BRUSSELS is noted the world over for its fine laces and superior carpets. The Kingdom of Belgium is very little larger than the state of Connecticut, and yet it maintains a standing army of 50,000 men, while the whole of the United States has a standing army of only 36,000. The large army, together with the maintenance of the royal family, impose upon the people a very burdensome taxation. The people here know very little about improved implements of any kind, their work being done mostly by main strength and native awkwardness. Belgium is cultivated like a garden, and is as pretty as a picture.

We now leave Belgium. As the train dashes across an imaginary line, “a change comes o’er the scene.” The soldiers wear a different uniform, the people speak a different language, pay homage to a different king, and handle a different money. Money, however, is a scarce article in this portion of the moral vineyard.

I have always associated the name of Charlemagne with Aix-la-Chapelle. It is, therefore, with no little interest that I visit this ancient and historical city. I find this place of 80,000 inhabitants beautifully situated in the midst of a fertile valley surrounded by gently sloping hills. This was the birthplace and favorite residence of Charlemagne, the Julius Caesar of the eighth century. This venerable place was the second city of importance in the holy Roman Empire, its being the capital of Charlemagne’s dominions north of the Alps. Here thirty-seven emperors were crowned; here ecclesiastical convocations assembled, and from here imperial edicts went forth.

The Cathedral, or Muenster, built (796-804) by Charlemagne still stands, and is one of the most interesting objects in the city. On the right of the principal entrance to the Cathedral is a brazen wolf. According to the legend connected with this quadruped, the funds for the erection of the church having run short, the devil offered to supply the deficiency on condition that the first living being that entered the house should be sacrificed to himself. The magistrate entered into the compact, but defrauded the devil of his expected reward by admitting a wolf into the sacred edifice immediately on its completion.

I seat myself in the Imperial Throne of Charlemagne, in which also his remains reposed for more than 350 years, having been found by Otho III, who opened the tomb in the eleventh century. In the Cathedral Treasury is the famous “Shrine of the Four Relics.” It is composed of the purest gold, and is studded with fifteen hundred precious stones. This shrine is said to contain the robes of the Virgin Mary, the swaddling clothes of the infant Christ, the bloody cloth in which the body of John the Baptist was wrapped, and the linen cloth with which the Savior was girded on the Cross. The relics are shown only once in seven years, on which occasion thousands of people flock to see them notwithstanding the exorbitant charges made. It has now been six years since the last exhibition took place. The next time for robbing the superstitious people is close at hand.

The pulpit, presented by Henry II, of Germany, is a gem of beauty, being richly adorned with gold, carved ivory, diamonds, and other precious stones. I dare say, however, that this Romish pulpit, as splendid as it is, has seldom been adorned with the precious truths of God’s blessed Word.

In three hours after leaving Aix-la-Chapelle, Cologne is in sight. Coleridge sarcastically says:

“Cologne has nine separate and distinct stinks;
It is washed by the river Rhine,
But what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?”

It is not at all inappropriate therefore that Cologne should lead the world in the manufacture of perfumery. The city boasts 140,000 inhabitants, the most of whom are Roman Catholics. A bridge of boats connects Cologne with a large city on the opposite side of the river.

To the visitor, the object of the greatest interest in the city is the Cathedral, which is said to be the most magnificent Gothic edifice in the world. It certainly takes the palm over anything I have seen. It is wholly unnecessary for me to describe this wonderful building to those who have seen it, and it is impossible to describe it to those who have not seen it. I hardly know whether one is most filled with admiration, or struck with awe, as he beholds this great temple whose foundation stone was laid six hundred years ago. To go around it, one must walk an eighth of a mile; and yet he forgets the distance as he looks upon the massive walls rising one hundred and fifty feet above him; as he views the arched roof more than two hundred feet high; as he eyes the tapering spires which seem to pierce the bended sky. And yet there is hardly a square foot, even of the exterior of this architectural wonder, that is not carved and chiseