayence, where his daughter would select the most valiant knight. Her appearance at the assemblage excited universal admiration; and two knights determined to win her hand—Kuno of Reichenstein, and Conrad of Ehrenfels. The latter was the elder, and of a fierce disposition—the former was evidently preferred by the lady. Notwithstanding prodigies of valour, Kuno was defeated, and Conrad claimed the hand of Guerda. The father received the victor as his future son-in-law; while the dejected Kuno prepared to join an expedition to Palestine. The hapless Guerda was overwhelmed with grief; but her father was inexorable! The day of the nuptials was fixed—the cavalcade, with Guerda, the pallid victim of parental tyranny, mounted on a milk-white steed, proceeded towards the chapel, which was midway between the castle of her father and that of Kuno of Reichenstein. When near the sacred edifice, Guerda’s horse suddenly reared and plunged, endangering the life of the bride. Conrad, while endeavouring to seize the reins, received a dreadful kick from the furious steed, which prostrated him on the ground. The animal immediately darted forward, like an arrow from a bow, and never stopped till he carried the betrothed to the very gate of Kuno’s castle. Her lover, who witnessed this exciting scene, flew to the gate—gave admittance to Guerda—dropped the portcullis—and secured the treasure! Conrad was killed by the blow from the steed, and Sifred soon afterwards gave consent to the nuptials of Kuno and Guerda.

Would that, in every mercenary and ill-assorted match, the bride were mounted on so spirited and sensible a palfrey as that of Guerda, when proceeding to the altar! The runaway marriage of Rheinstein was far preferable to many of those slow and stately processions which attend the contracts of fashionable modern life!

THE RAT OR MOUSE-TOWER.
(Legend the Eleventh.)

It appears that there were corn-laws, or at least corn-monopolists, in days of yore as well as now. A dignitary of the church (not our church), the bishop of Mentz, had well-stored granaries, and fared sumptuously. A time of scarcity arrived. The populace begged for bread; but the bishop would only give them blessings. These would not fill the stomach, and the clamour becoming louder, the bishop waxed wroth. He flung open one of his granaries containing but little grain. The people rushed in—he bolted the doors—and set fire to the building! Murder will be out, sooner or later, and even punished in this world. The rats and the mice took up the cause of their masters. They cut through the floors and ceilings of the palace—nibbled holes in the arras—and poked their little noses through to smell the fat bishop. This was notice to quit, or furnish a cannibal supper for the unwelcome intruders.

The holy man betook himself to a tower in the middle of the Rhine; (Tours des Rats) but the nimble little quadrupeds swam across in legions—scaled the tower—and devoured the bishop!

The moral is good, though the tale is improbable. But if the Auto da FÉ of the bishop was a romance, the atrocity of the action has too often been surpassed even in our time—and that by “butcherly blockheads” in the cause of bigotry and superstition, though in the name of religion!

I suspect that the moral of the “Mouse or Rat Tower” lies much deeper than is supposed. It seems to indicate that, although the rich and the powerful may sometimes evade the law, they can never escape punishment. The inward monitor cannot be stifled, cross what rivers, seas, or mountains we may—

which I would liberally translate thus:—

The mice were meant to represent the conscience of the cruel bishop, from which, neither the streams of the Rhine nor the battlements of the tower could protect him.

CHANGE OF SCENE.

After passing Bingen, the poetry of the Rhine disappears—or sinks into smooth but unimpassioned prose. The “castled crags” and precipitous cliffs soften down into sloping glades and country villas—the river widens, and becomes studded with innumerable islets, verdant to the water’s edge—the majestic and romantic features of the scenery are changed into the beautiful and the fertile—it is like turning from the statues of Mars and Bellona to those of Cupid and Psyche! The legends and tales vanish with the rocks and ruins where they had a “local habitation”—romance degenerates into reality—the fervid imagination is softened down into sober judgment—and the excitement of admiration subsides into the tranquillity of reflection! The eye is spoiled for the charms of the wide-spread Rhinegau, teeming with the grape, and with every necessary of life; yet the landscape is loveliness itself. What it has lost in sublimity, it has fully gained in beauty.

The sun had just set beneath the horizon, and while—

our contemplations were broken by the steamer suddenly sheering alongside the jetty at Biberich, and discharging its cargo of human beings close to the royal palace of Nassau. After the usual bustle attendant on the transmigration of souls, bodies, and baggage, from water to land, we were safely deposited, in less than an hour, at the Adler Hotel, within a stone’s throw of the celebrated Kochbrunnen, or chicken-broth distillery at Wisbaden.

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WISBADEN.

This is one of the most celebrated spas in Germany—and more frequented, as a medicinal spa, than any other by our countrymen and women. It is only four miles from Biberich, near Mayence, and is very pleasantly situated, with a ridge of the Taunus to the north-east, while the country is open between it and the Rhine, in the opposite quarter. It is a very handsome town, of seven or eight thousand souls, and the capital of the duchy of Nassau. It is, itself, in a slight depression of the ground, but not so much as to impede a free circulation of air. Wisbaden is healthy, though rather warm, owing, probably, to the hot springs under the surface. The temperature, however, renders it a good winter residence for those who are unable or disinclined to seek the shores of Italy or other southern localities. The neighbouring country produces all the necessaries of life in abundance, and the vicinity of Frankfort, Mayence, and the Rhine, secures it the luxuries, when required. Excellent water is conducted from the Taunus for the use of the town. The Cursaal is the most magnificent in Europe—the hotels are numerous and good—the walks and rides exceedingly varied, cheerful, and salubrious. There are from ten to fifteen thousand annual spa-drinkers and bathers—while a far greater number spend a short time at Wisbaden for pleasure. A considerable number of the hotels have bathing establishments—the Eagle is the oldest—and is well appointed. In turning up from this hotel towards the Cursaal, we stumble on the Kochbrunnen, (the scalding spring,) the grand source of the drinking waters, and also of several baths. It has rather a mean appearance, and the water looks rather of a greenish-yellow colour, and seems turbid in the well, with a scum over a part of it, which is called “cream,” and is considered by the chemists as a peculiar animal or extractive matter, whose nature and source are unknown. The taste is that of weak chicken-broth with rather too much salt. There are upwards of nine hundred baths in the different establishments.

The plantations, extending from the back of the Cursaal to the old ruin of Sonnenburg Castle, are very beautiful—and thence are paths cut among the umbrageous woods to the Platte, the Duke’s Summer-house, on one of the mountains of Taunus, whence a magnificent view is obtained—Rhineward and Inland.

The road to Schwalbach and Schlangenbad present fine airy drives and walks over high, open, and unwooded grounds, communicating health and vigour to the enfeebled frame.

As may be supposed, the Romans were well acquainted with Wisbaden, and close to the Kochbrunnen, in the Romerbad, may be still seen the remains of several Roman baths—and one in particular having two springs of its own. But the monuments of antiquity in this place are numerous.

Three grand theories respecting the causes and sources of thermal springs divide the transcendental philosophers, naturalists, and physicians of Germany. These are the electro-chemical—the volcanic—and the vital. Wurzer expresses the opinions of the first class thus:—“As Nature is performing her operations in her immense laboratory, she has here a galvanic apparatus of immense size. Extensive masses of mountains, perhaps of unfathomable depth, probably form the individual plates of this voltaic column.” This is tolerably bold. While Brand and Faraday are dissolving metals by the tiny galvanic apparatus in Albemarle Street, Nature is manufacturing mineral waters at Wisbaden, Ems, and Carlsbad, on a magnificent scale! Lichtenberg, however, surpasses Wurzer in the sublimity of his ideas on this subject.

“In the distilling operations of Nature, the belly of her retort sometimes lies in Africa—its neck extending all over Europe—whilst its recipient is in—Siberia.”!!

Bischoff, Struve, Kastner, and others, are more moderate in their flights. They ascribe the origin of some thermal springs to volcanic operations in the bowels of the earth—of other springs to the gradual solution of their component parts in subterranean reservoirs.

The third class of philosophers have boldly cut the Gordian knot, instead of untying it, and erected thermal springs and mineral waters generally into animated beings which transfuse their vitality into the bodies of the spa-drinkers, and thus cure all diseases!

“These and similar observations (says Dr. Peez, of Wisbaden,) compel us to admit the existence of a peculiar vital principle in mineral waters, communicating to the human body either an attractive faculty more consonant with the medicinal component parts of the water; or, acting by itself as a healing power upon the diseased organism.”[12]

The italics are those of Dr. Peez, and not mine. German mysticism could hardly be expected to go farther. But it has outdone itself, as the following extract will shew:—

“The partial effect of the medicinal component parts of mineral waters is pushed back, as it were, retreating under the Ægis of a general power which directly excites the autocracy of the animated animal body, and compels it to act according to the particular quality of the mineral spring determined by its component parts.”—(104.)

Here we have a good specimen of German ideality, and transcendental mystification![13]

My friend, Dr. Granville, like every other man of genius, has a hankering after a theory; but he was too shrewd not to see that this monstrous German hypothesis of “vitality” would be too large even for the swallow of John Bull. He has therefore substituted a much more rational and intelligible reason for the effects of thermal spas—namely, their caloricity, as differing materially from that of common water heated to the same degree of temperature. It is very easy to conceive that cauldrons that have been kept boiling in the bowels of the earth for thousands of years, will have diffused the caloric more uniformly and minutely through the waters, and dissolved more completely the mineral ingredients, than pots and kettles in the laboratory of the chemist. This, in all probability, is the solution of the mystery respecting the superior efficacy of thermal spas.

The composition of the Kochbrunnen is as follows:—Forty-four grains of common salt—five of muriate of lime—one and a half of carbonate of lime, out of fifty-nine grains in the pint. The remaining nine grains are not worth enumerating, as the salt and lime are clearly the main ingredients. There are only seven cubic inches of carbonic acid gas in the pint. The temperature is little short of 160° of Fahrenheit. Let us begin with the baths. At a temperature of 86° to 90°, the bath generally occasions a slight sensation of chilliness, which goes off in a few minutes, and is succeeded by a feeling of comfort—serenity of mind—and ultimately a degree of weariness or lassitude, inclining the bather to lie quiet and repose himself. The volume of the body rather diminishes than expands, and the skin of the hands and feet are gently corrugated—the pulse becomes slower and softer—irritability is lessened—spasmodic feelings (if they existed,) disappear under the soothing influence of the waters on the nervous system and circulation—the functions of the intestinal tube are encreased, as are those of the skin, kidneys, and various glandular organs.

At a temperature of 94° to 98°, the bather, at the moment of immersion, experiences an agreeable sense of warmth—the vital powers are exalted, and all the functions of the organs are put into a state of increased activity. The pulse expands and quickens, but is still soft—and all the secretions and excretions are augmented after leaving the bath.

As the weight of the body is increased from half-a-pound to a pound and a half, while immersed, there can be no doubt that a considerable absorption takes place. At above 98°, or blood heat, the bath excites the pulse and renders it both full and hard—embarrasses the breath—flushes the face—reddens the whole surface of the body—excites perspiration—powerfully draws the circulation to the skin—and not seldom causes head-aches, vertigo—and even apoplexy. Douches and shower-baths are often ordered before the plunging or vapour-bath. Lavements of the spa-water are also employed—and it is said with good effects, relieving the stomach from the ingurgitation of so much fluid.

Preceding, and sometimes during the cure, the following phenomena occur in a majority of cases, in addition to those already described:—viz. a prostration of strength—headaches—giddiness—constriction over the eyes—drowsiness. In some cases, there will be constipation—loaded tongue—loss of appetite—oppression about the chest—feebleness of the limbs—nervous irritability—disturbed sleep—perspiration—palpitations—eruptions on the skin. These symptoms are acknowledged by the spa-practitioners themselves to indicate an inconvenient use either of the baths or the drink—or some abnormal susceptibility of the constitution—or some impropriety of regime. They soon disappear by lessening the application of the remedy, and taking some aperient medicine—an omission, however, which most of the spa-doctors are sure to make, trusting, as they do, almost entirely to the operation of the waters.

It is necessary to remark that, the rheumatic and gouty who resort to these waters, (and they are by far the most numerous classes,) must expect to suffer a considerable increase of their complaints at the commencement—amounting often to acute pain and even inflammation of the parts affected. The local medical authorities represent these as the sure precursors of great relief, if not a radical cure of the maladies in question. I would advise patients to be on their guard in this respect. The first two individuals whom I fell in with at Wisbaden, and whom I formerly attended, were in imminent danger of their lives, from the effects of drinking and bathing in the waters. One was on the verge of apoplexy—and the other in a fair way for a rheumatic fever. Both were soon relieved by aperients, colchicum, and starvation.[14]

There is another class who experience no uncomfortable symptoms during the use of the waters, which operate by the skin, the kidneys, and the bowels—and these proceed quickly and favourably to a restoration of health.

There is still a third class who experience no relief from the waters, but rather an exasperation of all their maladies. The spa doctors give them this consolation, that, long after their return to their homes, they will probably get much better—or quite well! The following passage from Dr. Peez, should awaken precaution.

“Let us now take into consideration a phenomenon we observe first after patients have for some time been drinking, or bathing in, the thermal water of Wisbaden, and which might alarm timorous minds. The reaction taking place in the beginning of the patient’s making use of the water, mentioned above, returns with some individuals. I have observed this being the case particularly with females of a hysteric disposition, attended with a tendency to hemorrhoÏdal complaints, who, for that reason, were very irritable. Bathing in, and drinking thermal water of this place for a fortnight, three weeks, and longer, are extremely favorable,—each day is attended with additional success: one ailment after the other disappears; a pause then ensues, the irritability of the body rises—the patient’s sleep grows restless; some complain of palpitating of the heart, oppression of the chest, and slight vertigo. In this case it is necessary to cease bathing, at least for some days, and to observe what nature means by that excitation. This, however, commonly ceases in the course of a few days, when the patient may again take the bath without hesitation, and with advantage, provided he be careful to follow the direction of his physician. Others, however, in that case have attained to the limits of bathing, prescribed by nature, and if they obstinately transgress these laws, their career on the road to recovery takes a retrograde turn. I have seen such improvident bathers, who, not knowing the nature of these phenomena, continued bathing without consulting their physician, were seized with spasms, spitting of blood, and other ailments.”

It is remarked by Dr. Richter, that as the greater number of patients at Wisbaden are afflicted with gouty or rheumatic complaints, so they must expect to experience the specific effects of the waters more sensibly than other people. It is not uncommon therefore for these to suffer, at the beginning of the course, very high states of excitement, pain, and even inflammation of the parts involved in the original malady. This may be encouragement to perseverance; but it may also prove extremely hazardous. The following case from Dr. Peez, will exemplify this remark.

“The abdomen of a lady aged 52 years, having been afflicted for a long time with plethora abdominalis, began at last to swell and to grow hard, her complexion being tinged with a greyish-yellow colour, whilst her organs of digestion were impaired at the same time. She was particularly alarmed by occasional palpitations of her heart, most commonly troubling her at night, and obliging her to quit her bed. Having bathed in, and drunk, our thermal water, the palpitations grew more violent, and rendered it necessary that a small quantity of blood should be taken from her occasionally.”

In the third week of the course, she was seized with a copious purgation of morbid secretions, when the palpitations vanished—the abdomen became soft—the complexion cleared—and she was soon well.

Now it is clear that this good lady laboured under congestion of the liver, jaundice, and loaded bowels. Nature rescued her from the heat of the Kochbrunnen, by a process which ought to have been instituted three weeks before.

I shall endeavour to shew in other places, that these crises, spa-fevers, bad-sturms, and re-actions, described by the foreign writers on the Spas, are often attributable to the want of combining some mild mercurial alterative and aperient with the use of the waters. Many cures are prevented or rendered ineffectual by the dread of mercury entertained by the German physicians.

The following auxilio-preservative (if I may so term it), will be found of essential service every night before taking the morning waters.

?.	Extr. Col. Comp.
	Pil. Rhei. Comp. aa ?ij.
	Pil. Hydrarg. gr. x.
	Ol. Caryoph. gt. vj.
Ft. pil. xx. capt. j. vel. ij. hora somni.

We shall now advert to the remarks of Dr. Richter, who has published a very sensible little treatise on the Wisbaden waters, in the year 1839.

Group of Disorders in which the Waters, either Internal or External, or both, are likely to be useful.

1. Complaints having their seat in the abdominal organs, and especially in the biliary apparatus.—The signs or indications of these are—acidities—eructations—furred tongue—troubled digestion—loss of appetite—sense of tightness or oppression about the stomach and bowels, after food—costiveness, or relaxed bowels—congestion about the liver, with or without enlargement of that organ—hypochondriasis and hysteria—hÆmorrhoids and their consequences—irritations about the kidneys and bladder—sequences of residence in tropical climates.

2. The various forms of gout and their sequences.—Besides the regular or periodical gout, Dr. Richter enumerates the multitudinous forms which it assumes when latently preying on different organs and structures. There is no end to the proteian features of masked gout—extending as they do from the terrific lacerations of tic douloureux down to the most anomalous morbid feeling, whether internal or external. “In all these,” D. R. avers, “the waters and baths of Wisbaden are eminently beneficial.” The baths, when assisted by the internal use of the waters, bring anomalous and latent gout into its proper place and form—into the extremities, thus relieving the interior.

3. Paralysis, general or local—the sequence of apoplectic attacks, or the consequences of metastases of gout, rheumatism, or cutaneous eruptions from the surface to the brain or spine—also those paralytic affections occasioned by the poisons of lead, arsenic, mercury, &c. or contusions or other injuries of the head and back. Dr. Richter cautiously observes that, during the use of the Wisbaden waters for the foregoing class of complaints, it will often be necessary to bleed, cup, or leech, as well as to take aperient medicines from time to time, under the guidance of the medical attendant.

4. Scrofulous complaints, of all kinds and degrees.

5. Rheumatism, with its various consequences. Of course it is chronic rheumatism that is here meant, with enlargements of joints, contractions, effusions into the capsular ligaments, &c. which attend on and follow that painful class of diseases.

6. The sequences of mercurial courses for various diseases, both in this country and between the tropics.

7. Several pulmonary complaints, occasioned by repressed gout, rheumatism or cutaneous eruptions.

8. The Wisbaden waters (like many other mineral springs) are lauded as efficacious in certain complaints and defects of both sexes, which it is not convenient or proper to notice in this place.

COUNTER-INDICATIONS.

Dr. Richter dedicates a chapter to those complaints which are not benefited, but injured by the waters of Wisbaden.

1. All acute diseases—that is to say, diseases accompanied by fever or inflammation, are totally and entirely prohibited from these waters. But this is not all. Wherever there is febrile action in the constitution, or local inflammation, however subacute, or even chronic, the use of thermal springs, either as drink or baths—but especially the baths—is dangerous. “These waters, internal and external, will excite the circulation and nervous system (already too much exalted) into the most dangerous reactions, and lead to the most deplorable consequences.” P. 43.

Phthisical affections, except in the earliest stage, and before any material change has taken place in the lungs, preclude the idea of utility from these waters. Emaciation, from internal suppuration in any organ, and resembling phthisis, forbids the waters of Wisbaden. The same may be said of cachectic habits, where the blood is broken down, and the solids wasted. Dropsy of the chest, abdomen, or skin will be prejudiced by these sources—and in short, all diseases connected with, or dependent on defect of vital energy; or, in other words, debility of constitution generally. Catarrhal affections of kidneys and bladder—fluor albus—severe derangement of the digestive organs, (grand derangement des organs de la digestion)—chronic diarrhoea, &c. with emaciation, will derive no benefit but injury from these waters. All tendency to spitting of blood—all enlargements of the glandular abdominal organs with debility and wasting, prohibit the use of Wisbaden waters. The same holds good with respect to stony concretions in the kidneys or bladder—biliary concretions in the gall-bladder or ducts—scirrhous formations in any of the organs of the interior, or exterior parts—all organic affections of the heart or large vessels—epilepsy—catalepsy—St. Vitus’s dance—very inveterate forms of gout, with chalk-stones, paralytic lameness, and considerable debility. In some of these last cases, Dr. R. thinks that, when directed with skill and caution, the waters may afford some relief though nothing like a cure. Sterility, with constitutional exhaustion and debility, has little to hope from Wisbaden.

The reader will here perceive a long list of maladies which the Wisbaden waters will not cure, but aggravate. It is very rare for a spa-doctor to offer any such list. Their springs are panaceas for all the ills to which flesh is heir. There is a passage in Dr. Peez’s work respecting the baths which deserves attention. He remarks that there is a point of saturation in the use of thermal waters, beyond which it is dangerous to proceed. But this point of saturation is difficult to ascertain. The following is not very consolatory.

“The temperature of the bath must be made to correspond as exactly as possible with their individuality. Baths that are but one degree too warm or too cool, will very soon produce the point of saturation. Neither is it advisable that such a person should bathe daily, nor, in the beginning, stay in the bath longer than 15-25 minutes: for his great irritability very easily provokes in the very beginning those excitations that are the forerunners of critical secretions and accelerate the appearance of the symptoms of overbathing, and if the patient be not exposed to the danger of a violent artificial fever, the success of his cure is, at least, rendered very doubtful. He is, in this case, obliged to discontinue bathing so long that the time intended to have been spent in bathing passes, or must be prolonged considerably.” 161.

In many people this critical point of saturation is announced by very restless sleep, disturbed by dreams—or somnolency by day—tenderness of the eye to light—uneasiness, despondency, and anxiety, without any adequate cause—derangement of the digestion—loaded tongue. If these symptoms be overlooked or disregarded, phenomena of more importance present themselves, such as palpitations—difficulty of breathing—profuse sweats—nausea—and finally a fever. Dr. P. is very averse to any active remedies to reduce the fever of over-bathing, and especially bleeding or purging. He advises that nothing be done but to desist from bathing, and to take some cooling acidulous waters, as those of Selters or Fackingen.

The same author assures us that the Wisbaden waters are extremely easy of digestion—that they improve the appetite—open the bowels, in a majority of cases—are eminently diuretic—but occasionally produce constipation. From all that I could observe myself, these waters have very little aperient effect.

To enumerate the diseases for which the Wisbaden waters are renowned would require a small volume—at least according to the testimony of Peez. In one word, they cure all diseases in general, and many others in particular!! On looking over the works of spa-doctors, we must come to one or other of the following conclusions, viz. there must either be a universal conspiracy among the faculty of Europe against spas, and in favour of their own monopoly of thinning the ranks of the population by physic—or the world is deaf to the entreaties of the water-doctors, and desire not to be cured—or, what is not quite impossible, the virtues of mineral waters are a little too much extolled by those who have the administration of them. It is perhaps fortunate for the world that one or other of these prejudices or infatuations prevail—otherwise there would be no bills of mortality—no doctors—no undertakers—in short, man would be immortal even in this world!

There will still be a considerable number, however, of afflicted beings who will not despise the blessings so freely and so cheaply offered by the high priests of Hygeia.

It is pretty well known that a kind of monomania prevails among all classes on the Continent respecting hÆmorrhoids—a complaint almost as much dreaded by the English as it is courted by foreigners. By the people it is considered quite a god-send—the absence of it being a calamity, and its presence a talisman against every malady—by the physician, its sanative powers are represented as only inferior to the waters of Wisbaden, Kissengen, or Carlsbad. By the physiologist and pathologist hÆmorrhoids are calculated to bear the same relation to the constitution that the safety-valve does to the steam-engine. Without the one, the boiler would burst—without the other the German would die. In a word, the German had rather live without his pipe, than without his piles!

To the deficiency, absence, or interruption of hÆmorrhoids are attributed chiefly all those obstructions of the abdominal viscera which lead to dropsy and other fatal diseases. The waters of Wisbaden are represented as having the normal or salutary power of restraining piles, when in excess—encouraging them when languid—and reproducing them when accidentally arrested. Hypochondriasis is one of the grand forms in which suppressed hÆmorrhoids harasses the patient for years, according to the continental pathology.

“How often,” says Dr. Peez, “does it, however, happen, that an abdominal disease exclusively confined to the nervous system, suddenly changes its character, preferably affecting the bloodvessels, and thus is transformed into an active hemorrhoÏdal disorder!

“I have had occasion to observe the case of a husbandman, who had been suffering the torments of hypochondria for some years; he was emaciated and ill fed. His means did not allow him to attempt a radical cure, and he applied only from time to time for my assistance, when his sufferings were most painful. In spring 1821 he was suddenly seized with palpitations of the heart, and when these ceased, his pulse continued for some months to be full and hard, as in the case of fever. Discerning the character of his disorder, I made him come to Wisbaden. Here he took half-baths, drank the water in copious doses, and was cupped in his legs several times. In twelve days the hemorrhoÏds declared themselves in the usual shape and delivered him from his melancholy, anxiety, and oppression of the stomach, which had tormented him so long.” 196.

Dr. Peez informs us that the sequences of tropical diseases are radically cured by the Wisbaden springs.

“Among the consequences of these endemic diseases of the Indies we must reckon: tumefactions of the liver, and the spleen, which frequently are encomous, as well as other tumors in the cavity of the abdomen: swellings and obstructions of the intestinal glands (which frequently also are the products of malignant cutaneous diseases, peculiar to the torrid zone), obstinate jaundice, spasms of the stomach, accompanied with a vomiting of food.

“The English and Dutch physicians have these many years been in the habit of sending patients of this class to Carlsbad or Wisbaden, after those of the former first had tried Cheltenham to no purpose; and these two springs produce, in the above mentioned diseases, an effect really wonderful.” 198.

Now we were told by the more cautious and candid Dr. Richter, a page or two back, that “all enlargements of the glandular abdominal organs, with debility,” were diseases not to be remedied by these waters. All these morbid growths are attended and nourished by more or less of chronic inflammation, and in these cases the Wisbaden, or any other thermal baths, are more likely to do harm than good. The aperient waters of Kissengen or Pulna are far more efficacious and safe. Dr. P. has a chapter on the efficacy of these waters in “paralysis the consequence of apoplexy.” Now every physician knows that the cause of the paralysis succeeding apoplexy is the clot of blood effused in the attack, and the damage which the brain has received in the neighbourhood of that clot. Nature, at length, absorbs the effused blood, or surrounds it with a sac, and then the adjacent brain gradually recovers its function, if within the power of nature, and the motion of the paralyzed limb is regained in proportion. How this salutary process is to be accelerated by the baths or waters of Wisbaden, I cannot imagine; but I can very easily conceive that these warm baths may readily interrupt the work of nature, and convert a paralysis into an apoplexy. Such conversions, in fact, do occur every year at the German thermal spas. He says, “paralysis arising from plethora will be cured with more facility by means of the thermal waters, than that which is caused by the accumulation of lymph in the brain or the spinal marrow.” This doctrine may be true in one sense, but it is dangerous in another. Paralysis from plethora is undoubtedly more susceptible of cure than dropsy of the brain or spine; but it must be a most hazardous attempt to try the waters of Wisbaden for plethora of the brain or spinal-marrow.

Our author’s directions for using the waters appear unobjectionable, and therefore I shall cull out some of his chief rules.

1. The waters ought to be drunk fasting, and before the bath—using gentle exercise and cheerful conversation between each draught. The cup should never be emptied at once, but sipped slowly. Some people may drink four hours after dinner, but in less quantities and at a lower temperature.

In gouty affections, and where the skin is torpid, the water should be drunk as hot as possible—and even in bed, if necessary. Some find it better to drink it luke-warm, and mixed with a little milk. Half an hour after finishing the waters, breakfast, (chocolate, coffee, or egg-milk, or broth with the yolk of an egg,) may be taken. “The less nourishment that is taken between drinking and bathing the better.” Half an hour or an hour should elapse even after the lightest breakfast, before the bath. It is dangerous to bathe when heated or perspiring. “Persons taking a whole bath, should immerse themselves into the water only by slow degrees, up to the neck, having previously sponged the chest and abdomen with the bath water.” If seized with headache or vertigo in the bath, it is too hot, and ought to be left immediately. Baths in which you perspire are too hot, spoil the appetite, weaken the patient, and put him out of humour all day. “All baths, even those of common water—sometimes cause a sensible congestion of blood in the head.” The head should then be sponged with cold water. Great care should be taken to avoid sleep in the bath—or even after a hot bath—but after a tepid bath it may be allowed.

In many cases it is very beneficial to use friction, by means of a brush or sponge, whilst in the bath. The duration of the bath is a quarter of an hour to an hour and a half. People should always begin with the short period—and not too high a temperature. Where it is desirable to encourage gentle perspiration after the bath, the patient should go to bed.

As all sudden extremes are repugnant to nature, invalids, when travelling towards watering-places, should begin to adopt the regimen and hours which they must follow at the spas. A few tepid baths of plain water are useful preparations, and light cooling diet, should be employed for a week or two before arriving at the spa.

The following sketch of the motives, hopes, and prospects which lead invalids to spas—and their routine of life and enjoyments at those places, is drawn by a Spa Doctor of twenty years’ standing. It is nearly free from the sins of commission—but not of omission. It is penned en couleur de rose—and, like the speech of an advocate, it slurs over all features of the case that might seem disadvantageous to the cause of the client. I shall supply some deficiencies at the end.

“It is owing, in a great measure, to the enlivening influence which a temporary residence at some watering-place exercises on the mind of the visitor, that the most successful results are obtained there, and which the best endeavours of the regular physician can seldom effect at home.

“Persons not labouring under serious disorders—such as men of business, who purpose only to repose from the fatigues with which the performance of their official duties is attended, and to partake of the amusements afforded by bathing-places—the man of letters, who takes refuge in them for relaxation from his serious studies;—the tender mother, resorting to them to obtain relief for a beloved daughter—all these have disengaged themselves, as much as possible, from the trammels of their professional and domestic occupations and relations, and enter this new world with renovated spirits. The cheerful and gay life of a bathing-establishment presents to all of them charms with which they were entirely unacquainted before. Individuals of all ranks, gathering there from neighbouring parts and the most distant countries, united there within narrow confines, mostly for one and the same purpose, meet for the first time in that motley assemblage, and also hail each other, perhaps, for the last time, for a long series of years. This variety, this contact of individuals, frequently distinguished by high rank and eminent talents and accomplishments, enhances the charms of indiscriminate social intercourse, and adds an additional value even to the patient’s solitary hours, as I have frequently experienced myself, by ushering in the dawn of a happier futurity.

“The variety of interesting objects that present themselves to his view, attracts his attention, and occupies his eyes and imagination, and kindred spirits find many opportunities at watering-places to meet and to form familiar connexions. A common purpose, the same society, the participation of the same amusements and pleasures, facilitate the formation of many interesting connexions. The opportunities of mutual intercourse are numerous: the social meetings are not hampered by the trammels of ceremony, and we readily acknowledge and enjoy mental and social talents wherever we meet with them.

“The patients meet early in the morning on the public walks and at the wells. There they interchange their wishes and hopes of recovery. Many are on the eve of returning health; and, encouraged by the improving state of convalescents whom they daily see, or by the perception of encreasing strength, feel themselves elated with the pleasing hope of experiencing in their own persons the successful results of bathing which they behold in others. New hopes awake in others that are still groaning under the burden of severe and painful disorders, when they hear many of their acquaintances bless the beneficent spring that has restored to them health and the means of enjoying life.

“Here plans for the amusements of the day are discussed, appointments for shorter or longer excursions made, according to the strength and inclination of each individual; and these excursions, this enjoyment of the open air, contribute a great deal to heighten the salubrious efficacy of the wells. A cheerful mind exercises the most happy influence on the body, and who could indulge his melancholy bent and remain a cool observer amidst the charms of nature and in the society of persons that are endeavouring to enjoy them?

“Now the patient takes the bath, and is happy to remain in the congenial fluid to which earth communicates her vital warmth; he feels himself strained more closely to the bosom of our common mother, whilst he is surrounded by the salubrious liquid, issuing from her womb, and joyfully presages the tendency of her mysterious powers.

“After the bath the patient regularly indulges himself with a few hours of rest, which affords him additional enjoyment. He notes down what he has seen and heard, reads, writes, or directs his steps to the colonnade of the Cursaal, (pump-room,) where a select band of performers on wind instruments gives an additional zest to the charms of the morning hours, until the company meet in the dining-hall, where they sit down to a comfortable dinner, seasoned by the sweet sounds of excellent music.

“Happy would it be if temperance and a sensible conversation did always characterise these meals, and if all would be mindful, that the offended Naiad severely punishes all kinds of excess, by which the strict regimen she requires, is profaned!

“In the afternoon the plans formed in the morning are executed, each patient trying the strength he has regained;—and, in the evening, the lovers of dancing repair to Terpsichore’s temple; whilst others spend the evening in one of the parties that are formed in every bathing establishment. After the fatigues of the day, a balmy sleep, which is interrupted no more by restlessness, improves the encreasing strength, and the dreams that formerly were the mirrors of a melancholy reality, are superseded by cheerful sports of fancy.

“These are the general outlines of a life that may be led at a much-frequented watering-place, and by many is realized in a shape still more pleasing and refined. The great diversity of enjoyments that may be procured at these places, allots to each as much as he may want, and sometimes even more than many a one desires.”[15]

But is there no drawback on this scene of sunshine? Do all experience the invigorating influence of returning health? No. Not one half! Do the hypochondriacs who resort to Wisbaden in shoals, throw off their load of mental despondency and bodily infirmities? Let Dr. Granville, who is not inclined to depreciate spas in general—and “Spas of Germany” in particular, decide the question.

“What a dreadful picture of human wretchedness the hypochondriac at Wiesbaden presents! He is sombre, thoughtful, or absent, in the midst of a laughing world. For ever brooding over his fate, his disease absorbs the whole of his attention. He disdains even the most trifling conversation with his fellow-creatures, and flies from those ephemeral acquaintances which are so easily formed at watering-places, exactly because one cares little how soon after they are forgotten. In fact, he would feel himself alone in the world, and never concern himself about those around him, did he not envy their healthy looks, their firmer muscles, and their sounder stomachs, which can sustain an indigestion with impunity!”

There are a great many others, besides hypochondriacs, who are destined to feel the melancholy effects of blighted hopes in these last resorts of suffering—and who turn their weary steps homewards, without the cheering expectations that gilded their journey to a foreign land!

But is there no risk of receiving, in exchange for dear-bought health, a moral contagion that poisons the springs of life, and saps the foundation of every virtue? Beneath the gilded domes of that splendid mansion—that palace of Plutus—that Cursaal, or Curst Hell—the dÆmons of play exhibit their piles of glittering ore—those “irritamenta malorum—

familiarizing the uninitiated eye to scenes of desperate speculation—imbuing the soul with the wicked thirst of gold unjustly acquired—of plunder, without fear of punishment—of robbery, without danger of the gallows! The atmosphere of this Pandemonium—for the devils are in legions here—is too infectious to be long resisted. The open manner in which the vice is practised by day, and by night—in the presence of multitudes of all ages, nations, and both sexes—on the sabbath of the Lord, as well as on the day of work—this legalization, not merely permission of a violation of morality, religion, and social order, which, in England, must skulk in holes and corners—the kind of social heroism with which the most destructive vicissitudes of fortune are borne by some of the hardened haunters of these splendid hells—these and various other circumstances combine to mask the hideous mien of the monster, and strip the crime itself of half its horrors, till, by daily presentation, it becomes at length endurable without terror, and embraced without remorse! The neophyte has no sooner wound up his courage to the staking of his piece of gold, than the spell of security is broken—the charm of serenity is dissolved—the flood-gate of the passions is thrown open—the “auri sacra fames” takes possession of the soul—and the dÆmon of the night enrols one more name on the list of his victims!

The Spartan practice of exhibiting the drunken slave to disgust the rising generation with the vice of inebriety, was a doubtful experiment at best—but, in the present case, there can be no doubt at all as to its inapplicability. There is always seen a certain proportion of the fair sex round the gambling-tables—many of them playing with quite as much desperation as the men. It is melancholy to state that, we too often see delicate English females squeezing in between parded Jew and whiskered German, to stake their gold or silver on the gyrations of a ball or the colour of a card!

Here is an excellent normal school, where the wives, and daughters, and sons of our nobility and gentry can learn the rudiments—“and something more”—of heartless vice and headlong dissipation, without reference to sectarian creed, theological faith, or national religion;—while the children of the Protestant peasant and mechanic would be contaminated by the presence of Catholic or Dissenter in the same grammar-school, when acquiring the rudiments of reading and writing! If this be not “straining at gnats and swallowing camels,” I know not what is!

And here I may glance at a curious species of one-sided morality strictly enforced by the late Duke of Nassau—the prohibition of gambling in the “curst-hells,” among his own subjects; while free permission is given to all foreigners to rob and plunder each other at roulette and rouge et noir, in the open day—Sundays and Saturdays! When I said free permission, I was wrong. The license to gamble is sold to the bankers of each Cursaal (curst hell) for a large sum—which goes into the ducal treasury. I puzzled my brains, for a long time, in the attempt to discover the principle of this law, and at length found it, as far off as China. The geographers of that country represent the Celestial Empire as occupying nearly the whole of the dry land of this globe—the various other countries of Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, being located as small islands dotted in the ocean, and inhabited by barbarians. Now it is clear that the late Duke considered his Duchy of Nassau as the Celestial Empire of Europe, the other nations, as Russia, Prussia, Austria, Italy, Spain, England, America, &c. being mere barbarians, whose morals were not worth preserving—whose souls were not worth saving—and whose gold alone was worth gathering into the royal exchequer at Biberich![16]

The young sovereign of Nassau has now a good opportunity of signalizing his accession to power by abolishing the gambling tables of the Cursaals. The income derived from the licensing of “hells” cannot yield good interest here or hereafter.

THE ADLER, OR EAGLE BATH.

It is not my custom to entertain my readers with the names of hotels, the prices of wines, or the hours of table-d’hÔtes. These pieces of information I leave for others. The present anecdote is an exception to the general rule. Having arrived late at Wisbaden, we put up at the nearest hotel, which was the Adler, or Eagle, the one where Dr. Granville resided, and the locality of which is not considered the very best by him. We found it a very good hotel, and well supplied with excellent baths. Early next morning, my friend Mr. Cooper, of Brentford, and myself, took out our tickets from the “Bade-maitre” in the hall, and strolled round the establishment, without meeting with any person whatever. As several of the baths were standing open, we went into the first two that struck our fancy, and bathed. I observed an unusual quantity of the scum or cream on the surface of mine, and which I could have dispensed with. I took the opportunity, however, of examining this cream, by means of four out of the five senses, viz. by sight, touch, taste, and smell. Before I left the bath I came to a conclusion as to its nature and origin. I have not a doubt that, at the great deluge, an immense posse of white antediluvian bears, then as large as elephants, were swept from the polar regions, and hurled headlong into the great cauldron beneath Wisbaden. There they have been simmering from the days of Noah—their flesh, fat, and marrow oozing up daily, in the shape of cream or bear’s grease, as well as broth, through the Kochbrunnen, greatly to the advantage of the Wisbadenites, and the benefit of those afflicted with gout, rheumatism, and the stiff-joints of old age.[17] I am astonished that Dr. Granville and Sir Francis Head should have framed so puny an hypothesis as that of the Kochbrunnen and Chicken-broth. Why, I appeal to every one who has travelled in Germany, whether it would be possible to extract an ounce of fat from all the cocks, hens, and chickens in Nassau, even if stewed in a Papin’s digester for six months together. No, no. The cream and broth of the Kochbrunnen are the veritable essence and decoction of the antediluvian bear, spiced perhaps with a sprinkling of the “organic remains” of wolves, tigers, jackalls, hyenas, and other small gear.

While I was dressing after my dip in this delectable soup, and carrying out the details of my theory, a series of heavy blows and unintelligible vociferations at the door, induced me to think that the hotel was on fire, or that the Kochbrunnen had exploded. I hastily drew the bolt, when in rushed the infuriated bath-master’s cad, with his Medusa-faced cadess, breathing forth all kinds of imprecations on my devoted head; and, from their gestures and actions, menacing me with a drowning instead of a plunging bath! I instantly threw myself into a posture of defence, determined, if I must drink the bear’s broth again, that the cad or his gentle mate should have the first gulp. On seeing this, they retreated a few feet but still kept up a roar of abuse, till I had finished dressing, when my friend Cooper joined in the affray. The assailants followed us, till I had nearly got to the bad-master’s office, where, opening one of Dr. Granville’s volumes, which I had under my arm, I pointed out the notice (not too favourable) which had been already taken of the Adler, and told him that I, too, was a spa-tourist, and would render his baths either famous or infamous, by the portrait which I should draw of them, as a warning to my countrymen. The bath-master was astonished, and not a little terrified. He immediately summoned his cad and cadess, informing them that the English gentleman was an author, and threatened to publish in England an unfavourable account of the hotel and baths. The “cream” of the jest soon came out. It appeared that a dandy of sixty—a Cupid of the grand climacteric, had occupied for the season the bath which I used, taking care that the water should be turned in over night, in order that the cream, or bear’s grease, should have time for concretion on the surface, and thus “smoothe the wrinkled brow,” as well as lubricate the unpliant joints, of this veteran Adonis. The denouement disarmed me of my wrath, especially when I recollected that, in this land of minute regulations, I ought not to have descended into a vacant bath, without the express sanction of the bad-master’s cad, in the subterranean regions. The hotel itself is a very excellent one, and its master, who speaks English, a very civil and obliging host. I recommend it to my countrymen, with this proviso, that they never go into a bath that has an unusual proportion of bear’s grease on the surface, without the cad’s permission, lest they spoil the watery mirroir of some antiquated Narcissus, who hopes—vain hope!—by means of baths and broths, to relume the lack-lustre eye—to efface the time-ploughed furrows from the faded cheek—to communicate elasticity to the indurated muscle—vital heat to the stagnant veins—activity to the body, and energy to the mind:—and all these, after the allotted hours of human existence have danced their giddy rounds[18]—after the cup of enjoyment has over-flowed, times without number, and is now drained to the dregs—after,

has begun to afford feeble shelter against the storms of moral adversity, and the stings of physical infirmity—after the discovery of Solomon, that “all is vanity,” has been amply verified! That humanity should still cling fondly to the cheerful clay, after all these warnings, is not wonderful, because it is the natural impulse and instinct of every animated being, from the gnat to the elephant. But that reasoning man, and woman too, should attempt, not merely to conceal the ravages of time, but deck them out in the false colours of youth, is a mortifying reflection and preposterous exhibition! We see it however, every day—and the Adonis of the Adler is an exquisite specimen.

I shall close this Chapter with an extract from a little work on the Spas of Nassau, published in 1839, by my friend Mr. Lee, who practised three years at Wisbaden, and made himself well acquainted with the remedial efficacy of these waters.

“It is becoming evident in England, that the high reputation which the Wisbaden springs have always enjoyed, for the cure and relief of gouty and rheumatic affections, has not been over estimated, from the numbers who annually return home in an improved state, several of whom having for years been subject to repeated attacks of gout, have escaped any recurrence after a course of the baths, during the whole winter and spring, and have returned in subsequent seasons greatly improved in appearance, more for the purpose of more effectually preserving themselves from a relapse, than from any actual necessity. In cases of long standing, of the atonic kind, with or without deposition of calcareous matter in the joints, occurring in persons beyond the middle period of life, the Wisbaden baths are calculated to render the most eminent service; indeed, according to Dr. Peez, the more inveterate the gout is, the more effectually can it be combated by these waters. Though bathing is the essential part of the treatment, it is advisable in most of these cases to combine with it the internal use of the water. Mild douching will also tend very much to the dispersion of local swellings, puffiness, stiffness of the joints, of the wrist, fingers or foot, and also of chalky concretions, although it should not be used if there be a tendency to inflammatory action, nor until a certain number of baths have been taken. During an attack, the baths will require to be suspended, till the more severe symptoms have subsided; when the patient may again begin, by previously drinking the water, while confined to his room. In general, patients who have been accustomed to free living do not bear a low regimen, and will be the better, after the inflammatory symptoms are allayed, for being allowed some solid food if an inclination be felt for it; care being taken, that the quality be plain and light, and that the quantity be small. In cases of erratic, irregular, or repelled gout, these baths will also most probably be productive of great benefit, and not unfrequently cause the morbid action to restrict itself to one spot; a more regular attack being sometimes induced, previous to an amelioration taking place. Persons who have only experienced two or three attacks, but in whom the predisposition is strong, may generally expect to derive permanent benefit from the baths; provided they are subsequently cautious in their mode of living, and do not indulge too freely in the pleasures of the table; on the other hand, where there is much tendency to acute inflammation, in persons of a plethoric or highly irritable habit, I should consider Wisbaden less likely to suit than a warm alkaline spring, as Vichy or Teplitz. I should be inclined also to counsel many young persons, in whom the gout developed itself at an early age, in consequence of a strong hereditary tendence, to give the preference to a spring of this kind; though it is probable that they would equally derive advantage from Wisbaden. It cannot be expected however, that a single course of the waters would suffice to eradicate the disease; and, in order to have the chance of a permanent cure, persons afflicted with gout would do well to return, for two or three consecutive seasons, to the springs from which they derived benefit; passing the intervening months in a suitable climate, and paying attention to the regulation of their diet and mode of living.

“As the mornings are frequently chilly, and it is of importance to prevent the action of a cold atmosphere on the surface of the body, while under a course of bathing, I do not in general recommend, to English patients, the very early hours of rising and drinking the water, adopted by the Germans; six, or half-past, will be sufficiently early, even for those who take their bath before breakfast, and for those who do not, any time between that hour and half-past seven; breakfast being taken an hour after drinking, and consisting of tea or coffee, according as the one or other is found best to agree. Those who dine at one o’clock, should again drink about seven in the evening; while for those persons who prefer dining at four, or later, from two to three will be the best time for taking their second dose. The effects of the water are thus better sustained than when the whole quantity prescribed is taken in the morning, and an interval of four-and-twenty hours allowed to elapse between the periods of drinking; the water is often thus better digested, and is well borne, when the distention of the stomach by the same quantity if taken before breakfast, would disagree and give rise to unpleasant symptoms, or occasion a too active operation upon the bowels or kidneys.—It is also advisable, when a full course of these and other mineral waters is required, to recommend a temporary suspension of the course, and change of air for three or four days, after a certain period of drinking and bathing has elapsed; by this means, the system is not too early saturated, and the patient returns to resume the use of the water, in a more fit state for its absorption, and with a greater probability of more durable benefit.

“Most chronic rheumatic affections will be removed or greatly relieved by the Wisbaden baths. In the slighter cases, not of long standing, a short course, for about three weeks, will be frequently sufficient. In the more intractable cases of articular and muscular rheumatism, as also in the pains of a rheumatic nature affecting the face, head, and other parts; a more prolonged course will often be required, combined with the use of the douche. In some cases the hot bath, vapour-bath, or douche, may be advantageously employed, especially in elderly persons whose skin is dry, and seldom perspirable. Where however the complaint has supervened upon, or has been continued from an acute attack, in which any symptoms of the heart or pericardium being affected, were present—which is more frequently the case than is generally supposed—it would be well to ascertain, by auscultation and percussion, that none of those symptoms remain, as they would very likely be aggravated by the employment of the water. Those rheumatic affections depending upon long exposure to wet or cold, to which military men on duty are peculiarly subject, are especially relieved by these baths. Two or three bad cases of this kind fell under my observation last year, in which the most beneficial and unexpected results followed a full course of the waters. One gentleman in particular who returned from India invalided, was scarcely able to get about with the assistance of a stick; who was sceptical of the power of mineral waters, and not over-attentive with respect to his diet, recovered the comparatively free use of his limbs before he left Wisbaden, and was completely restored when I met him about a month afterwards, in a steamer on the Mediterranean, being on his way to rejoin his regiment.”

“Those nervous pains recurring in paroxysms affecting the branches of particular nerves of the face, head, or extremities, to which the term neuralgia or tic is generally applied, and which not unfrequently originate from a rheumatic or gouty diathesis, from the suppression of habitual discharges, or of cutaneous eruptions—which causes, though perhaps somewhat exaggerated by continental practitioners, are not sufficiently attended to in England—are more likely to be relieved and cured by a properly directed course of mineral waters, than by pharmaceutical remedies or local applications. To many of these cases Wisbaden would be exceedingly applicable, especially when the functions of the skin are sluggishly performed, and there exists a congested state of the abdominal or pelvic viscera, with retardation or irregularity of the periodical secretion in females. In those cases which appear to arise from other causes, as moral influences, a high state of nervous excitability, &c., I should be more inclined to recommend waters of a different kind, of which I shall have to speak presently. Water or vapour douches may in general be advantageously combined with the baths and the internal use of the same water—or of a water of a different nature, as that of Homburg, Marienbad, &c. according as circumstances may seem to indicate their employment.

“The state of abdominal plethora, with congestion of the liver, and obstruction in the circulation of the vena portÆ, termed by the Germans UnterleibsvollblÜtigkeit, with its consequences, as impaired digestion, deficient or vitiated biliary secretion, piles, &c.—occurring for the most part in persons about or beyond the middle period of life, who have been addicted to the pleasures of the table, and marked by more or less protuberance of the abdomen, with diminished muscular and nervous energy—is one well calculated to be relieved by the use of the Wisbaden waters internally and externally employed. The baths, by exciting the activity of the nervous and vascular systems, and by determining powerfully to the surface, tend most materially to equalize the circulation and remove the internal congestion, while by the internal use of the water the secretions of the mucous membranes, of the alimentary canal, of the liver and kidneys, are improved in quality, and often perceptibly increased in quantity;—at the same time that the mesenteric glands and absorbent vessels are stimulated to increased activity, and the digestion is consequently improved. Even when, under these circumstances, the drinking of the water is not followed by immediate sensible effects, either upon the bowels or kidneys, it is frequently not the less efficient on that account, and unless some inconvenience be experienced, it should be persisted in, as after a certain time copious critical evacuations will often occur, and be followed by immediate relief; whereas were similar effects produced by artificial means, as the exhibition of drugs, the relief would only be temporary, and the frequent repetition of the same or analogous measures, would be necessary, and would tend but little to the permanent amelioration of the patient. In several of these cases, especially where there exists hardness or tension in the region of the liver, spleen, or in other parts of the abdomen, the douche will be of material assistance in the treatment.”

“In many cases of paralysis, baths of mineral waters offer the most efficient, and often the only means of arousing the nervous energy of the system, and of the paralysed parts; and few have a more beneficial influence in this way than those of Wisbaden; but here again it cannot always be determined beforehand, that baths of this kind will be more effectual than those of other springs containing but a small proportion of solid and gaseous substance, as the latter occasionally succeed after the failure of the former. In the obscurity which still envelops the mode of action of mineral baths, this cannot be satisfactorily accounted for, except upon the principle of idiosyncrasy, or by the supposition that the disturbing action of a thoroughly impregnated spring is less adapted to certain of these cases, than the more tranquilizing and sedative influence of a simple thermal, or slightly alkaline, warm spring. In most instances, however, where there does not exist a high degree of nervous excitability, or tendency to fulness in the cerebral vessels, the baths of Wisbaden may be used with great prospect of advantage; especially when the complaint is of a rheumatic origin, depending upon the impression of poisonous influences upon the nervous system, as malaria, the abuse of mercury, or the employment of this and some other metals by workmen; as also in those cases, where the disease appears to be of a purely local nature, not connected with cerebral disease, but arising from deficient energy of the nerves of the part, or of the spinal marrow, consequent upon exposure to cold and wet, or other analogous causes. Even in paralysis affecting a limb or one side of the body, remaining after an apoplectic seizure, baths of this and other mineral waters may often be advantageously employed, provided there be no symptoms of cerebral congestion, or organic disease. Plethoric individuals, and those whose digestive organs are disordered, will frequently require some preparatory treatment, previous to using the baths, in paralytic, as well as in other diseases. These, then, are the principal diseases which the Wisbaden waters are more especially calculated to relieve, and in which their use in the form of baths and douches is the most essential part of the treatment. There are besides various other complaints to which the external or internal use of the water, or both combined, is extremely suitable, in common with several other mineral springs; but of which the peculiar circumstances of each case require to be investigated, in order to enable the practitioner to decide upon the springs likely to be most effectual. Of these, many scrofulous affections will be cured or greatly ameliorated by the internal and external application of these waters; particularly enlarged lymphatic glands of various parts, and of the mesentery, occurring in children or young persons of a torpid habit, with tumid upper lip and abdomen, a vitiated state of the intestinal secretions, and a harsh dry condition of the skin. Here the exciting and resolvent powers of the waters are exceedingly effectual, by improving and augmenting the secretions of the alimentary canal, and of the skin; and, by stimulating the absorbent and vascular systems, mostly cause the speedy diminution of glandular or bony swellings.

“Another case, in which the Wisbaden springs are often eminently serviceable, is, where there is a general disordered state of the health, without the existence of any actual disease, or material derangement of any particular functions, except perhaps impaired digestive powers—as is very frequently seen in Londoners, and inhabitants of other large cities, closely engaged in trading, mercantile or professional occupations; as also in those who have been resident in a tropical or unhealthy climate: such a state, though relieved and palliated for a time by medicines, not unfrequently terminates in serious functional or structural disease, if allowed to continue for a long period—and nothing would tend more effectually to its removal than temporary absence from the cares of avocation, change of air and mode of life, and the employment of a mineral spring like Wisbaden, followed by that of a chalybeate water, in those cases where it is not counterindicated.

“The same may be said of several cases of hypochondriasis, with disordered digestive powers, to which Wisbaden is applicable, both on account of its waters, tending to rectify the deranged state of the digestive organs, and also from the beneficial influence which would be exerted in most instances on the patient’s morale, by the movement of the place, its cheerful appearance, the beauty of its environs, and the neighbourhood of so many objects of interest. To some patients of this class, tepid bathing with the internal use of a cold gaseous spring is most applicable. To others again, certain other mineral springs are best adapted.

“The suppression or painful performance of periodical functions peculiar to females, is frequently benefitted by the Wisbaden baths; especially, if the cause be cold, checked perspiration, or a congested state of the abdominal or pelvic viscera. Some syphilitic affections, especially where much mercury has been employed, and certain chronic cutaneous diseases, as psoriasis, impetigo, &c. where the skin is generally in a dry state; as also eruptions of the face depending upon derangement of the alimentary canal or liver, will often be removed, by baths of a warm saline water, like Wisbaden; and likewise by sulphurous or alkaline springs, either alone, or combined with the internal use of the same, or some other mineral water. In certain bronchial and laryngeal affections, with cough, and scanty or deficient expectoration, the Wisbaden baths, combined with the internal use of the water, and the inhalation of its vapour, may be expected to be of material advantage.

“On the other hand, these springs, like most others, will generally be prejudicial in organic disease of the lungs, heart, or large vessels, in disorganisation of the abdominal or pelvic viscera, with fever, profuse hemorrhagy or discharges per vaginam, either depending upon relaxation or upon the presence of hypertrophy, polypus, or other structural disease.”[19]

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SCHLANGENBAD.

The extensive cook-shop and laboratory under Wisbaden have communicated no small portion of caloric to the air, as well as to the waters of that place. We no sooner begin to ascend the slopes or ridges of the Taunus than we experience a remarkable transition from languor and oppression to vigor and elasticity—not confined to the physique, but extending also to the morale. Of the two roads from Wisbaden to Schlangenbad, we preferred the mountainous, or inland route, to that along the Rhine, for the sake of a bracing air and a boundless prospect. We trotted merrily along the hills and vales of the Taunus, over a Macadamized road, till, in two hours, we found ourselves, all at once, in a romantic dell or valley, bounded on both sides, by densely wooded mountains rising nearly perpendicular, from the narrow space between. In this small compass rise three or four huge buildings, white as snow, and each having more windows than there are days in the year. I set them down as manufactories of cotton or cutlery, but the absence of all clanking of machinery or hissing of steam, soon undeceived me. On driving into a little square between the two principal Hoffs, all was silent as Pompeii—and not a human being was seen in any direction. There was no competition here between the two chief hotels—both belonging to one master—and he the sovereign of the country. As it was about 12 o’clock, all true Germans were in their holes and corners, meditating on, and preparing for the grand business of the day—the onslaught of the couteau and fourÇhette at the mittag table-d’hÔte. To the Serpent’s Bath, the intervening hour was dedicated. The cosmetic and renovating qualities of the Schlangenbad are nearly as far-famed now as the cauldron of Medea was, in days of yore. The Old Man of the Brunnens dipped his pencil in prime copal varnish, when he embellished the baths of this sequestered valley. The description is a real bijou of its kind,—a diamond of the first water—equally profitable to the pen of the painter and the purse of the royal proprietor!

“The baths at Schlangenbad are the most harmless and delicious luxuries of the sort I have ever enjoyed; and I really quite looked forward to the morning for the pleasure with which I paid my addresses to this delightful element. The effect it produces on the skin is very singular; it is about as warm as milk, but infinitely softer: and after dipping the hand into it, if the thumb be rubbed against the fingers, it is said by many to resemble satin. Nevertheless, whatever may be its sensation, when the reader reflects that people not only come to these baths from Russia, but that the water in stone bottles, merely as a cosmetic, is sent to St. Petersburg and other distant parts of Europe, he will admit that it must be soft indeed to have gained for itself such an extraordinary degree of celebrity: for there is no town at Schlangenbad, not even a village—nothing therefore but the real or fancied charm of the water could attract people into a little sequestered valley, which in every sense of the word is out of sight of the civilised world; and yet I must say, that I never remember to have existed in a place which possessed such fascinating beauties; besides which, (to say nothing of breathing pure dry air,) it is no small pleasure to live in a skin, which puts all people in good humour—at least with themselves. But besides the cosmetic charms of this water, it is declared to possess virtues of more substantial value: it is said to tranquillize the nerves, to soothe all inflammation; and from this latter property, the cures of consumption which are reported to have been effected, among human beings and cattle, may have proceeded. Yet whatever good effect the water may have upon this insidious disorder, its first operation most certainly must be to neutralize the bad effect of the climate, which to consumptive patients must decidedly be a very severe trial, for delightful as it is to people in robust health, yet the keenness of the mountain air, together with the sudden alternations of temperature to which the valley of Schlangenbad is exposed, must, I think, be anything but a remedy for weak lungs.

“The effect produced upon the skin, by lying about twenty minutes in the bath, I one day happened to overhear a short, fat Frenchman describe to his friend in the following words—‘Monsieur, dans ces bains on devient absolument amoureux de soi-mÊme!’ I cannot exactly corroborate this Gallic statement, yet I must admit that limbs, even old ones, gradually do appear as if they were converted into white marble. The skin assumes a sort of glittering, phosphoric brightness, resembling very much white objects, which, having been thrown overboard, in calm weather within the tropics, many of my readers have probably watched sinking in the ocean, which seems to blanch and illuminate them as they descend. The effect is very extraordinary, and I know not how to account for it, unless it be produced by some prismatic refraction, caused by the peculiar particles with which the fluid is impregnated.

“The Schlangenbad water contains the muriates and carbonates of lime, soda, and magnesia, with a slight excess of carbonic acid which holds the carbonates in solution. The celebrated embellishment which it produces on the skin is, in my opinion, a sort of corrosion, which removes tan, or any other artificial covering that the surface may have attained from exposure and ill-treatment by the sun and wind. In short, the body is cleaned by it, just as a kitchen-maid scours her copper saucepan; and the effect being evident, ladies modestly approach it from the most distant parts of Europe. I am by no means certain, however, that they receive any permanent benefit; indeed, on the contrary, I should think that their skins would eventually become, if anything, coarser, from the removal of a slight veil or covering, intended by nature as a protection to the cuticle.

“But whether this water be permanently beneficial to ladies or not, the softness it gives to the whole body is quite delightful: and with two elements, air and water, in perfection, I found that I grew every hour more and more attached to the place.”

This glowing description of the Old Man has worked a greater miracle than that of changing water into wine. It has actually transmuted the spring of Schlangenbad into liquid gold—aurum potabile! If the author be accused of “exaggeration”—(now a dangerous term)—he may quote the sentiments of the Esculapius—the Apollo of the place.

“Never did bath produce such delightful sensations as the Serpent’s Bath at Schlangenbad. These salubrious waters exert on the body an agreeable and gentle pressure—voluptuously expand the limbs—and tranquillize the nerves and the blood. You rise from the waters of Schlangenbad like a Phoenix from its ashes. Youth becomes more beautiful—more brilliant—and old age is imbued with new vigour.”[20]

Well done Dr. Fenner! You have beaten the “Old Man of the Brunnens” fairly out of the field! Why the very waters themselves must have blushed when they saw the account of these their miraculous qualities—and the serpents must have waltzed merrily round the pine trees that overhang the source of the magic Brunnen.

And yet the whole is little more than an ingenious romance, closely allied to the legends of the neighbouring Rhine—as the story of the Drachenfels, for example. It is unnecessary to comment on the Phoenix of Dr. Fenner. That fabulous bird speaks for itself; but Sir F. Head’s account requires some remark. In the first place, the appearance of the limbs and body of the bather, is precisely the same as in other clear and tepid waters, as those of Wisbaden, Baden-Baden, Wildbad, &c.—or, indeed, in plain water. The “glittering phosphoric brightness,” and the blanching and illumination of sinking bodies in tropical seas, are all the offspring of a fanciful or poetical imagination. Then again, the soapy, satiny, and unctuous feel communicated by the Schlangenbad waters, is not peculiar to them. The first time I ever bathed in the Ems waters, many years ago, I remarked this, and can never forget the sense of bien-Être which I then experienced. And no wonder, for the waters of Ems are infinitely more alkaline—especially in the baths—than those of Schlangenbad. The effects, however, of these last on the skin, appeared to me more marked and pleasant than those of Wildbad, Wisbaden, or Baden-Baden. The tranquillity and sedative qualities of the Serpent’s Bath are somewhat exaggerated by the “Old Man,” and outrageously so by Dr. Fenner; but nevertheless they possess these influences to a considerable extent.

And here I must say that my friend Dr. Granville appears to have viewed poor Schlangenbad with a jaundiced eye.[21] The waters of the Kochbrunnen may have stirred up the bile—for assuredly the waters of Schlangenbad are clearer, and the mountains are higher, and the trees are larger than he has represented them. The very description of Captain Head proves the transparency of the waters—and the following passage from Mr. Lee, which I can corroborate, will remove the stigma from the baths themselves.

“The bathing-cabinets, notwithstanding the depreciating terms in which Dr. Granville has spoken of them, are exceedingly convenient, more so, indeed, than at most other baths, and infinitely superior to the closets for undressing adjoining the piscinÆ at Wildbad. They are for the most part lofty and well ventilated, and are divided into a dressing-room and a large and spacious marble baignoire capable of containing five or six persons; though it is only intended for a single person; bathing in common not being the practice at Schlangenbad. The bather consequently is not obliged to lie down in water about two feet deep, but has ample space to play or move about, the water being admitted in large quantity, so as to rise nearly breast-high; the temperature can also be increased by the bather, at pleasure, by admitting more warm water, though some persons, in the height of summer, prefer bathing in the water at its natural temperature,—about 22° Reaumur. A bath of this water, like others of the same class, imparts softness to the skin, with a pleasurable sensation while it lasts, and a feeling of bien-Être for the remainder of the day.”[22]

The waters of Schlangenbad contain only about six grains of solid substances in the pint—half of which is carbonate of soda—and very little carbonic acid gas. Small as these ingredients are, they are larger than those in the waters of Wildbad, or Pfeffers. They are, as Captain Head observes, safe waters, both for bathing and drinking. The temperature being about 86°—something higher than Buxton, they may be used by many people without any artificial increase. But, generally speaking, it will be prudent to raise them ten or twelve degrees for gouty and rheumatic patients. Every body knows—or has been told—that the medicinal virtues of Schlangenbad waters were discovered by a hide-bound heifer—and proved by a young lady under a similar state of skin. Whether this story be true or fabulous, I cannot tell; but I apprehend that its cosmetic and satinizing properties are those which draw most of its foreign customers from the shores of the Baltic, and the banks of the Thames. Captain Head justly suspects the durability of the satin skin—and there is little doubt that if half a pound of soda or potash were added to a common warm bath in England, the same softness of surface would be the result.

I do not much wonder that the “Old Man” should have become enamoured of Schlangenbad, considering the disposition which he evinced for solitude, contemplation, and reflection. The locality is well adapted for all these. Society is so concentrated in this little valetudinarium, and so quiet withal, that human nature may be studied with a kind of “microscopic eye,” and all its modifications, peculiarities, and eccentricities noted without distraction or bustle. On the mountain’s romantic brow, under the shade of the sombre pine, and in the stillness and serenity of the forest, the mind has ample time to meditate on, and inwardly digest the observations made in the little miniature world below.

As one o’clock approached, the solitude of Schlangenbad began to exhibit some symptoms of change. From various points of the compass isolated individuals, bearing the marks of illness, were seen carefully picking out the softest—or, at all events, the smoothest stones of the pavÉ, over which to wend their way, towards what an Irishman would call “three centres” of attraction. Soon afterwards, we heard three or four bells simultaneously sounding, when immediately the solitary videttes were succeeded by whole columns marching to their appointed rendezvous. Never did veteran Roman phalanx advance with more steady pace—more death-like silence—or more inflexible resolution, to the assault of barbarian foe, than does a German corps—men, women, and children—to the work of demolition at a mittag table-d’hÔte.

Falling into the ranks of the largest column, we soon found ourselves in the salle-a-manger of the New Bad Haus, where about one hundred sat down to dinner. There was a fair proportion of English—full an eighth of the whole. There is little difficulty in distinguishing the German from the Britannic guests. The sallow complexion, black and broken teeth, matted locks, extravagant mustachios—and transcendental salutations at meeting and parting—are some of the most prominent features of distinction; yet there are many others of a minor cast.[24] An inferiority in the cloth of the coat—a peculiarity in what a sailor would call “the cut of the jib”—enormous rings on the fingers, and brooches in the breast, are characteristic of our German neighbours. Independently of these, you may smoke a German in any part of the room—or scent him at a quarter of a mile’s distance in the open air, if the wind be favourable. For although he ceases to smoke when he begins to eat, yet from one pocket the reeking pipe is exhaling its odours—while from the other, a load of the “cursed weed” itself is diffusing its aroma in all directions. But I find that I have been mistaken in giving a truce to smoking during the act of eating. The fair author of “Souvenirs” has corrected me. “Yonder is an old gentleman actually eating and smoking at the same time—the long pipe being pushed into one corner of his mouth, so as to leave an entrance in front for the spoon or fork.” On reading this passage, I could not help feeling certain anatomical and physiological difficulties in the way of this triple function of mastication, smoking, and swallowing, being all simultaneous. I believe I can explain the phenomenon, however, without questioning the fact of the fair writer. Every person must have seen a horse eat oats and hay, with the bit of the bridle in his mouth. It was so with the old gentleman. All Germans have numerous vacancies among their grinders, and the one in question was able to keep his pipe ready lit for service between the courses, in one corner of his mouth. But it is certain that the triple or even double function of smoking and eating simultaneously, is next to impossible.

These external peculiarities of the German are probably not more striking to John Bull, than are the singularities of the latter to the German. As to internal qualities—moral and intellectual—my conviction is, that the German has far more head and heart than nine-tenths of his continental and insular neighbours.

In fine, the more I have seen of the Germans, the more I admire their honesty, zeal, single-heartedness, quietude, order, hospitality, learning, and humanity. These solid qualities leave the little personal peculiarities which I have sketched above, as “dust in the balance.”

It is not quite so easy to discriminate between the German ladies and those of our own country, as between the gentlemen of the two nations. One reason is, that the German ladies do not smoke long pipes, and wear long mustachios. I shall not libel the sex, as Pope has done, by making the colour of the hair the characteristics of women:—

There is one peculiarity in the manners of the German fair (besides a certain “je ne sÇais quoi,”) which is, their bowing instead of curtseying, on meeting or parting from friends—and that quite as low as their brothers, fathers, and husbands. This was the reason of my introducing the term “bussel-rending” in the description of a German salaam.

TABLE-D’HÔTE.

Not being deeply versed in the science of gastronomy and its nomenclature, I shall introduce the following order and succession of dishes as drawn by a fair countrywoman (Souvenirs of a Summer in Germany,) whose fidelity of description cannot be doubted.

“First, as usual, was the soup—then the invariable boiled beef, with its accompaniments of pickled cucumber, onions, or sour krout. After the beef, is a course of cutlets, sliced raw ham, omelettes, and vegetables. Then come partridges, chickens, sausages, ducks—all which are replaced by various kinds of fish—some so besauced and bedecked with garnishes, that they are hardly recognizable as belonging to the finny tribe—and pyramidical dishes of cray-fish. The puddings come next, with smoking boats of fruit and wine-sauce. Is this the finale? Not at all. The pudding is a kind of Æra, whence fresh courses take their date. A more formidable array of dishes next makes its appearance. Roast joints—req, (a kind of deer,) geese, turkeys, hares, &c. &c. with innumerable satellites of preserved pears, plums, cherries, salads, &c. This substantial course is followed by sweets—cherry tarts—enormous cakes, all spices and vanille with a snowy summit of powdered sugar—custards, creams, &c. The dessert and bon-bons close the proceedings.”

Now, it is to be observed, that this was the bill of fare at Schwalbach or Schlangenbad, where nine-tenths of the guests are notoriously invalids. It would scarcely serve for a dejeuner a la fourÇhette at the sumptuaries of Baden or Wisbaden. The fair authoress admits that the German partakes of every dish; but argues that he does not eat more in the aggregate than the Englishman. This statement is so decidedly contrary to all observation, that I can only account for it by supposing that the fair lady noted more accurately the compliments to “la belle Anglaise,” proceeding out of the mouths of her favourite Germans, than the provender which proceeded in a contrary direction. Is it likely that the keeper of a German hotel would dress more dishes than are generally consumed, seeing that the price of the whole dinner is under two shillings? Not he indeed. The fact is undeniable that the Germans—indeed all the continentals who can afford it, eat not only a greater variety and complication of “dishes tortured from their native taste,” but a greater quantity in the aggregate. The question naturally arises—what is the consequence? Compare the complexions of the Germans and English. No one will attempt to deny that the contrast is most striking. The tints of health predominate in the looks of the Islanders—pallor and sallowness in those of the Continental. But the lady may reply—“nimium ne crede colori”—complexion, like beauty, is only skin-deep. Be it so. We shall look deeper. Let us follow the example of the horse-dealer, and examine the teeth. If my fair countrywoman has preserved any “souvenirs” of these important actors in the drama of human life, she will not be inclined to maintain that a German is like an elephant—with a mouth full of ivory. I never saw the hearty laugh of an honest German, without thinking of a temple—whose portal consisted of broken columns of ebony. If 40 Germans, at the age of 40, were compared with the same number of English, at the same age—all taken indiscriminately from the streets of Vienna and London—what would be the comparative number of sound teeth in the heads of the two classes? I shall attempt a calculation presently; mean time, it will be admitted on all hands, that the Germans are woefully afflicted with unsound teeth. What is the reason? A pair of mill-stones will grind only a certain quantity of corn—or last only a certain number of years. It is the same with the human mill-stones, or molares. They will only grind a certain quantity of food, or do a certain amount of labour, before they are worn out, like their namesakes in the mill. Now if the Germans eat one-third more than the English—and I firmly believe they do—then their teeth have one-third more of work, and ought to experience a corresponding degree of wear and tear. This, however, will not account for the premature decay of the teeth, but only for their wearing out sooner than under other circumstances. We must seek deeper for the causes. As the millstones are spoiled and rendered useless by allowing improper things to be mixed with the grain, as pebbles, &c. so the teeth are injured by the quality as well as by the quantity of our food. The oils, acids, tobacco, and other deleterious substances, for ever mixing with continental meals, must greatly injure the organs of mastication as well as of digestion.

The human frame is a congeries of organs, all in harmony, when in health, and each assisting the others. But when we deviate from simplicity and temperance, these same organs quarrel with each other, to the detriment, and sometimes to the destruction of the whole constitution. The stomach is one of those patient and willing organs that will work wonders for years and years; but at length it will rebel—and even retaliate. The teeth, which have long sent down immoderate quantities of food, too often of the most abominable composition, for the stomach to grind over again, become visited with pains and penalties by the offended organ, under the vain hope that less work will be done in the upper mill. The warning is unheeded; and then the stomach begins the process of demolition in good earnest. It is in this state of, what the geologists would call “transition,” that we see the teeth of the Germans—and, it must be confessed, of the English sometimes also—in a state disagreeable to the eye, offensive to the nose, and injurious to the health. The stomach, which has inflicted this punishment on the mouth, so far from being benefitted thereby, is still farther injured by the failure of mastication; and then the various organs and functions of the body become involved in the consequences of long-continued deviations from the paths of Nature, simplicity, and temperance!

If this penalty be still considered as imaginary, I shall adduce more cogent arguments. The bills of mortality contain very stubborn facts. Let us take the two capitals of Germany and England—Vienna and London. In the former, one twenty-fourth of the population goes to the grave annually:—in the latter (London) one-fortieth part only. In the language of the insurance-offices, “the value of life is more than one-third greater in London than in Vienna.” Now this difference will surely not be attributed to climate merely—since the continentals themselves anathematize the climate of England, and the fogs of London, as most “horrid.” Here then we have some clue to the comparative number of teeth in individuals of the same age, at home and abroad. We shall probably find the proportion of 24 to 40 (the ratio of mortality) as exhibiting a fair estimate of the number of teeth in equal masses of the population in Germany and England. Thus, for example, if the Englishman, at the age of 50, have twenty teeth in his head, the German, at the same period of life, will have only twelve, and so on.

But to return to the table-d’hÔte. A glance round the “salle-a-manger” brought a strong conviction on my mind, that Fame had either exaggerated the virtues of the Serpent’s Bath, or had excited hopes that would seldom be realized. A majority of the guests were females; and not a few of these were of a certain—or rather of an uncertain, age. Of the males, the greater number were evidently dandies in decay. I never remember to have seen, in the same compass, a greater variety of feature and complexion—indicating a re-union, in this sequestered spot, of individuals from various and remote regions. But however diversified in external physiognomy, there was one point in which there was a wonderful coincidence and similarity—that point was—not the point of beauty. It is with mortification, I confess, that the English portion of the guests did not form a prominent exception to the general rule. To say the truth, the whole company exhibited sorry samples of the great European and Transatlantic family;—and if appetite was any index, the majority had met here, partly for health, but principally for—re-creation. How far the transmutation from age to youth—from decrepitude to vigour—from the wrinkled skin to the polished surface, was effected by plunges in the Serpent’s Bath, I had not time to ascertain. I candidly acknowledge that I never saw a real phoenix—but if these were specimens of Dr. Fenner’s phoenixes, “rising from their ashes,” then I must say that they very much resembled a batch of old cocks and hens roosting at Schlangenbad during the molting season.

The first impression which a stranger receives, while prying through Schlangenbad, is that the waters have an uglifying rather than a beautifying effect on the human frame. This is erroneous. We do not go through the wards of an hospital to search for samples of rude health—neither ought we to go to Schlangenbad for specimens of smooth skin and delicate complexion.

We rambled through winding and umbrageous paths up the mountain behind the Old Bad-haus, to its summit—and I think there are few places in the world better adapted to profound meditation, while, at the same time, inspiring the most pure, bracing, and salubrious atmosphere. I descended in a contemplative mood, when I stumbled into a long kind of gallery or hall, which looked like an enclosed promenade. There the accursed roulette-table met my eye and excited my choler. What! In this valley of Rasselas—in this asylum of health—in this peaceful retreat from the stormy passions of the city—to find the symbol of Hell, and the instrument of the devil, was more than I could bear with patience! True, it was deserted. Not a human being was seen in the place; but its presence indicated too surely the work of destruction that would go on in the evening. Julius CÆsar, I think, observed that the Germans, in his time, were so passionately addicted to gambling, that, when they had lost all their money and goods, they would stake their wives and children! It therefore seems to be impossible to eradicate this dreadful propensity from the German mind. Still the public exercise of it might be prevented. The King of Saxony prohibits and prevents smoking in Dresden! If such a miracle as this can be wrought in Germany, we need not despair, even of gambling!

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SCHWALBACH.

The wizzard of Nassau—the knight of the “Bubbles,” has wrought a real modern miracle—the transmutation of water into wine, or rather into nectar.

Every spring in the Duchy has danced more merrily, and bubbled more briskly to the beams of the rising sun, since the children of Albion have swarmed round the living fountains, in search of health or amusement. Well may Dr. Fenner say—“cette reputation est due surtout aux Anglais. La plume caustique de Head a puissament contribuÉ À nous faire-faire une connaissance plus intime avec cette nation.” The pen of Sir Francis may be likened to the bath of Schlangenbad—

By “ornavit” I do not mean the embellishment which is sometimes synonymous with exaggerations or distortions; but merely that charm which the pen of genius can throw round the most common subjects. Schwalbach is still as it was, in a deep narrow valley—and invisible till we are within a few hundred yards of it. The houses, though more generally painted, and greatly increased in number since the time of the “Old Man,” are still as though they had been shaken in a bag and scattered through the ravine, without the slightest regard to order or regularity. Sir Francis could find no shops in his time—now he would find a bazaar! The town is still somewhat in the form of a Y or a fork, at the end of one prong of which is the Stahl-brunnen—while the other prong, or rather prongs, boasts of two hygeian fountains—the Wein-brunnen and the Paulinen-brunnen. The Wein-brunnen is the most powerful—the Stahl-brunnen is the most palatable—and the Pauline is the most fashionable. The climate of this place, according to the testimony of Dr. Fenner, supported by that of Sir F. Head and others, is very pleasant and salubrious. On the hills we have cool breezes—in the valley shelter from cold winds—in the woods, ample shade beneath umbrageous foliage, when the sun is powerful and the heat oppressive.

When the “bad humours” of the spa-going invalids have been washed away by copious libations at Aix-la-Chapelle, Ems, and Wisbaden—when the gouty and misshapen limbs have shrunk into “the lean and slippered pantaloon,” beneath the powerful influence of the Kochbrunnen, the Ragoczy, and the Sprudel—when the purple nose of the alderman has faded into the pale proboscis—when the turgid liver, the tumid spleen, and the over-fed corporation have receded within the normal boundaries of a double-reefed waistcoat—when the knotty and contracted joints of rheumatic gout have taken their departure, leaving a legacy of the crutches—when—

when tottering palsy has been discharged from Wisbaden and Wildbad, as much reduced in general, as recruited in local power—when blighted ambition, wounded pride, ruined fortunes, and corroding cares, have sapped the energies of mind and body, and marked their impress on the pale and sickly countenance—when the “green and yellow melancholy” of hopeless love or severed affections wanes to the alabaster hue on the maiden’s cheek—then Schwalbach, with its ruby fountains and sparkling gases, comes to the rescue, and works as many miracles and metamorphoses as steel and carbonic acid can any where effect. The saline spas of Germany are all of the radical cast. They are qualified to break down and expel the rotten and decayed parts of the constitution—but they can seldom build up or repair the vacant spaces. The chalybeate spas, among which Schwalbach holds a distinguished rank, unite the principles of conservatism and reform. They are calculated to preserve the original constitution, and to re-form those portions that have been pulled down and extruded by the “mouvement,” or radical waters of the saline class.

In none of the three springs is there more than three-fourths of a grain of iron to the pint—and in the Pauline—the most fashionable one—there is little more than half a grain; but it contains nearly 40 cubic inches of carbonic acid gas to the pint, which, with six grains of carbonate of sodium, two grains of carbonate of lime, and nearly three grains of magnesia, makes it the most Ætherial and aperient of the three sisters. The water of the Wein-brunnen is limpid, pleasant to the taste, and sparkling like champaigne. It is very easy of digestion, even when taken in considerable quantity. Almost immediately after being swallowed, it produces an agreeable warmth in the stomach, and thence diffuses a sensation of comfort, nearly amounting to pleasure, through the whole frame. It acts gently on the bowels in most cases. It is easily preserved in bottles for any length of time.

The Stahl-brunnen is the greatest favourite with the ladies. It contains about three-fourths of a grain of iron, and little more than three grains of other substances in the pint. It is sharper and rougher to the taste, and has more of the inky gout than either of the other springs. It is also much more refreshing and exhilarating. The carbonic acid is very abundant. The waters more nearly resemble Champaigne than the other sources, and quickly diffuse a powerful energy over the whole frame. Formerly these waters caused an eruption on the skin; but they do not so at present.

The Pauline was only discovered in 1828, at a depth of fourteen feet. The quantity it discharges is prodigious. The taste is extremely agreeable and refreshing. It is one of the mildest and purest chalybeates that is known. It is very easy of digestion, and operates very gently on the bowels. By quickly amalgamating itself with the blood, it is rapidly diffused through every organ and tissue of the body, producing favourable changes there, and proving a general restorative. The vigor which it inspires is remarkable from day to day—and the change of complexion from pale to rosy, is equally surprising.

The waters of Schwalbach, generally belong to the class of Æthereal or volatile chalybeates—very agreeable to the palate, and producing a slight and temporary feeling of intoxication. Their chief ingredients are steel and carbonic acid, in such a state of combination as gives the iron a great efficacy in consequence of its minute solution in the waters.

“At the same time (says Dr. Fenner,) that this spring causes agreeable sensations in the palate and stomach, it excites the muscular fibres and the nerves of the whole alimentary canal, into a state of activity—invigorates the circulation—corrects the secretions—increases them when defective—and gives new vigor to the whole process of digestion and nutrition. In doing this it enlivens the spirits, and imparts tone to the intellectual functions.”

The indications for using the Schwalbach chalybeates, according to the same authority, are the following:—

1. In atony or debility of the stomach and bowels, whether from natural constitution, or from excesses previously committed—whether isolated from other complaints, or connected with affections of other organs, as the liver, spleen, &c. This atony eventuating in difficult, painful, or imperfect digestion, with all its consequences, is remedied by the waters. It is in these kinds of complaints that the Stahl-brunnen is chiefly employed—“the Wein-brunnen being too strong, and the Pauline too volatile.” Strict regimen, in such cases, is indispensible.

2. When the blood is in a watery or deteriorated condition—when it is deficient in red globules—and consequently not fitted to support the energies of the muscles, the tone of the nerves, or the functions of the great organs of assimilation, secretion, &c. It is in such cases that the chalybeates produce their most brilliant and unequivocally good effects. Females, from the delicacy of their constitutions, the effects of civilization, and certain disorders to which their sex subjects them, are the peculiar votaries of these springs. Hence those affected with chlorosis—with hÆmorrhages—with menorrhagia—hysteria—obstructions, &c. are seen flocking to Schwalbach, there to regain strength, colour, and health.

“Quels que les noms des maladies qui se developpent, ici le malade peut esperer, avec raison, d’etre gueri. Quelques semaines suffisent souvent pour regenerer ses humeurs d’une maniere sensible.”

Although this is the assurance of a Spa Doctor, yet the nature of these waters, and the reputation they have obtained, produce a considerable degree of confidence in the assertion of Dr. Fenner.

3. In great weakness of the nerves, and where their influence is not sufficient to impart energy to the various functions, particularly of chylification and sanguification, the chalybeates of Schwalbach are said to have proved eminently serviceable. Dr. Fenner asserts their efficacy in hypochondriasis, hysteria, melancholia, and in partial and complete paralysis. In sterility they have also acquired considerable reputation.

COUNTER-INDICATIONS.

The waters of Schwalbach have limits to their medicinal agency, and are even injurious in many states of disease.

1. In plethoric states of the constitution, accompanied by irritable condition of the heart and great vessels—in sanguineous temperaments—and in all cases where there is a tendency to local inflammation or general fever—or even to congestion in any of the organs or tissues of the body. “High attacks of acute inflammation, of hÆmorrhage, and of apoplexy, have followed the imprudent employment of these chalybeates.”—Fenner.

2. In those cases of indigestion, connected with, or dependent on, organic disease of stomach, liver, spleen, kidneys, or mesenteric glands, these waters would be improper and hurtful.

3. But the chalybeates of Schwalbach are not to be recommended in cases where the vital powers are greatly prostrated—the blood and humours extremely vitiated—or the nervous system too much shattered. “Those who venture on these waters, under such circumstances, and where the constitution is at so low an ebb,—‘trouvent, loin des siens et de leur patrie, une mort certaine et premature.’”—Fenner.

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The waters are taken fasting. The best season is the spring and summer. From one to three glasses are prescribed, with a quarter of an hour’s exercise between each glass. After this a light breakfast, where the bath is not used.

THE BATHS.

These are prescribed in the morning, after taking a glass or two of the waters. They are generally given at a low temperature, such as 90° of Fahrenheit, unless ordered otherwise. They therefore are several degrees lower than the heat of the bather’s blood, and about the same heat as the external surface of the body. They feel neither warm nor cold; but it is asserted by Sir F. Head, who used them for some time, that they impart a feeling of invigoration soon after immersion—and “he could almost have fancied himself lying with a set of hides in a tan-pit.” The same author remarks that they are very apt to produce—“headaches, sleepiness, and other slightly apoplectic symptoms.” He thinks these effects must result from not immersing the head as well as the body. In this he is mistaken. The best way to avoid such consequences is to keep the head cool—and the atmosphere of the bath is and must be many degrees below that of the water. The bare head will therefore be cooler out of the bath than in it. But the fact is, that the symptoms above-mentioned are not seldom apt to occur in all tepid and warm baths, from the action of the waters on the nervous and vascular systems of the surface, producing an excitement and determination to the brain. They should be taken as warnings, and not be trifled with.

Upon the whole, the waters of Schwalbach, from what I could learn on the spot, and from those who have prescribed them, and used them, are very useful and mild chalybeates, which may be considered as a kind of “finish,” after the powerful alterative waters of Wisbaden, and the strong alkaline waters of Ems;—always remembering that Schlangenbad is to give a polish to the surface at the end of the process.

GERMAN SOCIETY AND MANNERS.

There are few places where a stranger can have a better coup-d’oeil of German habits and manners, than at the spas; where all ranks and classes, from the prince to the peasant, are jumbled together, without ever jostling each other. They drink together, bathe together, walk together, talk together, smoke together, joke together, dine together, muse together, sup together—and, then go to bed, all with the greatest decorum, quietude, civility—and I may add, ceremony.

“The company,” says Sir F. Head, “which comes to the brunnens for health, and which daily assembles at dinner, is of a most heterogeneous description, being composed of princes, dukes, barons, counts, &c. down to the petty shop-keeper, and even the Jew of Frankfort, Mainz, and other neighbouring towns; in short, all the most jarring elements of society, at the same moment, enter the same room, to partake together, the same one shilling and eight-penny dinner—still, all those invaluable forms of society which connect the guests of any private individual were most strictly observed; and, from the natural good sense and breeding in the country, this happy combination was apparently effected without any effort. No one seemed to be under any restraint, yet there was no freezing formality at one end of the table, nor rude boisterous mirth at the other. With as honest good appetites as could belong to any set of people under the sun, I particularly remarked that there was no scrambling for favourite dishes;—to be sure, here and there, an eye was seen twinkling a little brighter than usual, as it watched the progress of any approaching dish which appeared to be unusually sour or greasy, but there was no greediness, no impatience, and nothing which seemed for a single moment to interrupt the general harmony of the scene; and, though I scarcely heard a syllable of the buzz of conversation which surrounded me; although every moment I felt less and less disposed to attempt to eat what for some time had gradually been coagulating in my plate; yet, leaning back in my chair, I certainly did derive very great pleasure, and I hope a very rational enjoyment, in looking upon so pleasing a picture of civilized life.”

It must be candidly confessed that this scene, which is every where the same, exhibits a striking contrast to spa-society in England, where each class forms a clique that repels its neighbour, as one electrified ball repels another. It is therefore highly desirable that the cause of this happy concordance throughout the whole chain of society on the Continent, should be ascertained, in order, if possible, to introduce it into our own country. Sir F. Head seems to attribute it to a high degree of civilization or refinement. “I fear it cannot be denied that we islanders are very far from being as highly polished as our continental neighbours.” If civilization consist in civility, I admit the truth of this assertion. But a Gentoo is even more civil than a German—and a Chinese is more ceremonious than either—yet we do not place the Hindoo or the Hong at the very top of the tree of civilization.

But I apprehend that this harmonious amalgamation of all ranks and classes in Germany is not to be traced to one, but to several causes. I would attempt to account for the phenomenon by one, or more, or all of the following circumstances.

1. Natural disposition.—2. Education, inducing habit.—3. Comparative paucity of trade, commerce, and manufactures.—4. Government.

1. We see peculiarities in the natural dispositions of nations, as well as of men. Some evince a disposition to music, another to arms, a third to navigation, a fourth to agriculture, a fifth to commerce, &c. The Germans may have a natural disposition to order, quietude, and politeness. Of this I am by no means sure.

2. What is man, individually or collectively, but the creature of those circumstances in which he is placed?—of the elements around him—of the education impressed on him—of the religion within his breast—of the examples before his eyes? In all the lauded and laudable traits of character delineated by Sir. F. Head, the German has been trained from his infancy—and from these he has neither inducement nor inclination to deviate.

3. The third circumstance I consider to be very operative. The struggles, the collisions, the jealousies—the host of evil and of exciting passions, which agitate a commercial, trading, maritime, and manufacturing country like England, have, comparatively, no field in Germany; where life is far more allied to agricultural and pastoral, than to commercial and manufacturing pursuits. There is as much difference between the Germans and the English, generally, as between the peasantry of Lincolnshire and the mechanics of Birmingham—between the chaw-bacons of Hampshire, and the black and white devils of Merthyr-Tidvill and Sheffield.

4. Government.—I attribute no small share to this class of influential causes in modifying the manners of a nation. In absolute monarchies, where the will of the sovereign is the law of the people, the latter are not likely to be so frisky, boisterous, and turbulent, as under a limited and constitutional government, inclining to democracy, where the vox populi is not seldom the vox Dei—and where—

On another occasion I shall allude to the minuteness with which the German governments regulate the most trifling concerns of life, when mentioning that a passenger in a public diligence is forbidden to move from the seat allotted to him, to the next vacant one at his side, without permission from the post-master of the first town at which the conveyance stops! In such countries would the Age, the Satirist, or even the Times be long allowed to take liberties with crowned heads, courts, or ministers? No verily! Their tongues would soon be as smooth, and civil and ceremonious, as those of the crowds of spa-drinkers around the Wein-Brunnen of Schwalbach![25]

Whether the state of things on the South side of the Channel be better or worse than that on the North, I presume not to say. Davus sum, non Œdipus. But I think I have proved that, while these differences exist, the manners and habits of Germany are not likely to blend or amalgamate with those of England. Nothing, I think, would produce this fusion of the two people, except some strange geographical revolution that might convert the British Isles into a small appendix to the Continent; without “ships, colonies, or commerce”—without iron mines or coal mines—without cotton or cutlery—without fisheries or factories—without steam-engines or printing-presses—but above all, without that great national or normal school of agitation—the Parliament—where deputies learn to “speak daggers,” and chartists are encouraged to make pikes—where orations are directed not to the ears of the Commons, but to the eyes of the Constituents—where the campaign is opened with a speech recommending concord; carried on with speeches full of discord; and concluded with a speech of gracious accord—finally, where multiplicity of motion in the beginning is synonymous with paucity of action in the end. When all these incentives to turbulence shall have vanished, and also when English stomachs shall prefer sour krout and rancid oil to roast beef and brown stout, then, and not till then, may Sir Francis hope to see his favourite German polish and Gallic varnish lacquering over the rough manners of his native Isle.

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HEIDELBERG.

Many a time have I dragged my weary limbs up the series of steep terraces that lead to the old red Castle of Heidelberg. Not being able to feign ecstasies which I do not feel, I fear I shall give great offence to those sentimental tourists who discover in this town, castle, and surmounting hills, romantic views and picturesque beauties of the first order. Upon this, as upon all other occasions, I appeal to the unbiassed feelings of the traveller himself. The mouldering ruins of the Red Castle have something about them too modern for antiquity, and too antiquated for the modern. I am unable to give any architectural explanation of this impression—unless it be the following:

The view from the Castle, and from the Botanical Garden above it, over the alluvial plain that stretches to the Rhine, and embracing the country to the West of that river, is interesting, but neither striking nor romantic. The tiny Neckar, that meanders along its rocky bed, in the travelling season, excites our apprehensions lest it should fare the fate of the Arethusa, and disappear altogether. When heavy rains descend among the mountains of the Black Forest however, it makes up for its torpidity in the dry weather, and thunders past Heidelberg in great foam and fury.

In rambling through the streets of Heidelberg, whose University is one of the crack seminaries in Germany, we cannot help recognizing the students, although deprived of their red caps and long hair, by order of Government. They have a semi-academic, semi-barbarous,—or, perhaps, more properly speaking, a semi-ruminating, semi-fumigating appearance, not very distantly allied to the revolutionary or bandittal.

The German students of this and other Universities having ineffectually endeavoured to regenerate—id est—to revolutionize their country, were put under the ban of Austria and Prussia, a procedure which very completely secured them against doing any mischief—to the State. Thus cramped in their generous and patriotic enterprize to involve society in war, they formed societies for warring among themselves, called the verbondungs, or congresses, for regulating, arranging, and conducting duels!! The following graphic description of one of these fights, was drawn up on the scene of action, in November 1839, by an eye-witness.

“On Wednesday last, as I took my customary walk after dinner, a friend came up to me, and told me that he perceived by various circumstances that a ‘lorgehen’ was about to take place. He pointed out to me a man sauntering lazily along the bridge, with a basket slung over his shoulder, and who stopped at every minute to look down into the water, or watch a barge dragged with difficulty against the stream by its single horse. An old woman sat at the corner of a house, a short distance up the river, in a position which commanded a view of the bridge and the road from the town, and a man pushed a boat about objectless in the middle of the river. These, to the initiated eye, gave certain evidence of what was going on; these persons being all employed in watching, that an alarm may be given in case of the police gaining information of the affair. We walked for some distance up the right bank of the Neckar, till we arrived at the opening of a mountain gorge, down which a small stream rushed impetuously, and from which a girl was apparently filling her pails. We ascended this pass for a short distance till we arrived at a dirty, dilapidated house, which my companion pointed out as the scene of these disgraceful combats. We ascended to the door of the beer-shop by a flight of broken steps, and passed through a passage into a yard, where two men were grinding, to the highest pitch of sharpness, a long, thin, basket-handled rapier; the blade resembled, in shape and sharpness, two blades of a pen-knife placed back to back. In a few minutes we mounted to the first floor, and traversing a low room set out with tables and benches for refreshment, passed into a lofty and spacious saloon, without furniture of any sort, but a few forms placed against the walls, and a table with towels and a basin of water, in one corner. In the opposite corner of the room, at about four yards apart, were marked upon the floor two letters in chalk; these, the initials of the verbondungs to which the combatants belonged, marked the position of the fighters. A few students stood listlessly about, smoking or talking in whispers. A man entered, and threw down near the scene of action a bundle of swords, a huge, thickly stuffed glove, reaching to the shoulder, and a piece of matting resembling a mattress, to be tied round the middle of the second, to guard against chance thrusts. Thus some minutes passed, till at length one of the gladiators themselves appeared. He was a short, but strongly and beautifully proportioned young man, having a pleasing countenance, with a thin silky moustache, and long glossy, black hair, reaching far below his cap, which was drawn closely over his eyes, and bore the colours of his club. His body, from the chest downwards, was enveloped in a thickly stuffed leather apron, impervious to every blow, but slashed and stained in a hundred places from the effects of former contests. The neck was covered also with a thick defence, above which he could hardly lift his chin. Lastly, his right arm was bandaged, and wrapped so carefully with paddings, that it was necessary to have a person to support it until the moment of fighting. The body was only covered by a ragged and dirt-soiled shirt. Thus equipped, with his sword-arm resting on the neck of a companion, the little hero began to walk up and down the room to promote circulation and to exercise the limbs. In a few minutes his antagonist entered, habited in the same manner, his cap decked with his peculiar colour, resting his arm likewise on a friend. He was a tall and handsome youth, his face was pale as death, but his step was firm as he paced the saloon for the same purpose as the other. At this minute not a sound was heard but the tramping of the two combatants and their seconds as they passed and repassed each other without the slightest regard. Neither of them spoke a word, and the seconds but seldom addressed to them in a whisper some sentence of advice or caution. Presently a movement was observed towards the approaching scene of action; the few and almost indifferent spectators drew round, and a chair was placed within, beside which the judge stood to mark the number of the rounds. The combatants were led to their respective posts, their right arms extended, holding their rapiers in hand, and resting still on the arm of a friend. The seconds planted themselves at their left side, equipped in their defensive trappings, and holding above their heads a blunted sword. ‘Silentium!’ exclaimed the judge. The quiet which reigned before became instantly doubly quiet. One second cried aloud, ‘Verbindite Kling’ (‘fasten blades’ literally), placing at the same time, the point of his mock weapon a little in advance of his principal, the other doing likewise. ‘Los’ instantly followed, and the glittering swords of the two gladiators were crossed for battle. A moment they looked at one another, then their blades flashed in the air, a blow was struck and parried, and the seconds struck their arms up with a cry of ‘Halt!’ The heavy sword arm was again rested on the attendants, and a moment’s pause ensued. ‘Silentium!’ repeated the judge, and another round began. Whenever a blow was aimed, whether it took effect or not, the seconds interfered, and the round was ended. Thus they continued through twenty-two onsets without pause, except to replace a broken blade, or for a fresh cap on the head of the combatants. The latter of the two was a wary swordsman, who had fought frequently before. He watched cautiously the movement of his adversary, and, whenever his stroke failed, made a quick and well-directed blow at his head. He, though it was his first battle, guarded well: but at length the blade of his opponent passed like lightning through his cap, and inflicted an awful wound on his head. A large space was laid bare, and his whole person deluged in blood: his long thick hair hung matted and discoloured over his shoulders. In a few moments, however, he retaliated fully upon his antagonist, his face was laid open from the ear to the nose, effectually marking him for life. In all, five wounds were given, three of which the smaller of the two received, having, besides that on the head, one under the right arm and one under the ear; the other had also a gash under the ear. In about twenty minutes the number of onsets was completed; the combatants retired, their padding was taken off, and the worst part of the affair began—namely, the sewing up of the wounds. Here they are in the habit (as if to punish as much as possible the folly of these duels) of sewing up even comparatively trifling wounds, so that the mark is seen certainly for years after its infliction. The tall man in a short time was able to walk home; the other, however, was compelled to have a carriage, so weak had he become from loss of blood. This, I must tell you, was an unusually bloody combat, as in two others, which I saw immediately after, not a single wound was given. The average number of duels taking place daily is seven: the consequence is, that every third man you meet in the street has a gash across his face.”

Bad as is British pugilism, it is exceeded in atrocity by this barbarous system of German duelism. What says the government to it? Virtually and literally this:—“you are naughty boys, and deserve to be punished for thus hacking and carving each other; but, as paternal solicitude for the happiness of our loving subjects is our ruling principle, we will—pension a surgeon to sew up your wounds. There, now, be gone—but mind, young gentlemen! no political discussion in your verbondungs! If you are ever caught at that, perpetual incarceration will be your lot!” This is literally the fact. The state not only winks at this Gothic war among the students, but pays a state surgeon for attending the wounded![26]

The parents of youths going to universities of all kinds, have some reason for anxiety—if they knew all:—but the verbondungs of Germany are a disgrace to civilized Europe!

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BADEN-BADEN.

Along almost the whole way from Wisbaden to Baden-Baden, we have Belgium on our right, and Devonshire on our left. The road, which generally skirts the bases of the undulating hills to the eastward, has hardly a rise or fall, the alluvial and fertile plain stretching away to the Rhine, till the mountains of Alsace arrest the attention on the western bank of that river. The whole space between the hills and the river, was, indisputably, a lake, at some remote period, drained by the breaking down of some obstruction to the stream—probably in the vicinity of the present Lurley-rocks.

Five or six miles from Rastadt and the Rhine, embosomed in a narrow dell, and encircled by steep and wooded hills, lies the far-famed Baden-Baden. The comparative localities of Wisbaden and this place, might be imagined by supposing the former to be a saucer, and the latter an egg-cup. And yet the air of Baden, though in an egg-cup, is fresher if not purer, than that of its celebrated rival of Nassau, where there are no eminences of any altitude within some miles of the town. It is true that the thermal springs of Wisbaden are a few degrees higher in temperature than those of Baden, but this is quite insufficient to account for the difference of atmosphere.

A very few visits to the wells in the morning, the hells in the evening, and the hotels in the middle of the day, will convince any observant traveller that three-fourths of the sojourners at Baden, go there to drink wine rather than water—and to lose money, rather than regain health.

The thermal springs here are of great antiquity. They served to scour the Roman legions stationed at Baden, in the days of Aurelian, as they now do to scald the pigs and poultry of the butchers and poulterers of the same place. The far-famed Ursprung issues from the ruins of an old Roman structure on the side of a hill overlooking the town, at a temperature of 154 degrees of Fahrenheit, and in quantities sufficient to wash and drench the whole town, visitors and all. The water is translucid, and tastes much less either of the chickens or salt, than its contemporary of the Kochbrunnen at Wisbaden. It has, however, especially in the baths, a very faint odour of bear’s grease, or green fat, which I have noticed when speaking of the Kochbrunnen. The whole of the solid contents in a pint of the water, are only about 24 grains, of which common salt makes 16 grains, the other ingredients being chiefly lime, in different combinations with sulphuric, muriatic, and carbonic acids. There is just iron enough for the chemists to swear by—but not for the drinkers to distinguish by taste.

Whatever may have been the reputation of the Baden waters, taken internally, I apprehend that their fame is not very great in the present day. On several successive mornings, between five and eight o’clock, at the Ursprung, I never could muster more than 130 bibbers—many of whom appeared to have been attracted to the Paleotechnicon from curiosity rather than in search of health. Except occasionally a fashionable lady’s-maid, or governess, no English were seen at the spring. The waters being led, however, into all the principal hotels, where there are baignoires in abundance, the number of bathers outstrip very considerably the number of bibbers. Although the waters of Baden are neither so potent when drunk, nor so stimulant when bathed in, as those of Wisbaden and many other places, yet they manage to do a fair proportion of the annual mischief occasioned by hot mineral springs in general. Thermal spas and quack doctors, indeed, have more good luck than usually falls to the lot of men and things. They completely reverse the order of events in the moral world. Their good actions are graven on brass—their evil deeds are written in water. Unless some illustrious character receive his quietus in a hot bath—as the Duke of Nassau did at Kissengen—

we seldom hear a word about the inferior souls who are deprived of their terrestrial tenements by the boiling Kochbrunnen, Ursprung, or Sprudel. And, when a great man actually falls a sacrifice, sufficient mischief is done before his death, by his example and recommendation. It is well known that the Duke of Nassau’s preference of the Kissengen waters to those of his own Wisbaden, drew many illustrious patients to the former springs, who would have been contented with the latter. That the hot mineral baths produce a powerful effect even in health, and still more in disease, we have ample proofs. We need only take the testimony of my friend Dr. Granville himself, who will not be suspected of any prejudice or timidity in respect to these agents. “One of the first effects of the hot water bath at Baden (and I may say the same of Toplitz, Carlsbad, Wisbaden, &c.) produced on me, was an almost irresistible inclination to fall asleep. To resist this is of the utmost consequence.” “The operation of bathing in water endowed with much power, from heat and other circumstances, is not to be viewed lightly. Much mischief has arisen—nay, fatal results have followed, from its indiscriminate adoption. A rich merchant, who, but a few hours before, had been noticed on the public promenade after dinner, on the day after our arrival, was found dead in a bath at 8 o’clock of the same evening. A lady was pointed out to me, who had lost the use of her limbs after using three hot baths.”

The injurious effects of hot baths, even of common water, are daily witnessed at home—and these agents are still more powerful abroad. Their physiological effects on the normal or healthy constitution, as mentioned above, by Dr. Granville, I certainly did not experience in my own person; but this might be from the thickness of my skull, the hardness of my brain, or the weakness of my circulation. The sensations produced by these baths were always of the most pleasant kind, with far more disposition to ruminate than to sleep. In these effects, indeed, consists much of the danger. There are few diseases, however unsuited for hot bathing, that do not appear to be soothed or mitigated, at first, by this agent—and this apparent relief throws the practitioner off his guard, and leads the patient to extol the remedy, and persevere in the hazardous experiment, till the mischief actually occurs. There is, in truth, much less danger from improper drinking of mineral waters, than bathing in the same. The stomach or other organs are pretty sure to give ample notice of approaching injury from the imprudent use of mineral waters internally taken. Not so in the case of bathing. While the train of destruction is preparing—nay, at the moment when the match is applied to the train, the victim is lulled into a fatal security, not only by the absence of painful feelings, but by the positive induction of sensations the most pleasurable.

It is unnecessary to reiterate the precautions already stated in other places, as to the use of warm and hot bathing here. Rheumatic, gouty, paralytic, and cutaneous affections are those which can reap much benefit from the Ursprung—and, in these cases, all inflammatory and congestive states of the constitution, as well as of particular organs, should be carefully removed, before the waters are used, either internally or externally.

It would be easy to resuscitate ample testimonies, lay and professional, to the miraculous efficacy of the Baden springs, in all diseases, curable and incurable. An attendance among the fragments of antiquity round the Ursprung must convince the most credulous that Baden, as I said before, is not the Pool of Bethesda, as far as its healing virtues are concerned, though its waters are daily “troubled” by angels somewhat different from those that descended, for benevolent purposes, near the Holy City. Baden is, in fine, neither more nor less than a fashionable place of pleasure, dissipation, vice, and gambling—abounding in hot-baths, hells, hotels, scandal, and good scenery.

The last item in the above list has been most grossly exaggerated, as any one will acknowledge who has visited the place and compared its scenery with the following bombast.

“The surpassing grandeur of the scenery has been so constantly dwelt upon, that the hopeless task of description is unnecessary. Should you love all that is awful, sombre, wild, and grand in scenery, wander but half a mile from town, and you may be lost amid the dark valleys that wind through the pine-covered mountains.”—Mrs. Trollope.

Now I most positively deny that there is anything either grand, or awful, or sublime, in the scenery of Baden. The valley is picturesque, romantic, or even beautiful—and the view from the ruins of the old castle (rather more than half-a-mile, by the way, from the town) is extensive and very fine; but the sublime and the awful do not enter into the composition of Baden scenery. You must wander among the Alps for these.

Lest I should be suspected of taking a cynical view of Baden-Baden, I shall adduce the following quotations from Dr. Granville.

“Here men, as well as women, took their places at, or stood round, the several tables of “roulette” and “rouge-et-noir,” which were in full play. One only remark I will venture to make in reference to this subject—and that remark will be an expression of deep sorrow, at having observed the daughters of Englishmen, to all appearance highly respectable, joining the circle of such as pressed round the tables, to stake their petite pieces, and be elbowed by some rude fellow-gambler, who had probably as little character as he had money to lose.”

I am happy to say that in the interval between 1834 and 1839, when I last visited Baden, some improvement seemed to have taken place in this respect, especially among our fair countrywomen. I saw very few of them in the act of gambling, but the sight of such scenes—during the whole of the Sabbath day—is most injurious to our youth of both sexes! I cannot say so much for the balls in the evening. They are the same now as when Dr. Granville wrote.

“Away whirled the galoppe-dancers in giddy circles, until the very breathing of the fair partners became audible, and their countenances lost all traces of placid loveliness. And the rude grasp and Étroite liaison, during such dances—do they become the modest nature of an Englishwoman—or of any woman? Oh, it grieved me to see the graceful—elancÉ—and exquisitely elegant Mrs. M——, at the slightest invitation from a booted hussar, or an embroidered attachÉ, or a disguised vaurien of the lowest class, plunge with them into all the attitudes, now violent, and now languishing, of a dance better suited for bacchanalian or Andalusian representation! And she bore on her alabaster and shining cheek, the deep round flush of consumption, which parched her lips, and made her fly, at the termination of each performance, to the refreshment-room with her partner—there to quench, with perilous experiment, the inward fever, by an ice dissolved in freezing water; while the big drops of moisture stood on her forehead, or trickled down her face, increasing the general disorder of her appearance.”

Yes! The roulette and the waltz are the veritable “normal schools of agitation” for the sons and daughters of the nobility and gentry of the—happy, pious, and Protestant England!

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WILDBAD,
OR THE ELYSIAN FOUNTAIN OF THE BLACK FOREST.

The glowing description of this mineral spring, and the all but magical effects of its baths on the human frame, as given by Dr. Granville, have led hundreds of additional visitors to the sequestered valley of the Enz—some in quest of health, but many to satisfy curiosity, and test the picture which has been drawn in such flattering colours by the talented author of the “Spas of Germany.” The difficulties, however, which Dr. Granville experienced in his journey from Baden-Baden to Wildbad, must have deterred a great number of spa-tourists from visiting the Elysian fountain of the Black Forest. The journey occupied thirty hours, including one whole night on the road. We accomplished it in eight hours, by an excellent road, with the same pair of horses, and with ample leisure to lunch and rest midway. This route lies through some of the most beautiful, picturesque, and romantic scenery on the Continent. It is only thirty English miles, six or seven of which Dr. Granville pursued, when by some strange intelligence or mistake, he turned to the right, at Guernsbach, and went wrong all the rest of the way.

Sick of the frivolities and dissipations of Baden-Baden, we started at eight o’clock in the morning for Wildbad; and, wending our course up a steep acclivity, everywhere covered with pines, we passed the Mercurius Berg, with its altar dedicated to the god of thieves—

just as the Romans had left it, together with the frowning ruins of Eberstein, where thievery rose to the rank of robbery, and was christened under the high-sounding title of Feudalism! The higher we ascended, the denser became the woods, and the darker the road. There is something peculiarly sombre and solemn in the pineries of the Schwartswald, through many parts of which I had formerly journeyed. The vast extent of the forest, the great number and altitude of the hills and mountains, the gigantic growth and height of the trees, the darkness of the foliage, and the intensity of the silence, occasionally augmented rather than broken by the distant and scarcely audible stroke of the woodman’s axe, all combine to form a scene of solitude well adapted for contemplation and reflection.

After an hour’s labour, we gained an open space, when the eye has an opportunity of ranging over a sea of peaks and mountains to the South and East, all clothed in the dark green livery of the pine to their utmost summits. To the North and West the prospect was nearly as unlimited as from the Alte-Schloss, from Radstad and the Rhine up the valley of the Mourg to Guernsbach, which seemed like a white speck on the river at a prodigious depth below us. Down to this little town we cautiously slid, with drags on the wheels, winding in serpentine courses, often along the brinks of dangerous ravines, but every little vale or valley cultivated till the forest forbad the plough, the spade, and the scythe. The little town of Guernsbach, built on both sides of the Mourg, with a good bridge across, contains nearly two thousand inhabitants—almost all of whom live by the produce of the mountains, and a good number of the poorer classes in the woods themselves. Here the raftlets and rafts are seen descending to the Rhine, afterwards to aggregate into flotillas carrying hundreds of rowers, steerers, and navigators,—and conveying the Black Forest into the flats of Holland. But a little farther on, I shall take more notice of this immense traffic and source of wealth. The Castle of Eberstein and the church crown the heights over the town. Here Dr. Granville, instead of crossing the bridge, turned up along the banks of the Mourg, and had to go all the way to Stuttgardt, on his way to Wildbad.

From Guernsbach we ascended another lofty mountain to the romantic village of Laffenau. The prospect of the valley of the Mourg, with Guernsbach on its banks, and a sea of pine-clad heights in every direction, is most beautiful. Near Laffenau we have the “Teufels Muhle,” or Devil’s Mill, with its legendary tale—briefly as follows:—

The Prince of Darkness took it into his head, once on a time, to turn parson, and to preach from a chair or pulpit, still called by the name of that right reverend divine. His audience became more numerous than enlightened, when an angel, from quite a different quarter, pitched his tent on a neighbouring peak, and held forth in opposition to the man in black. The eloquence of the new preacher drew away great numbers from the old. Satan, in hopes of disturbing the congregation of his rival, vented his rage in some caverns in the rock, and in growls and groans that resembled thunder. But still the audience of the new preacher multiplied. This was more than any preacher, human or divine, could bear; and the old gentleman forthwith built himself a mill, the noise of which, together with the diabolical hootings, yells, and howlings of the miller and his men, he hoped would distract the audience of the orthodox ecclesiastic. Even this would not do, and his reverence of the cloven foot and long tail betook himself from words to things. He hurled masses of rock across the valley against the successful candidate for popular applause, with as much ease as a man would pitch quoits. This was “too bad;” and therefore a bolt from Heaven was directed against this teacher of impieties which demolished the mill, and prostrated the miller and his crew amongst the ruins! The disturber of the peace fell with such force among the rocks that the print of his body remains evident to the present hour.

The legend concludes with one piece of intelligence, to the truth of which most people will assent: namely, that after the above event, the arch enemy has seldom ventured to hold forth from the pulpit, in propria persona, but has employed a great number of emissaries in human shape, who disseminate among mankind, and some of them ex cathedra, too, those “false doctrines, heresies, and schisms,” which scandalize the church and cause dissensions among the people.

With the exception of a few miles, the whole route from Baden-Baden to Nuenburg, is a series of steep mountains and narrow valleys, presenting the greatest variety of scenery, from the picturesque and beautiful, up to the romantic, wild, and savage character. A thunder-storm, with heavy rain the preceding night—and now a beautiful day, with brilliant sun, gave us every advantage; while the mountain air, with active and passive exercise in alternation, produced, at once, sensations of health and hunger, so little felt in the close and deep valley of dissipation which we had left behind us at Baden.

SCHWEIN-GENERAL.

It was on the summit of a lofty mountain between Laffenau and Herrenalb, that we fell in with one of those generals, or, I should rather say, field-marshals, (immortalized by the “Old Man of the Brunnens”) who, with three or four aid-de-camps, was marching and manoeuvering a “swinish multitude” of raw recruits among these alpine heights. They were evidently less a fighting than a foraging party, levying contributions on every thing edible in these sombre pineries. It was also manifest that, whether from the morning air or the supperless night, they were by no means over nice, either in their olfactory or gustatory senses; for nothing seemed to come amiss to them, or to prove unsavoury or indigestible. But although provender turned up at almost every step, they were a grumbling and grunting, as well as an awkward squad, and so prone to predatory excursions, that the schwein-general and his staff were constantly flogging them into the regular ranks. Their long legs and lank sides shewed that their fare was not of the most fattening nature—or, that they had little else than predatory rations to live upon. They had been called out early that morning, by bugle and horn, from their various bivouacs in Laffenau, with more appetite than order, for their mountain drill. The general (or field-marshal) with his aid-de-camps, and some vigilant videttes, of the canine species, had no small difficulty in compelling their guerilla corps of maurauders to keep “close order;” for they were constantly deploying to the right and to the left—shooting a-head—or straggling in the rear, despite the proclamations of the general, the stripes of the subalterns, and the biting rebuffs of the quadrupeds, who, ever and anon, lugged back into the ranks some long-faced and bleeding deserter, amid the grunts and groans of his sympathising companions, on whom, however, these summary sentences of a drum-head, or rather mountain-head, court-martial appeared to make but a transient impression.

On taking leave of General Swein, I could not help making some “odious comparisons” between him and some other generals, “melioris notÆ,” in various parts, and at various epochs of this world. He did not, like too many of his order, lay villages in ashes, and massacre the inhabitants when rushing from the flames—or deliver their wives and daughters to the tender mercies of an enfuriate soldiery—he did not murder his prisoners in cool blood, by nailing them to trees, as marks for an undisciplined rabble of fanatic banditti to exercise their muskets—he did not drag citizens of a free state from their homes, and consign them to the mines and wilds of Hyperborean regions—he did not mock the forms of Heavenly justice, and slaughter the victims of his ambition or revenge in the fosse or on the glacis—he did not turn the fertile district into a frightful desert, as the effectual means of ensuring peace—(“ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem vocant”)—he did not perform these or any similar exploits, and, therefore, he has had no pious advocate to justify his crimes, or impartial historian to record his virtues!

Descending by a long and zig-zag road from the Swine-General’s camp, we arrive at Herrenalb, situated in a romantic glen, enclosed by lofty mountains. Here we lunched, and rested our horses, who certainly had better fare than their masters. Black bread, bad butter, hard eggs, and chopped hay for tea, were devoured without grumbling, in consequence of the canine appetite acquired on the alpine heights. On leaving Herrenalb, we pass on our left, one of the most singular and fantastic groups of basaltic rocks which I have anywhere seen. They appear like a gigantic fortress, with buttresses and embrasures. A traveller has remarked of these productions of subterranean fire, that—“on croirait qu’une imagination fantastique a presidÉ a leur formation.” They probably issued from a deep-seated volcano, in the form of molten lava, at the time when Staffa and the Giant’s Causeway rose from the bowels of the earth, and congealed in pillars on the shores of Antrim and Argyll.

From these “fragments of an earlier world,” these real monuments of antiquity, compared with which, the Pyramids of Egypt are as mushrooms of yesterday, and whose rugged brows the rains and tempests of ten thousand years have not yet smoothed, we ascended to a great height, and reached a comparatively open and partially cultivated country, between Frauenalb on the left, and Rothensal on the right. This alpine plateau continued for six or seven miles—the prospect towards the North and West being of great extent, over a fine champaigne country which, from this altitude, appeared like an immense plain. The South and East presented a vast sea of mighty mountains, the insurgent billows of which were feathered with perennial forests. After doubling the North-western extremity of a high alpine ridge, we turned short round to the right—plunged into a deep wood—and descended quickly by a precipitous route to the town of Nuenburg, situated on the foaming Enz, in a narrow and gloomy valley. Here we got black bread and water for the horses, and Seltzer water with wine for ourselves. While the horses were resting, we scrambled up to the ancient chateau, now occupied by the foresters. From this there is a good view of the valley of the Enz, for a few miles above and below the town. The valley is here not more than five or six hundred yards broad at the bottom, with the river in the centre, and the pine mountains rising abruptly on both sides. We had now about eight miles to Wildbad, close along the right bank of the river, and consequently with only a gentle ascent the whole way.

The valley of Wildbad, between Nuenburg and the town of Wildbad, is about 1400 feet above the level of the sea—and the mountains on each side about 1500 above the river. It resembles a good deal the VallÉe d’Enfer, well known to most travellers. There is but a narrow border of cultivated ground on each side of the Enz—in some places not exceeding two or three hundred yards—in others, creeping up the steep acclivities nearly a quarter of a mile. Hay, corn, and potatoes are the chief productions of the valley. The pine occupies every slope not cultivated; the forest, on each side, presenting a serrated border, the salient angles sometimes coming nearly down to the banks of the stream—the interspaces being occupied with potatoes or some culinary vegetable. But the Enz itself presents more bustle and activity than its banks. Small and precipitous as is the torrent, it is made to carry the mountains—or at least their forests, on its slender back. The flotteurs or rafters are a race and craft distinct from the wood-cutters, who hew the trees in the mountains, and hurl them down their steep sides to the river. The Enz falls 370 feet in the short distance of nine miles between Wildbad and Nuenburg, and yet they manage to float down numerous rafts, or rather raftlets, two or three hundred feet in length, along this trajet. The method is simple but ingenious. At convenient distances, dikes or dams are run diagonally across the stream, with a sluice or flood-gate in the centre. When the gate is shut, the back-water accumulates so as to float the raft from the next dam higher up. The rafts are narrow, but very long and jointed. When one, two, or more have arrived at the dam, the head of the raft is brought close to the sluice—the gate is opened—and away darts the raft, with a loud noise and fracas—dashing against the rocks—each joint, as it passes over the dam, rising up like the dorsal fin of a huge whale rolling about in the sea. In this way they are conveyed from the mountains to the Rhine—the raftlets augmenting in breadth, or number of trees, in proportion as the stream augments and enlarges into a river. As every mountain must have a valley, so every valley must have a rivulet. However small the stream, it can be dammed so as to float one tree at a time—and when contributary streamlets from the mountains enlarge the parent stream, the raftlets increase in size also. Thus the main wealth of Wildbad is constantly floating down the Enz, consigned to distant countries, but leaving profit for the merchant, and affording employment for thousands and thousands of the industrious poor. The raftlets grown into rafts, having arrived at the Rhine, change hands, and the local boucherons, or floaters, return to their native valleys to renew their labours from spring till the approach of winter. The aggregated rafts now become flotillas, capable of bearing an army on their backs, and actually inhabited by four or five hundred—not seamen but raftmen, while they glide down the majestic stream of the Rhine.

Let us see whether this animated scene of industry, hilarity, and wealth has any back-ground to the picture—any alloy to the pure metal. Many a gaudy tissue, embroidered robe, and sparkling gem, has been produced by sordid hands, amidst penury, disease, and despair! The wood-cutter of the Black Forest mountains leads a gloomy and miserable life. His labour is eternally the same—affording no food or reflection for the mind—the workmen being secluded in dark and dreary forests for days, weeks, and months, without any communication with their families; while their children are entirely neglected, as far as education is concerned! They are, as it were, cut off from human society—become morose, taciturn, melancholic—or even misanthropic. What is worse, they are frequently brought home maimed, lamed, or stricken with some dangerous or fatal disease! They almost always die prematurely. Yet the facility of gaining a livelihood by cutting and floating wood, leaves very few inhabitants of this valley inclined to pursue any mechanical occupation. The trees, when felled and the branches lopped off, are dragged in traineaus to the edges of the declivities, from whence they descend along cleared tracks, or a kind of wooden tunnel, by their own weight, to the vicinity of the river. A little field of potatoes—a wooden hut—a couple of goats to feed the children—and a pig to be killed at Christmas—constitute the whole riches of the woodman, whether of mountain or valley.

After a very pleasant drive of nine miles along the right bank of the Enz, we came suddenly upon the little town of Wildbad, now celebrated for the divine effects of its baths on the human frame. The town contains 279 inhabited houses, and 115 buildings of other kinds. It is nearly equally divided by the foaming little Enz, the backs of houses, on each side of the valley, being actually built against the feet of the mountains. As these are some 1500 feet high, an hour, at least, of the rising, and another of the setting sun, are unseen and unfelt in Wildbad—except in the curious phenomenon of the sunshine creeping down the western mountain in the morning, and up the eastern mountain in the evening.

The valley of Wildbad lies nearly North and South, and consequently the winds are felt only in those two directions. The temperature of the atmosphere necessarily varies considerably, but cold prevails over heat. Snow ordinarily lurks on the summits of the mountains from the middle of November till the middle of May. From the first of July till the middle of August, the heat is generally great. “In a hot summer (says Professor Heim) the temperature is almost insupportable about mid-day, when the breeze is scarcely perceptible in the depth of the valley.” In June, July, and August, the thermometer in Wildbad mounts occasionally to 90, in the hottest days—and falls correspondingly in the winter. In the season (months of June, July, August, and September) of 1834, there were 47 clear days—five thunder-storms—and 34 rainy days. In 1837—35 clear days—44 rainy days—and 11 thunder-storms. During the years 1834-5-6 and 7, the mean temperature of the four summer months, at mid-day, was 66° of Fahrenheit, which is very moderate. Lightning has never struck any of the houses in Wildbad—the contiguous mountains proving excellent conductors. There are no peculiar diseases at Wildbad, except those produced by scanty food and hard labour. Scarcely any goitres or cretins are seen here. The inhabitants hardly ever take any other medicines than the warm waters of the place. Doctors would inevitably starve here, were it not for the foreign visitors. The water of Wildbad is excellent, both for cooking and drinking. Pulmonary complaints are exceedingly rare in this valley, and indeed in the Black Forest generally. The same may be said of goitre and cretinism.

We took up our quarters at the Bear, exactly opposite the baths, and had no reason to complain of our accommodations in this hotel. My chamber was in the back of the house, just over the noisy little Enz; but its murmurings only lulled me to a sound sleep, after the keen mountain air, and the healthy exercise of the day.

It is only within these few years that Wildbad has become much known, through the writings of Drs. Flicker and Granville. Professor Heim has now added to the means of its publicity. In 1830, the number of bathers was 470—in 1837, 1,003—in 1838, the number was 1,235. In this list, the real bathers and drinkers only are inscribed. The mere passengers of a day or two are omitted. In 1837, there were only ten English, who used the waters. In 1838, there were 130. In 1839, about the middle of August, when I was there, the number had still encreased. The accommodations hitherto have been insufficient. In this year, 1840, a new and grand edifice will be completed, capable of contributing to the comfort—would that it may not add to the gambling luxury or destruction of—a large number of visitors! The Palace, which is close to the baths, is open to the public—in fact, it is a hotel, for the refreshment of body and mind. It would be unjust, not to commemorate here the wise, salutary, and beneficent injunction against gambling, which is rigorously enforced by the government. May it continue in force, per omnia secula seculorum!

The warm baths of Wildbad issue from several sources in the granite rock; but are collected into four basins, isolated from each other, and under particular regulations. Just opposite the Bear Hotel is the place for drinking the waters, a few feet below the surface of the square or market-place. There are two spouts, and I observed for two hours the devotees of this Hygeian spring. I should have little hesitation in swearing that there was not a single malingerer (to use a military phrase for one who feigns disease,) in the whole group, amounting to about sixty or eighty. They all bore intrinsic marks of indisposition; but the maimed, the lame, the paralytic, and the rheumatic, constituted nine-tenths of the assemblage. I had an early note from Professor Heim, politely offering to shew me the baths. With him I proceeded to the Furstenbad, or Prince’s Bath, in which Dr. Granville bathed. On entering the Bad, I found it occupied by two persons—one quite naked, the other with white drawers on—while Dr. Fricker, who stood on the steps with a watch in his hand, was directing the operations. I naturally shrunk back, with an apology for intruding; but my kind and honest friend, Dr. Heim, pushed me forward, observing, that there was “no offence.” The bather was a Russian General, Comte ——, and he who sat behind him in the bath, rubbing his back, was the bad-meister. I entered into conversation with the General and his medical director, and found them agreeable, intelligent, and frank communicants. The douche having been applied, and the bathing process finished, I withdrew for a quarter of an hour, while the bath was preparing for myself. Most of my readers must have read or heard of these celebrated waters by Dr. Granville, and I must here record his account of the surprising sensations which they produce on the human frame immersed in them.

“After descending a few steps from the dressing-room into the bath-room, I walked over the warm soft sand to the farthest end of the bath, and I laid myself down upon it, near the principal spring, resting my head on a clean wooden pillow. The soothing effect of the water as it came over me, up to the throat, transparent like the brightest gem or aquamarine, soft, genially warm, and gently murmuring, I shall never forget. Millions of bubbles of gas rose from the sand, and played around me, quivering through the lucid water as they ascended, and bursting at the surface to be succeeded by others. The sensation produced by these, as many of them, with their tremulous motion, just effleuraient the surface of the body, like the much vaunted effect of titillation in animal magnetism, is not to be described. It partakes of tranquillity and exhilaration; of the ecstatic state of a devotee, blended with the repose of an opium eater. The head is calm, the heart is calm, every sense is calm; yet there is neither drowsiness, stupefaction, nor numbness; for every feeling is fresher, and the memory of worldly pleasures keen and sharp. But the operations of the moral as well as physical man are under the spell of some powerfully tranquillising agent. It is the human tempest lulled into all the delicious playings of the ocean’s after-waves. From such a position I willingly would never have stirred. To prolong its delicious effects what would I not have given! but the bad-meister appeared at the top of the steps of the farther door, and warned me to eschew the danger of my situation; for there is danger even in such pleasures as these, if greatly prolonged.

“I looked at the watch and the thermometer before I quitted my station. The one told me I had passed a whole hour, in the few minutes I had spent according to my imagination; and the other marked 29½° of Reaumur, or 98¼° of Fahrenheit. But I found the temperature warmer than that, whenever, with my hand, I dug into the bed of sand, as far down as the rock, and disengaged myriads of bubbles of heated air, which imparted to the skin a satiny softness not to be observed in the effects of ordinary warm baths.

“These baths are principally used from five o’clock in the morning until seven, and even much later; and again by some people in the evening. The time allowed for remaining in the water is from half an hour to an hour; but it is held to be imprudent to continue the bath to the latter period, as experience has shown that such sensations as I felt, and have endeavoured to describe, prove ultimately too overpowering to the constitution, if prolonged to excess.”[29]

Dr. Kerner, who preceded Dr. Granville, makes use of the following expressions, quoted by the latter author.

“The use of the Wildbad waters cannot be too much commended. They serve, indeed, to make the old young again; while younger persons, who have become prematurely old, owing to exhaustion, and those who are exhausted by close application and incessant fatigue, rise out of these baths with new strength and youth.”

Although I called to mind these identical expressions, as applied by Dr. Fenner to the Serpent’s Bath at Schlangenbad, and remembered also my disappointment; yet I could not divest myself of the pleasing anticipations that Wildbad would realize the effects recorded by my friend Dr. Granville, and that I should retreat from this romantic valley at least ten years younger than when I entered it. I dispensed with the attendance of the bad-meister—locked the door—descended into the bath—and creeping to the identical spot where Dr. Granville experienced the “ecstatic state of a devotee, blended with the repose of an opium-eater,” I waited, not without some impatience, the advent of this fore-taste of Paradise. But no such good fortune awaited me! I eyed the gas bubbles that rose around me, not indeed “in millions,” nor even in dozens—but so sparingly that I could have easily numbered them, eager though they had been to “quiver through the lucid water” in their ascent to greet my friend and confrere a few years previously. With every wish to be pleased, and with the most minute attention to my own sensations, I must confess that I experienced no effects from the waters of Wildbad, other than I did from baths of similar temperature and composition, as those of Schlangenbad, Baden, and Pfeffers.[30] They have the same advantage as the Pfeffers, in maintaining the same temperature, however long we may remain in them—the stream running in and out of the baths. Whether this may not sometimes tempt the bad-meisters to save the trouble and time of emptying the baths after each bather, I do not profess to know. With respect to the bed of warm sand at the bottom, I think it is more pleasant to the feelings than to the imagination. It is impossible that it can be changed; and the idea of lying down in a bed which a leper may have just left, is not the most pleasant in the world. For myself, I should prefer the clean marble, or even the wood to this substratum of sand. It is but justice to state, that there is a rule for all persons to go through the quarantine of a plain bath before commencing the medicinal. Such a rule, however, was not imposed upon me—nor I believe, on the generality of casual bathers. I stayed in the bath half an hour, and felt exceedingly refreshed by it. I have no hesitation, therefore, in giving it as my opinion that the waters of Wildbad are inferior to none, in their medicinal agency, as baths of a non-stimulant and simple kind. Their improper use is not nearly so hazardous as those of Wisbaden, Kissengen, or Carlsbad, whose saline ingredients act powerfully on the sentient extremities of the nerves of the skin, and too often excite dangerous commotions in the animal economy.

In the course of the day I fell in with my bath acquaintance, Count ——, the Russian General, and had a long conversation with him. He had been in the memorable campaign of 1812, and had, for some years, laboured under a paralytic affection of the lower extremities. He assured me that in four or five weeks of these baths and douches, he had regained a good deal of power in his limbs; but his general strength had decreased, and he was about to repair to Schwalbach, in hopes that the chalybeate springs there would invigorate his constitution. We had a polite invitation to a fÊte at the palace that evening, from the gallant General.[31]

In respect to the “bathing in company,” I confess I have a repugnance to it on many accounts, only one of which I shall state. The pleasure of conversation, in such places, is dearly purchased by the impossibility, (for the bather must go in a light dress,) of employing friction and shampooing on the naked surface—one of the greatest luxuries and salutary processes that can possibly be practised in warm-baths of any kind. This objection alone is entirely fatal to the “community of bathing,” laying aside the indelicacy of the thing.[32]

The douches are easily and simply performed by a kind of pump and hose, by which the warm water is directed against any part of the body, and with any degree of force. A new source was discovered last year, near the Furstenbad, which will greatly extend the means of bathing singly. Already the refuse waters from the baths are sufficient to turn a mill as they run out from the baths to the Enz—the river never freezing in the town.

In chemical and physical properties, the waters of Wildbad closely resemble those of Pfeffers and Schlangenbad. They are clear and odourless; but have a mawkish taste. In a pint, Professor Sigwart found 3½ grains of saline matters, of which nearly 2 grains were common salt—half a grain of carbonate of soda—and nearly the same of sulphate of soda. The other ingredients are chips in porridge, if we except a mere trace of iron. When boiled, it disengages a very trifling quantity of carbonic acid gas. The air which bubbles up from the waters contains (according to Gaeger and Gaertner) five parts of carbonic acid—7 of oxygen—and 88 of azote. Since that analysis, it has been found that there is little or no oxygen in the air. The temperature varies in the different sources from 88° to 99° of Fahrenheit. It is quite independent of summer, winter, storms, or calms.

When waters, so simple as scarcely to differ from the purest spring used for drink, produce medicinal effects, the cause is attributed to some mysterious power, incognizable by the senses and inimitable by human art.

Professor Heim takes up the same hypothesis as others before him, and Dr. Granville among the rest, that the caloric of mineral waters is of a specific kind, analogous to the vital heat of the body. “It is a heat incorporated with the water by a chemico-vital process.” “And as no external warmth can supply the body with vital heat, so no artificially created temperature can be a real substitute for the natural heat of thermal springs.”

The temperature, then, of the Wildbad waters being that of the human blood, immersion in them produces but a slight sensation of heat, the surface of our bodies being below that of our blood in temperature. The sensation is that of comfort—a word not to be more nearly translated into French than by the term “bien-Être.” Here Professor Heim quotes, of course, Dr. Granville’s description of the “ecstatic” feelings which he experienced in these waters. He adds:—“But another circumstance which, more than all the rest, conduces to this favourable impression, is the dynamic combination (le lien dynamique) of the solid and gaseous elements—the spirit of the water—received from the hand of Nature, in the bowels of the earth. It is this general impression on the whole human organism, which effects the cure of divers sufferings and maladies, by awakening and reviving the vital powers enfeebled or prostrated—and thus restoring activity to the circulation and to the nervous system, through which a reaction and energy is communicated to all the functions of the body.”

These effects, Prof. Heim acknowledges, cannot be accounted for by the chemical composition of the water. The cosmetic qualities of Wildbad and Schlangenbad, he thinks, may be partly owing to the soda contained in them, which forms a kind of oily soap on the surface, and gives it that feeling of lubricity and softness, so much vaunted: but he believes it to be principally owing to the peculiar power of the bath to invigorate the functions of the skin as well as of the internal organs—a power greater, he maintains, in the waters of Wildbad than of Schlangenbad.

Although these waters generally produce an exciting or exhilarating effect, yet in a certain number of instances, they cause a sense of lassitude and heaviness in the extremities, with an inclination to sleep, especially after leaving the bath. These effects are commonly attributable to improper use of the baths, or staying too long in them, in consequence of the pleasant feelings derived from them. Dr. H. recommends all persons to stay but 10 or 15 minutes in the bath at first, gradually increasing the time to half or three-quarters of an hour. In some, the head is affected with vertigo—in others, there is oppression on the chest—all which soon go off, after five or six baths.

“It is to be remembered that a majority of the bathers experience the ‘reaction fever’ (fiÈvre de rÉaction) in the course of the treatment. The period of its occurrence is uncertain, and often it is so slight as to pass almost unobserved by the patient. This, however, is the critical moment precursory of the cure. This state of irritation seldom lasts more than a few days, and generally disappears without any internal medicine. This reaction is precisely that which ought to inspire the greatest hopes in the patient, as it announces a change in his constitution, and a victory over his malady. The disagreeable sensations, however, which he feels, often puts him out of humour with the baths, especially if old pains and discomforts, that had ceased, now re-appear, which they often do. He becomes impatient and morose, when he is re-visited by rheumatic pains, neuralgia, gout, hÆmorrhoids, &c. which he had thought to be extinct. Such re-action, however, is indispensable towards the victory of nature and the baths over the disease for which they were employed. The waters of Wildbad, indeed, are remarkable for this reproduction of old disorders, at the moment they are eradicating the more recent ones.”

These most important properties of the waters of Wildbad are passed entirely unnoticed by Dr. Granville, and from my own knowledge, several English have left Wildbad, at the very time they were on the point of experiencing the greatest benefits. This reaction or bath-fever, is common, as I have shewn, to most of the medicinal waters, as was seen under the head of Wisbaden, Kissengen, &c. At the former place I saw several well-marked instances of it, and satisfied myself of its reality. I have not found any description of it in the accounts of the German Spas published in England. It is a subject of the greatest importance to the invalid.

The following case is related by Dr. Kaiser, formerly director of these baths. I have greatly abridged it.

“An officer, aged 26 years, fell down a flight of stone stairs, and pitched on the right haunch, or hip-bone. He was stunned to insensibility, from which he slowly recovered. When examined, the right leg and thigh were cold as ice, but no fracture or dislocation could be discovered. He was confined several weeks to his bed; and then could only hobble about on crutches with great pain. At length he was able to dispense with the crutches, but every motion of the limb caused great agony. He tried the waters and baths of Wisbaden; but experienced no benefit. Thirteen months after the accident, and when the excruciating pains had rather gained than lost force, he came to Wildbad. The first bath produced no sensible effect. The second called forth some pains in the loins, where he had felt no inconvenience previously. These augmented after the third bath till the seventh, when they became so violent, that he could not stand, and was confined to his bed. At this time he suddenly experienced a most painful sense of coldness in the right foot, which was succeeded by heat, reaction, and ultimately a profuse perspiration over the whole limb, and even in the loins. From that time he was able to move the leg without pain, and quickly regained the power of walking without a stick.”

The Wildbad baths are celebrated for the removal of those various pains and aches which not seldom attend old gunshot and other wounds. A case is related of an officer who had been wounded in the arm by a musket-ball in the late war, and who was harassed by pains in the site of the wound for many years afterwards. The use of the Wildbad baths re-opened the wound, from whence a piece of flannel was discharged, and the pains ceased.

These waters are considered to be specific in certain female complaints which are difficult of removal, and subversive of health, in too many instances.

“La proprietÉ de rajeunir, que les dames vantent tant dans le bain de Wildbad, il faut moins la chercher dans sa vertu cosmetique, que dans la circonstance que je viens de signaler.”

It is to be remarked that it is not in all persons that the re-action above alluded to takes place. In many there is a gradual amelioration of health, without any perturbation of the constitution, and only marked by an encreased action in the functions of the skin and kidneys—sometimes of the bowels.

“On the other hand, says Professor Heim, where the malady is obstinate, there is a greater struggle in the constitution, attended with considerable fever, disorder of the secretions, irritation of the nervous system, full pulse, restless nights, distressing dreams, loss of appetite, dry hot skin, occasional hÆmorrhoidal discharges, purging, gouty attacks, cutaneous eruptions, &c. which precede a restoration of health.”

These are trials which require the fortitude of the patient, and the vigilance of the physician. It is not to be wondered at that, when they occur in the stranger, and especially in the English invalid, who has little confidence in the foreign practitioner, and finds himself ill in a secluded valley like that of Wildbad, great alarm should be produced, and much prejudice raised against the baths and waters of the place. The worst of it is, that a similar train of disorders may arise from an injudicious use of the baths, and where no salutary crisis is the result.

These are circumstances which ought to be pointed out to our countrymen and women, who are too often led to distant mineral waters and baths by flowery descriptions and miraculous cures, without any warning as to the consequences that may ensue—whether salutary or dangerous. The concealment of this spa or bath fever, is any thing but beneficial either to the waters or the water-drinkers. It deceives the one, and injures the reputation of the other. The local physicians of these mineral springs never omit to point out the consequences of bathing in, and drinking the waters, as I have already shewn by several quotations; and it is highly desirable that all spa-goers should be aware of them.[33]

Cutaneous eruptions are frequent consequences of the Wildbad waters, and are considered salutary. The kidneys, next to the skin, shew the greatest sensibility to the action of these waters. In some people (especially where the waters are drunk as well as bathed in,) a most copious and clear secretion is produced; but this is seldom a critical or salutary discharge. It is when the secretion from the kidneys is deep-coloured, sedimentous, and exhaling a peculiar odour, especially in gouty subjects, that benefit may be confidently anticipated. The bowels are seldom acted on by these waters—more frequently, indeed, constipation is the result, requiring aperient medicine both before and during the course. The hÆmorrhoidal and monthly periods are promoted by the waters, thus relieving plethoric fulness of the abdominal organs.

“In dispositions to rheumatism, cutaneous complaints, erysipelas, catarrhal affections, neuralgia, chlorosis (green sickness,) tubercles, scrofula, difficult and premature accouchments, the waters of Wildbad are strongly recommended.”

Professor Heim warns the patient not to be discouraged, even if he leaves the waters unrelieved, or worse than when he commenced the course. The cure will often follow, when the individual has regained his home, weeks or months after leaving Wildbad.

It is only since 1836, that a source of waters for drinking has been discovered and established at Wildbad. The mineral ingredients do not materially differ from those of the baths. They are now very generally used in conjunction with the latter, and are found to be very useful auxiliaries. They sit lightly on the stomach, and prove rather aperient than otherwise. They increase the appetite, and promote materially the action of the skin, kidneys, and glandular organs generally.

Disorders for which the Waters of Wildbad are chiefly used.

Dr. Fricker has laid open to Professor Heim the records of 25 years’ observation and experience of these waters; from which, and also from his own practice, the latter physician has, in ten chapters, classified the maladies for which the baths and waters have been employed, detailing numerous cases, and superadding commentaries of his own. It will be necessary to skim lightly over the heads of these chapters, in order to shew the properties of the Wildbad spa in its direct application to practice.

I. Rheumatism, Gout, and their Consequences.—“Our baths have always maintained great reputation for the cure of these two classes of tormenting maladies, arising from different causes, but presenting many traits of character in common.” The author cautions the bather against using the baths, where there is any acute or even subacute inflammation in the joints, muscles, or internal organs. It is in the chronic and painful forms of gout and rheumatism, together with their numerous consequences, that the Wildbad waters will be found beneficial—indeed, according to the authors abovementioned, almost infallibly curative. Messrs. Fricker and Heim trace many cases of tic, vertigo, deafness, affections of the sight, asthmatic coughs, intermissions of pulse, tracheal and bronchial affections, &c. to suppressed gout and rheumatism, as they are often removed by the baths and waters. Fifteen cases in illustration are detailed with great minuteness by Dr. Heim, to which the Wildbad bather may refer on the spot.

II. Affections of the Spinal Marrow, and its Consequences, Paralysis.—Diseases of the spinal marrow are seldom recognized in their early stages, not indeed till symptoms of paralysis begin to shew themselves in the limbs. This class of complaints is daily augmenting in number, as the baths of Wildbad can testify. These waters have, says M. Heim, often dissipated the symptoms which usually precede attacks of paralysis, and therefore, if used early, would be more useful than when taken after the paralysis is actually developed. But even here, it is averred that the progress of the malady is frequently arrested, and an amelioration procured.

When the paralysis of the lower extremities is complete—when the individual is no longer able to walk or stand, without assistance, the waters of Wildbad have often produced wonderful effects in restoring power—indeed it is curious that, according to the physicians aforesaid, these baths are frequently more successful in these cases than in those which are not so far advanced towards a complete paralysis. An immense number of cases are detailed by Dr. Heim under this head; and I am tempted to extract one, which is the case of a countryman of our own.

“A young English gentleman, after bathing in a river, the water of which was very cold, became completely paralytic of the lower extremities. He came to Wildbad, and, without consulting any physician, commenced the warmest of the baths. At the end of a fortnight he found himself so considerably improved, that he was able to lay aside his crutches, and walk by the aid of a cane. At this time the coronation of our youthful queen was announced, and the patient determined to assist at the ceremony. He bore the journey well—and returned to Wildbad after a few weeks, without any relapse. He took a second course of the baths, and left Wildbad ultimately in a very improved condition.”

Those paralyses which affect one side only, are almost universally the result of an apoplectic attack. “When these attacks have been occasioned by suppressed hÆmorrhoidal discharges—eruptions of the skin suddenly extinguished—engorgements or obstructions of the organs of the abdomen—female obstructions at a certain period of life—metastases of gout or rheumatism—in such cases of hemiplegia, the Wildbad waters have proved serviceable, and it is delightful to see so many of these paralytics leave Wildbad every season, with firm steps, although confined for years previously to the couch, or crutches.”

Professor Heim wisely cautions those who have been of a plethoric constitution, from too free an use of the baths, till they have ascertained how they agree with their constitutions. Before any amelioration takes place, the patient generally experiences some pricking pains and tinglings in the paralyzed parts, followed by a sense of heat, perspiration, and increase of feeling. To these symptoms succeed a gradual restoration of muscular power, accompanied by a sense of electrical sparks passing along the nerves. Numerous cases of paralysis of one side are detailed by Dr. Heim.

III. and IV. These chapters are dedicated to paralysis occasioned by poisons—and also to cases of local paralyses of particular nerves—as those of the face. I must pass them over. The waters appear to have been useful in many of these instances.

The 5th Chapter relates to affections of the joints—to lumbago—sciatica—white swellings of the knee—contractions, &c., in which the baths of Wildbad are lauded. One caution, however, is invariably enjoined—not to use the waters while there is any inflammation actually existing.

The Sixth Chapter is on diseases of the bones, with numerous cases, which I shall pass over.

The Seventh Chapter treats of diseases of the skin, cured or relieved by the Wildbad baths and waters. Herpes—ringworm—prurigo—pityriasis—acne—inveterate itch—fetid perspirations, &c. &c. are said to be those which receive most advantage from these waters. Indeed I think it probable that the eulogiums are not much exaggerated as to this class of complaints.

Chap. VIII. relates to scrofula and glandular affections generally. In such complaints it is of the greatest consequence to conjoin the internal with the external use of the waters of Wildbad. These waters are much employed by people with goitre, and Drs. Fricker and Heim consider them very beneficial in enlargements of the liver, spleen, and even of the mesenteric glands.

Chap. IX. Wildbad appears to have attained some considerable reputation in female complaints. Next indeed in number to the class of lame and paralytic patients, which I saw around the baths and waters of this place, were the chlorotic females, whose countenances exhibited the “green and yellow melancholy” of Shakespeare’s “love-sick” maiden—

There are more ailments than love-sickness, however, which cause the youthful maid to “pine in thought,” and exchange all her lillies for the pallid rose—the sparkling expression for the lack-lustre eye—and the elasticity of youth for the languor of premature old age. For the irregularities and obstructions that generally lead to this chlorotic state, the baths and waters of Wildbad are strongly recommended. Dr. Heim avers that, of late years, he has only failed in one instance to bring these females to a state of regularity and health—where no organic disease existed. Although this is rather a startling assertion, yet the concourse of female invalids to this place, bearing such unequivocal marks of a particular class of ailments, offers a fair presumption that many receive benefit there, else the numbers would diminish instead of increasing from year to year. I can also easily believe that a course of these baths, with the daily ingurgitation of large potions of a simple diluent water, may remove many obstructions, and, at all events, bring the constitution into that condition in which some good chalybeate, as Schwalbach, Spa, or Brockenau, might exert a powerful influence on the restoration of health.

The new spring for drinking is at a temperature of 92°, and contains four grains of saline substances in the pint, of which two are muriate of soda or common salt. It is used like other thermal waters, and is slightly aperient, but chiefly alterative.

The public walks to the southward of the town, extend nearly a mile along the noisy Enz, and are very pleasant. A contemplative philosopher might there indulge his sublime speculations—the poet his “wayward fancies”—and the devotee his celestial meditations, with little interruption.

The counter-indications, or disorders not benefited, but aggravated by the waters of Wildbad, are not materially different from those mentioned under the head of other thermal springs—as plethora, or fulness—tendency to apoplexy, to hÆmorrhage of any kind, or to engorgements or inflammations of any of the internal organs. Neither are they proper in cases of considerable debility. They are not to be used in inveterate catarrhal affections of the kidneys or bladder, attended with wasting of strength, and probably with organic disease—in chronic diarrhoea—diabetes—internal suppurations—confirmed phthisis—indurations of spleen or liver in an advanced stage—dropsies—scirrhus and cancer—biliary and urinary calculi—organic diseases of the heart—varicose veins—hypochondriasis and hysteria, with debility—original or idiopathic epilepsy, chorea, catalepsy and other convulsive affections of this nature—sterility dependent on organic disease of the reproductive viscera—alienation of mind, &c. On no account should women in a state of pregnancy use the baths or waters of Wildbad.

I have now presented the reader with all the information which I could collect on the spot, from the conversations and writings of those best acquainted with the nature and properties of the waters. Most of the English spa-goers will be disappointed in the magic effects of the baths, as somewhat highly-coloured by Dr. Granville—and will consider the locality as too sombre; while the appearance of the bathers and drinkers—being veritable invalids—many of them on crutches, and many apparently on their way to the grave—will prove anything but cheering to the British hypochondriac, and the sensitive nervous female. A considerable number of English leave Wildbad in a day or two after arriving there—and of the few who take the waters, the majority become alarmed at the spa-fever or irritation, abandoning the waters at the very time they are likely to prove serviceable.

To those, however, who prefer quietude to fashionable frivolity—and a secluded glen to a dashing, gambling Kursaal, the baths and waters may prove serviceable in many of the complaints above enumerated. I would advise all who sojourn at Baden-Baden, or who pass near Wildbad, to visit this place, were it only for curiosity, and the singular scenery of its neighbourhood. The journey from Baden-Baden is an easy one of a single day—but that day should be a fine one, else all the pleasures of the excursion will be lost. In fine, I can conscientiously aver that, in respect to Wildbad, I have neither exaggerated its merits—

SCHAFFHAUSE.

Winding through the sombre solitudes of the Black Forest, we enter the VallÉe d’Enfer, through the narrow and frowning pass, where Moreau stemmed the torrent of the Austrian legions, as did Leonidas the myriads of Xerxes in the Straits of ThermopylÆ. Little did that able but unfortunate general dream, during his memorable retreat through the Black Forest, that, a few years afterwards, he would meet his death from the mouth of a French cannon, while combatting in the ranks of the Allies.[34]

What a curse would foreknowledge prove to man, although so ardently desired by curious and eager mortals! A single glance through the telescope of futurity would render us miserable for life! If good was in store, we would relinquish all efforts to obtain it, as being certain. Every day would seem an age till the happiness arrived—and when it came, all relish for it would be gone. On the other hand, if the glass showed misfortune, sickness, and sorrow in the distance—the prospect would soon drive the wretch insane!

The Disposer of events alone can be the safe depository of prescience.

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RHINEFALLS.

I have always experienced some degree of disappointment at the sight of waterfalls. Where the volume of water is great, the fall is, comparatively trifling—and where the descent is from a great height, then the stream is insignificant. If the Niagara could be translated to the Staubach, and the mighty St. Lawrence thundered from a height of eight hundred feet into the valley of Lauterbrunnen, the scene would be awfully grand, and sufficient to startle the Jaungfrau on her icy throne.

The Rhine, at Schaffhause, falls about seventy or eighty feet, and is by no means impressive, even when viewed from the camera obscura directly opposite the cataract. We drove from the town on a beautiful moonlight night, and descending the stairs on the left bank of the river, we came close to the water’s edge, and also to that of the fall itself. Here is the spot to see and hear the deluge of water, all sparkling with foam, in the mild light of the moon, come thundering from aloft, and threatening every instant to overwhelm the spectator in the boiling flood. If terror be a source of the sublime, there certainly is some degree of this emotion, mixed with the contemplation of a vast mass of water rolling down from a great height, apparently in a direct course towards us. The roar of the cataract, too, is unlike that of any other sound, and adds considerably to the effect produced on the sense of sight.

I do not know how the association of ideas first commenced, but I never see a great waterfall, or a rapid river, without their suggesting themselves as emblems of time or eternity. The torrent rolling along in the same course through countless ages—

without change or rest, is calculated to excite reflections on the great stream of time itself—and that inconceivable abyss—eternity—to which it leads. But all things move in circles. The water that runs in the river, must first fall from the clouds—and the rains that descend from the air, must first rise from the earth. And so, perhaps, time and eternity may be but parts of one vast, immeasurable, and incomprehensible cycle, without beginning, middle, or end!

It is probable that, ere many centuries roll away, the falls of the Rhine will become merely a rapid. The stream has worn down four or five channels in the rocky barrier, leaving three or four fragments, resembling the broken arches or piers of a natural bridge, standing up many feet above the surface of the water where it begins to curl over the precipice. The centre fragment is much higher than its brethren, and it is surmounted by a wooden shield, (how they managed to place it there is not easily imagined,) with the arms and motto of Schaffhause.

The torrent, thus split into four or five divisions, has given rise to some extravagant comparisons, one of which is their similitude to five foaming white steeds, that have broke away from their keepers.

The next best place to that which I have mentioned, for viewing the falls, is in a boat, brought as close as prudence will permit to the boiling eddies. In a camera obscura opposite the falls, is a reflected picture of the cataract—but I cannot imagine why it should be preferable to the real object before our eyes.

There is a “German Switzerland” on the banks of the Elbe—and so is there a “Swiss Germany” on the banks of the Rhine. From Schaffhause to Constance, Zurich, Berne, and even Geneva, the country is pretty and well cultivated; but it is not Switzerland till we get past the above points, and penetrate among the mountains. For the same reason that we should ascend the Rhine from Holland, we ought to enter Switzerland from the North, so that the grandeur and majesty of the scenery may be always on the increase till we ascend the Splugen, the St. Gothard, the Simplon, the St. Bernard, or the Mount Cenis.

Pursuing our route to the next Spa on the list of this tour, we come to Zurich.

Zurich, like Geneva, is situated between a placid lake and a crystal river. Lake Leman, having filtered its waters, discharges them through the “blue and arrowy Rhone,” into the tideless Mediterranean, not to pass on to the vast Atlantic, but again to rise in exhalations to the clouds, and fall—Heaven knows where. The lake of Zurich has a different taste. It sends its purified waters through the Limmatt, to mingle with the Rhine, (also freed from impurities in the lake of Constance,) and thence to find its way to the great Northern Ocean—probably to visit the Thames, the Ohio, or even the Ganges, before it makes another aerial voyage to the skies.

The scenery about Zurich is tame and insipid, compared with that about Geneva, where the Jura and the high Alps in the distance, contrast with the lovely Pais de Vaud in the vicinity of the lake.

LAKE OF WALLENSTADT.

This lake, which is only a good day’s journey from Zurich, presents, in my opinion, the finest lake-scenery in Switzerland. The mountains, on the northern shore, rise almost perpendicularly to the height of five or six thousand feet, sprinkled with ledges of rock, on which are perched the shepherd’s chalet, and giving footing and scanty nutriment to the pine and alpine shrubs and flowers. The mountains on the southern side are equally high, but not so perpendicular in their descent to the lake; but the whole circle of scenery is most magnificent. The transit of the lake is east and west, a distance of some twelve or thirteen miles, and the passage is usually favoured by a kind of trade wind, which blows from the westward during one part of the day, and from the eastward during the other. The little village of Wesen, is the point of embarkation from the Zurich side, and is situated most romantically under stupendous mountains. We started at two o’clock, with carriage, horses, and live lumber, in the passage-boat, which did not convey much idea of safety, being low, flat, and rigged with a tall frail mast and square sail. The dangers of the Wallenstadt navigation are, no doubt exaggerated; but it is evident that, along the whole of the northern board of the lake there is but one small spot where a boat could put in for safety in a storm. Along this shore we sailed with a fine breeze, and enjoyed the prospect of one of the finest scenes in Switzerland. The mountains on the northern board are so high and precipitous, that I think it is physically impossible for a gale of wind to blow direct on the shore, when a boat comes close to the rocks. It could only be by the impulse of the waves that a boat might be forced amongst the breakers. Accidents, however, very seldom happen. The afternoon was clear sunshine—the boatmen abandoned the oars, being wafted along by a fine breeze—the song was commenced—and the Ranz de Vache was returned from the ledges of rock, and patches of vegetation among the cliffs, by many a blithsome shepherd, tending his flocks, or collecting his little autumnal harvest—the long and slender cataracts poured in sheets of gauze along many a craggy precipice—and the whole scene was kept as a moving panorama by the steady progression of the boat.

In the enjoyment of Swiss or Alpine scenery, everything depends on the state of the atmosphere, and on that of our health and spirits at the time. Hence it is that one person is delighted with a prospect, which another passes without pleasure or surprize at all. Of this I am certain, that a good view of this lake’s scenery can never be erased from the memory.

We landed at the little town of Wallenstadt, situated near the lake, in a marshy and malarious locality, often inundated by the floods, and very insalubrious. No traveller should sleep here, as the distance to Sargans is only eight or nine miles.

We slept at this rook’s nest, perched on an eminence above malarious and alluvial marshes, and at the foot of a high and craggy mount, from the summit of which there is a superb prospect of the Rhine on its way to Constance, and of a sea of Alps, of all altitudes—many of them shining with snow and glaciers. Those who do not like to mount the Scholberg, may still enjoy a magnificent panorama from the ruins of an old chateau just above Sargans, and which is of very easy access. The town itself presents better air than fare—the two inns being little better than cabarets, but health and appetite compensate well for coarse viands and hard beds.

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BATHS OF PFEFFERS.

Among the strange places into which man has penetrated in search of treasure or health, there is probably not one on this earth, or under it, more wonderful than the Baths of Pfeffers, situated in the country of the Grisons, a few miles distant from the Splugen road, as it leads from Wallenstadt to Coire. They are little known to, and still less frequented by the English; for we could not learn that any of our countrymen had visited them during the summer of 1834.

Having procured five small and steady horses accustomed to the locality, a party of three ladies and two gentlemen[36] started from the little town of Ragatz on a beautiful morning in August, and commenced a steep and zig-zag ascent up the mountain, through a forest of majestic pines and other trees. In a quarter of an hour, we heard the roar of a torrent, but could see nothing of itself or even its bed. The path, however, soon approached the verge of a dark and tremendous ravine, the sides of which were composed of perpendicular rocks several hundred feet high, and at the bottom of which the Tamina, a rapid mountain torrent, foamed along in its course to the valley of Sargans, there to fall into the upper Rhine. The stream itself, however, was far beyond our view, and was only known by its hollow and distant murmurs. The ascent, for the first three miles, is extremely fatiguing, so that the horses were obliged to take breath every ten minutes. The narrow path, (for it is only a kind of mule-track,) often winded along the very brink of the precipice, on our left, yet the eye could not penetrate to the bottom of the abyss. After more than an hour of toilsome climbing, we emerged from the wood, and found ourselves in one of the most picturesque and romantic spots that can well be imagined. The road now meanders horizontally through a high, but cultivated region, towards, the village of Valentz, through fields, gardens, vineyards, and meadows, studded with chaumiers and chalets, perched fantastically on projecting ledges of rock, or sheltered from the winds by tall and verdant pines. The prospect from Valentz, or rather from above the village, is one of the most beautiful and splendid I have anywhere seen in Switzerland. We are there at a sufficient distance from the horrid ravine, to contemplate it without terror, and listen to the roaring torrent, thundering unseen, along its rugged and precipitous bed. Beyond the ravine we see the monastery and village of Pfeffers, perched on a high and apparently inaccessible promontory, over which rise alpine mountains, their sides covered with woods, their summits with snow, and their gorges glittering with glaciers. But it is towards the East that the prospect is most magnificent and varied. The eye ranges, with equal pleasure and astonishment, over the valley of Sargans, through which rolls the infant Rhine, and beyond which the majestic ranges of the Rhetian Alps, ten thousand feet high, rise one over the other, till their summits mingle with the clouds. Among these ranges the Scesa-plana, the Angstenberg, the Flesch, (like a gigantic pyramid,) and in the distance the Alps that tower round Feldkirck are the most prominent features. During our journey to the baths, the morning sun played on the snowy summits of the distant mountains, and marked their forms on the blue expanse behind them, in the most distinct outlines. But, on our return, in the afternoon, when the fleecy clouds had assembled, in fantastic groups, along the lofty barrier, the reflexions and refractions of the solar beams threw a splendid crown of glory round the icy heads of the Rhetian Alps—changing that “cold sublimity” with which the morning atmosphere had invested them, into a glow of illumination which no pen or pencil could portray. To enjoy the widest possible range of this matchless prospect, the tourist must climb the peaks that overhang the village, when his eye may wander over the whole of the Grison Alps and valleys, even to the lake of Constance.

From Valentz we turned abruptly down towards the ravine, at the very bottom of which are the Baths of Pfeffers. The descent is by a series of acute and precipitous tourniquets, requiring great caution, as the horses themselves could hardly keep on their legs, even when eased of their riders. At length we found ourselves in the area of a vast edifice, resembling an overgrown factory, with a thousand windows, and six or seven stories high. It is built on a ledge of rock that lies on the left bank of the Tamina torrent, which chafes along its foundation. The precipice on the opposite side of the Tamina, and distant about fifty paces from the mansion or rather hospital, rises five or six hundred feet, as perpendicular as a wall, keeping the edifice in perpetual shade, except for a few hours in the middle of the day. The left bank of the ravine, on which the hospital stands, is less precipitous, as it admits of a zig-zag path to and from the Baths. The locale, altogether, of such an establishment, at the very bottom of a frightful ravine, and for ever chafed by a roaring torrent, is the most singularly wild and picturesque I had ever beheld; but the wonders of Pfeffers are not yet even glanced at.[37]

From the western extremity of this vast asylum of invalids, a narrow wooden bridge spans the Tamina, and by it we gain footing on a small platform of a rock on the opposite side. Here a remarkable phenomenon presents itself. The deep ravine, which had hitherto preserved a width of some 150 feet, contracts, all at once, into a narrow cleft or crevasse, of less than 20 feet, whose marble sides shoot up from the bed of the torrent, to a height of four or five hundred feet, not merely perpendicular, but actually inclining towards each other, so that, at their summits, they almost touch, thus leaving a narrow fissure through which a faint glimmering of light descends, and just serves to render objects visible within this gloomy cavern. Out of this recess the Tamina darts in a sheet of foam, and with a deafening noise reverberated from the rocks within and without the crevasse. On approaching the entrance, the eye penetrates along a majestic vista of marble walls in close approximation, and terminating in obscurity, with a narrow waving line of sky above, and a roaring torrent below! Along the southern wall of this sombre gorge, a fragile scaffold, of only two planks in breadth, is seen to run, suspended—as it were—in air, fifty feet above the torrent, and three or four hundred feet beneath the crevice that admits air and light from Heaven into the profound abyss. This frail and frightful foot-path is continued (will it be believed?) nearly half a mile into the marble womb of the mountain! Its construction must have been a work of great difficulty and peril; for its transit cannot be made even by the most curious and adventurous travellers, without fear and trembling, amounting often to a sense of shuddering and horror. Along these two planks we crept or crawled, with faltering steps and palpitating hearts. It has been my fortune to visit most of the wonderful localities of this globe, but an equal to this I never beheld.

“Imagination, (says an intelligent traveller,) the most vivid, could not portray the portals of Tartarus under forms more hideous than those which Nature has displayed in this place. We enter this gorge on a bridge of planks (pont de planches) sustained by wedges driven into the rocks. It takes a quarter of an hour or more to traverse this bridge, and it requires the utmost precaution. It is suspended over the Tamina, which is heard rolling furiously at a great depth beneath. The walls of this cavern, twisted, torn, and split (les parois laterales contournÉes, fendues, et dechirÉes) in various ways, rise perpendicular, and even incline towards each other, in the form of a dome; whilst the faint light that enters from the portal at the end, and the crevice above, diminishes as we proceed;—the cold and humidity augmenting the horror produced by the scene. The fragments of rock sometimes overhang this gangway in such a manner, that the passenger cannot walk upright:—at others, the marble wall recedes so much, that he is unable to lean against it for support. The scaffold is narrow, often slippery; and sometimes there is but a single plank, separating us from the black abyss of the Tamina.[38] He who has cool courage, a steady eye, and a firm step, ought to attempt this formidable excursion (Épouvantable excursion) in clear and dry weather, lest he should find the planks wet and slippery. He should start in the middle of the day, with a slow and measured step, and without a stick. The safest plan is to have two guides supporting a pole, on the inside of which the stranger is to walk.”

We neglected this precaution, and four out of the five pushed on, even without a guide at all. At forty or fifty paces from the entrance the gloom increases, while the roar of the torrent beneath, reverberated from the sides of the cavern, augments the sense of danger and the horror of the scene. The meridian sun penetrated sufficiently through the narrow line of fissure at the summit of the dome, to throw a variety of lights and of shadows over the vast masses of variegated marble composing the walls of this stupendous cavern, compared with which, those of Salsette, Elephanta, and even Staffa, shrink into insignificance. A wooden pipe, which conveys the hot waters from their source to the baths, runs along in the angle between the scaffold and the rocks, and proves very serviceable, both as a support for one hand while pacing the plank, and as a seat, when the passenger wishes to rest, and contemplate the wonders of the cavern. At about one-third of the distance inward, I would advise the tourist to halt, and survey the singular locality in which he is placed. The inequality of breadth in the long chink that divides the dome above, admits the light in very different proportions, and presents objects in a variety of aspects. The first impression which occupies the mind is caused by the cavern itself, with reflection on the portentous convulsion of Nature which split the marble rock in twain, and opened a gigantic aqueduct for the mountain torrent.[39] After a few minutes’ rumination on the action of subterranean fire, our attention is attracted to the slow but powerful operation of water on the solid parietes of this infernal grotto. We plainly perceive that the boisterous torrent has, in the course of time, and especially when swelled by rains, caused wonderful changes both in its bed and its banks. I would direct the attention of the traveller to a remarkable excavation formed by the waters on the opposite side of the chasm, and in a part more sombre than usual, in consequence of a bridge that spans the crevice above, and leads to the Convent of Pfeffers. This natural grotto is hollowed out of the marble rock to the depth of 30 feet, being nearly 40 feet in width, by 26 feet in height. It is difficult not to attribute it to art; and, as the whole cavern constantly reminds us of the Tartarean Regions, this beautifully vaulted grotto seems to be fitted for the throne of Pluto and Proserpine—or, perhaps, for the tribunal of Rhadamanthus and his brothers of the Bench, while passing sentence on the ghosts that glide down this Acheron or Cocytus—for had the Tamina been known to the ancient poets, it would assuredly have been ranked as one of the rivers of Hell.

One of the most startling phenomena, however, results from a perspective view into the cavern, when about midway, or rather less, from its portal. The rocky vista ends in obscurity; but gleams and columns of light burst down, in many places, from the meridian sun, through this “palpable obscure,” so as to produce a wonderful variety of light and shade, as well as of bas-relief, along the fractured walls. While sitting on the rude wooden conduit before alluded to, and meditating on the infernal region upon which I had entered, I was surprised to behold, at a great distance, the figures of human beings, or thin shadows (for I could not tell which), advancing slowly towards me—suspended between Heaven and earth—or, at least, between the vault of the cavern and the torrent of the Tamina, without any apparent pathway to sustain their steps, but seemingly treading in air, like disembodied spirits! While my attention was rivetted on these figures, they suddenly disappeared; and the first impression on my mind was, that they had fallen and perished in the horrible abyss beneath. The painful sensation was soon relieved by the reappearance of the personages in more distinct shapes, and evidently composed of flesh and blood. Again they vanished from my sight; and, to my no small astonishment, I beheld their ghosts or their shadows advancing along the opposite side of the cavern! These, and many other optical illusions, were caused, of course, by the peculiar nature of the locality, and the unequal manner in which the light penetrated from above into this sombre chasm.

Surprise was frequently turned into a sense of danger, when the parties, advancing and retreating, met on this narrow scaffold. The “laws of the road” being different on the Continent from those in Old England, my plan was to screw myself up into the smallest compass, close to the rock, and thus allow passengers to steal by without opposition. We found that comparatively few penetrated to the extremity of the cavern and the source of the ThermÆ—the majority being frightened, or finding themselves incapable of bearing the sight of the rapid torrent under their feet, without any solid security against precipitation into the infernal gulf. To the honour of the English ladies, I must say that they explored the source of the waters with the most undaunted courage, and without entertaining a thought of returning from a half-finished tour to the regions below.[40]

Advancing still farther into the cavern, another phenomenon presented itself, for which we were unable to account at first. Every now and then we observed a gush of vapour or smoke (we could not tell which) issue from the further extremity of the rock on the left, spreading itself over the walls of the cavern, and ascending towards the crevice in the dome. It looked like an explosion of steam; but the roar of the torrent would have prevented us from hearing any noise, if such had occurred. We soon found, however, that it was occasioned by the rush of vapour from the cavern in which the thermal source is situated, every time the door was opened for the ingress or egress of visitors to and from this natural vapour-bath. At such moments the whole scene is so truly Tartarean, that had Virgil and Dante been acquainted with it, they need not have strained their imaginations in portraying the ideal abodes of fallen angels, infernal gods, and departed spirits, but painted a Hades from Nature, with all the advantage of truth and reality in its favour.

Our ingress occupied nearly half an hour, when we found ourselves at the extremity of the parapet, on a jutting ledge of rock, and where the cavern assumed an unusually sombre complexion, in consequence of the cliffs actually uniting, or nearly so, at the summit of the dome. Here, too, the Tamina struggled, roared, and foamed through the narrow, dark, and rugged gorge with tremendous impetuosity and deafening noise, the sounds being echoed and reverberated a thousand times by the fractured angles and projections of the cavern. We were now at the source of the ThermÆ. Ascending some steps cut out of the rock, we came to a door, which opened, and instantly enveloped us in tepid steam. We entered a grotto in the solid marble, but of what dimensions we could form no estimate, since it was dark as midnight, and full of dense and fervid vapour. We were quickly in an universal perspiration. The guides hurried us forward into another grotto, still deeper in the rock, where the steam was suffocating, and where we exuded at every pore. It was as dark as pitch. An owl would not have been able to see an eagle within a foot of its saucer eyes. We were told to stoop and stretch out our hands. We did so, and immersed them in the boiling—or, at least, the gurgling, source of the Pfeffers. We even quaffed at this fountain of Hygeia.

Often had we slept in damp linen, while travelling through Holland, Germany, and Switzerland. We had now, by way of variety, a waking set of integuments saturated with moisture ab interno, as well as ab externo, to such an extent, that I believe each of us would have weighed at least half a stone more at our exit than on our entrance into this stew-pan of the Grison Alps.

On emerging into the damp, gelid, and gloomy atmosphere of the cavern, every thing appeared of a dazzling brightness after our short immersion in the Cimmerian darkness of the grotto. The transition of temperature was equally as abrupt as that of light. The vicissitude could have been little less than 50 or 60 degrees of Fahrenheit in one instant, with all the disadvantage of dripping garments! It was like shifting the scene, with more than theatrical celerity, from the Black Hole of Calcutta to Fury Beach, or the snows of Nova Zembla. Some of the party, less experienced in the effects of travelling than myself, considered themselves destined to illustrate the well-known allegory of the discontented—and that they would inevitably carry away with them a large cargo of that which thousands come here annually to get rid of—rheumatism. I confess that I was not without some misgivings myself on this point, seeing that we had neither the means of changing our clothes nor of drying them—except by the heat of our bodies in the mountain breeze. The Goddess of Health, however, who is nearly related to the Genius of Travelling, preserved us from all the bad consequences, thermometrical and hygrometrical, of these abrupt vicissitudes.[41]

We retrograded along the narrow plank that suspended us over the profound abyss with caution, fear, and astonishment. The Tamina seemed to roar more loud and savage beneath us, as if incensed at our safe retreat. The sun had passed the meridian, and the gorge had assumed a far more lugubrious aspect than it wore on our entrance. The shivered rocks and splintered pinnacles that rose on each side of the torrent, in gothic arches of altitude sublime, seemed to frown on our retreating footsteps—while the human figures that moved at a distance along the crazy plank, before and behind us, frequently lost their just proportions, and assumed the most grotesque and extraordinary shapes and dimensions, according to the degree of light admitted by the narrow fissure above, and the scarcely discernible aperture at the extremity of this wonderful gorge. The Tamina, meanwhile, did not fail to play its part in the gorgeous scene—astonishing the eye by the rapidity of its movements, and astounding the ear by the vibrations of its echoes. It seemed to growl more furiously as we receded from the depths of the crevasse.

At length we gained the portal, and, as the sun was still darting his bright rays into the deepest recesses of the ravine, glancing from the marble rocks, and glittering on the boiling torrent, the sudden transition from Cimmerian gloom to dazzling day-light, appeared like enchantment. While crossing the trembling bridge, I looked back on a scene which can never be eradicated from my memory. It is the most singular and impressive I have ever beheld on this globe, and compared with which, the Brunnens are “bubbles” indeed![42]

While examining the waters, the baths, and the internal economy of the vast valetudinarium that stands in this savage locality, the bell announced the approach of the second, or superior dinner, which happened that day to be rather later than usual. The Salon, overlooking the torrent of the Tamina, was soon replenished with guests of the better order; the canaille, or swarm of inferior invalids having dined two hours or more previously, in the common Salle a Manger. It needed but little professional discrimination to class and specify them. The majority proclaimed the causes of their visits to the Pfeffers. Rheumatism, scrofula, and cutaneous diseases, formed the prominent features in this motley assemblage. Invalids, with chronic complaints, real or imaginary, such as abound at all watering places, foreign and domestic, were mingled in the group; while a small portion, including our own party, evinced anything but corporeal ailments—unless a “canine appetite” at a genuine German table-d’hÔte may be ranked among the evils to which English flesh is heir. Some monks, from the neighbouring monastery, (to which the Baths belong,) took rank, and indeed precedence, in this small division. The mountain breeze and fervid sun of the Convent of Pfeffers had bronzed them with much of that nut-brown complexion, which travelling exercise in the open air had conferred on their British visitors; while their sleek cheeks and portly corporations proved, almost to a demonstration, that the holy fathers descended into the profound ravine of the Tamina to give their benediction to the waters, rather than to drink them—and to add a sacred zest to the viands of the Refectory, by the alacrity with which they swallowed them. Their appearance illustrated the truth of the adage—“What will not poison will fatten.”

Waters of Pfeffers.

The Waters of Pfeffers have neither taste, smell, nor colour. They will keep for ten years, without depositing a sediment, or losing their transparency. But we are not to infer that they are destitute of medicinal powers, because they possess no sensible properties. In their chemical composition, they have hitherto shewn but few ingredients; and those of the simpler saline substances, common to most mineral springs.[43] It does not follow, however, that they contain no active materials because chemistry is not able to detect them. Powerful agents may be diffused in waters, and which are incapable of analysis, or destructible by the process employed for that purpose. The only sure test is experience of their effects on the human body. It is not probable that the Baths of Pfeffers would have attracted such multitudes of invalids, annually, from Switzerland, Germany, and Italy; and that for six centuries, if their remedial agency had been null or imaginary.[44] Their visitors are not of that fashionable class, who run to watering-places for pleasure rather than for health—or, to dispel the vapours of the town by the pure air of the coast or the country. Yet, as human nature is essentially the same in all ranks of society, I have no doubt that much of the fame acquired by the Baths of Pfeffers, has been owing to the auxiliary influence of air, locality, change of scene, moral impressions, and the peculiar mode of using the waters. Their temperature—100° of Fahren.—certain physical phenomena which they evince, and the nature of the diseases which they are reported to cure, leave little doubt in my mind that their merits, though overrated, like those of all other mineral springs, are very considerable.

The disorders for which they are most celebrated, are rheumatic and neuralgic pains, glandular swellings, and cutaneous eruptions. But they are also resorted to by a host of invalids afflicted with those anomalous and chronic affections, to which nosology has assigned no name, and for which the Pharmacopoeia affords very few remedies. As the Baths belong to the neighbouring Convent of Pfeffers, and, as the holy fathers afford not only spiritual consolation to the patients, but medical assistance in directing the means of cure, there is every reason to believe, or, at least, to hope, that the moral, or rather divine influence of Religion co-operates with mere physical agency, in removing disease and restoring health.

The Waters of Pfeffers are led from their sombre source in the cavern, along the narrow scaffold before described, into a series of baths scooped out of the rocky foundation of this vast hospital, each bath capable of accommodating a considerable number of people at the same time. The thermal waters are constantly running into and out of the baths—or rather through them, so that the temperature is preserved uniform, and the waters themselves in a state of comparative purity, notwithstanding the numbers immersed in them. The baths are arched with stone—the window to each is small, admitting little light, and less air:—and, as the doors are kept shut, except when the bathers are entering or retiring, the whole space not occupied by water, is full of a dense vapour, as hot as the ThermÆ themselves. The very walls of the baths are warm, and always dripping with moisture. Such are the Sudatoria in which the German, Swiss, and Italian invalids indulge more luxuriously than ever did the Romans in the Baths of Caracalla. In these they lie daily, from two, to six, eight, ten—and sometimes sixteen hours![45] The whole exterior of the body is thus soaked, softened—parboiled; while the interior is drenched by large quantities swallowed by the mouth—the patient, all this while, breathing the dense vapour that hovers over the baths. The Waters of Pfeffers, therefore, inhaled and imbibed, exhaled and absorbed, for so many hours daily, must permeate every vessel, penetrate every gland, and percolate through every pore of the body. So singular a process of human maceration in one of Nature’s cauldrons, conducted with German patience and German enthusiasm, must, I think, relax many a rigid muscle—unbend many a contracted joint—soothe many an aching nerve—clear many an unsightly surface—resolve many an indurated gland—open many an obstructed passage—and restore many a suspended function. The fervid and detergent streams of the Pfeffers, in fact, are actually turned, daily and hourly, through the Augean stable of the human constitution, and made to rout out a host of maladies indomitable by the prescriptions of the most sage physicians. The fable of Medea’s revival of youthful vigour in wasted limbs is very nearly realized in the mountains of the Grisons, and in the savage ravine of the Tamina. Lepers are here purified—the lame commit their crutches to the flames—the tumid throat and scrofulous neck are reduced to symmetrical dimensions—and sleep revisits the victim of rheumatic pains and neuralgic tortures.

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Hydropathy, Hydro-sudo-pathy—or Hydrotherapeia.

These are the titles given to a system of healing human maladies by means of perspiration and cold water. It is making rapid progress in Germany, that land of ideality—and the tribe of other pathys. Homoeopathy—allopathy—and even spa-pathy are in danger. Although it is no new system, being practised for a long time by the Russians, yet it is only about fifteen years since Priestnitz, a Silesian peasant, introduced it amongst his native mountains, and in a shape and manner differing somewhat from the Russian practice.

There can be no doubt that the application of cold water to the surface of the body, whether generally or locally, is a powerful agent, when skilfully managed. The chill that is painfully felt on the first plunge—the recoil of the circulation from the surface to the great central organs and vessels—the shrinking of all external parts—the rapid abstraction of animal heat—the hurried respiration—and last and most important of all—the reaction which follows the bath—are all important phenomena, that may work much good or evil in the animal economy, according as they are watched and regulated. The reaction after the cold bath is not less curious than the recoil. The heart and great internal organs seem overwhelmed and stunned, for a time, by the first shock. But soon after emerging from the bath, they begin to recover energy, and to free themselves from the volume of congested blood, under which they laboured. They then drive the circulation to the surface with increasing force, filling and distending the vessels of the skin beyond the normal or medium condition. With this distension comes a glow of heat all over the body, and a feeling of elasticity, or bien-Être, which it is difficult to describe. A third series of phenomena now commence. All the glandular organs of the body now take on an augmented degree of activity, and their secretions become more copious than before the bath. Contemporary with this increase of secretion internally, the skin itself acts more vigorously, and not only the insensible, but the sensible perspiration becomes more copious. In fact, the cold bath gives rise to a series, or rather three series of phenomena, very closely resembling a paroxysm of ague—viz. the cold, hot, and sweating stages. After a few hours all the functions return to their normal or usual routine of duty.

But things do not always run thus smoothly. If any particular internal organ be much disordered in function, or at all changed in structure, it is very apt to be so overpowered by the recoil or first shock of the cold bath, that when reaction comes on, it is only partial and imperfect, in consequence of the weak organ or organs remaining in a state of congestion, and incapable of freeing themselves from the overplus of blood determined upon them by the retreat of the circulation from the surface. Then we have headache, lassitude, drowsiness, general malaise, or local uneasiness, imperfect reaction, scanty or disordered secretions, with many other uncomfortable feelings, instead of that elasticity and buoyancy which have been already noticed.

Before proceeding further on the cold bath, let us glance at the peculiar manner in which it is employed by the hydro-therapeutic doctors of Germany, who have now establishments in many of the principal towns.

About four or five o’clock in the morning, the patient is wrapped up to the chin (while in bed) in a thick woollen shirt. Outside of this is placed another covering of down, fur, or any warm and impermeable material. In a short time the disengagement of animal heat from the body thus enveloped, forms a fervid atmosphere around him, which soon induces a copious perspiration, in the greater number of individuals. It has been observed that, in diseased parts, as for instance, in the joints of gouty people, the perspiration was longest in breaking out. When the skin is obstinate, friction and other means are used to accelerate the cutaneous discharge. When the physician judges that the perspiration has been sufficient, the patient is quickly disrobed and plunged into a cold bath, which is kept ready at the side of his bed. The first shock is very unpleasant; but that over, the invalid feels very comfortable, and when the process is likely to prove favourable, there is frequently observed on the surface of the water a kind of viscid scum, the supposed morbid matter thrown off from the body. The period of immersion in the cold bath is carefully watched, for if protracted too long it proves hurtful, or even dangerous. Some people will not bear the cold immersion above a minute—others are allowed to remain till the approach of a second shiver. Where the patient is very delicate or weak, the temperature of the bath is raised a little. In other cases, the bath is artificially depressed below the natural temperature of the water.

On emerging from the bath, the patient is quickly dressed, and immediately commences exercise, and drinks abundantly of cold water. The limit to this ingurgitation is sense of pain or weight in the stomach. The patient, although rather averse to the cold drink at first, soon becomes fond of it, and will swallow fifteen or twenty goblets with a keen relish. After the promenade and cold drink is over, a nourishing breakfast is taken. All stimulating or exciting beverages are entirely prohibited. The appetite generally becomes keen, and the digestion, even of dyspeptics, strong and effective during this course. Between breakfast and dinner is variously employed, according to the strength of the patients or the nature of the disease. Some take riding or pedestrian exercise—others gymnastics—and a few have more cold water, as a plunging or shower bath.

The dinner is to be light, and soon after mid-day. It is generally taken with a keen appetite. During the three or four hours after dinner, all exercise of mind or body is forbidden, but sleep is not to be indulged in. Towards evening, some of the stronger patients repeat the same process which they underwent in the morning; but those who are weak, or in whom the crisis is approaching, only take cold water to drink in moderation. After a slight supper the patient retires to sleep, in order that he may early resume the routine of the water-cure.

The professors of this system vary the mode of application almost infinitely—especially the external application of the cold water, according to the general or local seat of the complaint. They act very much on the doctrine of revulsion or derivation. Thus when there are symptoms of fulness or congestion about the head or the chest, a half-bath or hip-bath of cold water is employed, disregarding the first impression of cold on the lower parts of the body, but looking to the reaction which is to take place there, and to the consequent derivation of blood from the head and chest. Foot-baths, cold lotions, fomentations, and poultices are variously used, according to the nature or seat of the malady.

Like the spa waters, this hydrotherapeia produces, in a great many instances, a crisis. For some days the patients feel themselves much more energetic and comfortable than before the course was begun; but after a time “a veritable state of fever is produced, the result of this general effervescence.”[46] Then the symptoms of the complaint, whatever it may be, are all exasperated and acquire an increase of intensity—even old diseases, that were forgotten, will sometimes re-appear—but all this commotion is the precursor of a salutary crisis and a return to health. A kind of prickly heat, with itching of the skin, is a common occurrence in the course of the cure. “The effects produced even on organic diseases by this hydro-therapeutic treatment would convince the most sceptical of its wonderful efficacy.”—Engel.

The diseases to which this remedy is now applied in Germany are numerous and very different. Fevers, even of the most inflammatory kind, are said to yield to it. Pure inflammations of vital organs are fearlessly submitted to it. The first case related by Dr. Engel, is one of pneumonia, well marked, in a young girl who had been exposed to a current of cold air after violent exercise in the heat of the day. Dr. Weiss ordered her to be enveloped in a blanket, wet with cold water, and then other blankets over the wet one, with plenty of cold water to drink. Some amelioration of the symptoms followed; but in two hours they were again intense. Two foreign physicians accompanied Dr. E. to the bed-side of the patient, and prognosticated a fatal termination unless she were bled, and the cold water treatment declined. Dr. E. with the greatest confidence, ordered the blanket to be again wetted with cold water. This second application was followed by increase of the burning heat, and also by delirium. Notwithstanding the remonstrances of the foreigners, Dr. E. was still firm in his purpose—and ordered the wet blankets to be applied every half-hour. No change took place till after the sixth application, when the kidneys acted copiously. The seventh application was followed by diminution of the thirst and heat—the patient became more tranquil—began to perspire—and fell into a short sleep. The perspiration continued copious for twenty-two hours, and was kept up by the drinking of large quantities of cold water. The perspiration having ceased, the patient was put into a cold half-bath (slipper) where the respiration became more free. On being taken out and covered over she perspired copiously. The wet blankets were now applied only twice a day, with an occasional half-bath. On the fifth day she was well. (Weiss.)

Before proceeding farther, it will be proper to explain that the transition from a hot bath to a cold one, even in a state of perspiration, is not half so dangerous as most people imagine. It is well known that if we jump out of hot water into cold, we resist the shock, and bear the effects of the latter better than if we took the plunge without any preparation. But then there is a strong prejudice that perspiration is an insuperable bar to the application of cold water to the surface. If the individual has come into a state of perspiration from bodily exercise, and especially if he be fatigued or exhausted—then the cold water would be dangerous. But this is not the case, to any extent, when he is warmed either by the hot bath, or by the accumulation of heat generated in his own body. This is proved by authentic facts which have come under my own observation. Forty years ago, when the Russian troops were encamped in the islands of Guernsey and Jersey, the soldiers constructed rude stone huts or ovens along the beech, for vapour baths. Into these they put stones, and heated them by fire, when they poured water over them, and thus filled the hut with a dense vapour. When the men had continued in this rude vapour-bath till they were in a state of perspiration, they leaped into the sea, and swam about till they were tired. All this was done, partly for health, partly for pleasure. It is well-known to all northern travellers that the Russians are in the habit of steaming themselves in the vapour-baths, and then directly rolling themselves in the snow. Every one, too, must have observed postillions dashing their foaming and perspiring horses into any convenient water at the end of their journey, without the least fear of their animals being injured by the dip.

Here then is a complete counter-part, or rather prototype of the hydro-sudo-pathy, as already described. But there is one process which will appear incredible to most people—that of procuring perspiration by means of blankets wetted with cold water. Let us see whether an illustration of this may not be found. Every one who has read the Waverly Novels must have been struck with the singular practice pursued by some Highlanders (outlaws I think) who were obliged to pass many winter nights unsheltered on the freezing mountains. When they were desirous of sleeping, they dipped their plaids in the freezing water of the nearest pool or stream, and, wrapping themselves in this dripping and gelid mantle, went quietly to sleep! So long as the plaid kept wet, the Highlander kept warm, and slept soundly; but the moment it got dry, the man was awoke by the cold, and proceeded to the brook or stream to saturate his bed-clothes again with cold water. Here we have the prototype of the German process described in the case of the girl with inflamed lungs. By what process of reasoning the Silesian peasant and the Celtic mountaineer, arrived at the knowledge of these curious facts, would be difficult to imagine. There was probably no reasoning in either case, but chance, observation, and experience.

It is sometimes more easy to explain a phenomenon when discovered, than to arrive at it by any process of reasoning previously. The wet plaid by confining the animal heat of the Highlander, soon occasioned a warm atmosphere around his body, which kept him comfortable. But as soon as the plaid got dry and its texture pervious, then the animal heat rapidly escaped, and the feeling of cold dispelled sleep. In the case of pneumonia related by Dr. Weiss, the wet blanket was surmounted by several other blankets, which effectually prevented the escape of animal heat, which would soon accumulate and eventuate in perspiration. In such cases there would be a chill at first, succeeded by reaction, heat, and transpiration. We see this exemplified every day, where cold lotions are applied to an inflamed part. If the clothes are defended from the external air, they soon become warm, and form a fomentation—whereas, if exposed to a current of air, they will almost freeze the part by evaporation. Dr. Weiss’s patient would never have perspired, if the wet blanket had not been covered by dry ones.

We are now prepared to glance at some other cases recorded by the professors of hydropathy.

Dr. Engin relates the following cases of catarrhal and rheumatic fever. A delicate female, aged 30 years, was taken ill on the 27th of April 1837, with the abovementioned complaint, but was under an allopathic doctor till the 30th, when Dr. E. found her labouring under acute pains in the joints—inflamed throat—difficulty of swallowing—joints swelled and red—inability to move—pulse 100. The patient was enveloped in a cold wet blanket, over which several dry ones were placed, twice a day, for three days consecutively. She soon began to perspire copiously each time of application. On the fourth day she was plunged into a cold bath while deluged with sweat. This was repeated twelve days in succession, the inflamed joints being kept, in the intervals, covered with cold wetted cloths. During all this time she was ordered to drink plenty of cold water. The fever and all the other symptoms gradually diminished, and finally disappeared. Towards the end of the treatment a critical eruption appeared on the skin.

This was certainly as unfavourable a case for the hydropathic treatment as could well be imagined; and the fact of its being put in practice, even with impunity, may afford matter for reflection.

Cases are detailed by Dr. Engin and others, where scarlatina, erysipelas, herpes, and other cutaneous eruptions, were treated on hydropathic principles, and seemingly with success. HÆmorrhages of various kinds, from nose, lungs, bowels, &c. are subjected to this treatment, as well as a host of chronic maladies, including constipation, hÆmorrhoids, amenorrhoea, chlorosis, liver complaints, jaundice, gout, rheumatism, melancholia, hypochondriasis, hysteria, epilepsy, tic douloureux, gastrodynia, scrofula, rickets, &c.

Now, although I should be far from recommending this practice in many of the complaints where it has been employed, yet, as the institutions for the hydropathic treatment are now spread all over Germany, and open to the inspection of all medical men, (unlike the hocus-pocus fraud, mystery, and deception of homoeopathy,) it would be unwise not to examine into a system which shocks our prejudices rather than runs counter to historical facts and philosophical reasoning.

At all events, this system corroborates a practice which I have now followed and publicly recommended for many years; namely, the “Calido-frigid Sponging, or Lavation.” This consists in sponging the face, throat, and upper part of the chest, night and morning, with hot water, and then immediately with cold water. I have also recommended that children should be habituated to this sponging all over the body, as the means of inuring them to, and securing them from, the injuries produced by atmospheric vicissitudes. It is the best preservative which I know against face-aches, tooth-aches, (hot and cold water being alternately used to rinse the mouth,) ear-aches, catarrhs, &c. so frequent and distressing in this country. But its paramount virtue is that of preserving many a constitution from pulmonary consumption, the causes of which are often laid in repeated colds, and in the susceptibility to atmospheric impressions.[47]

END OF THE FIRST PILGRIMAGE.

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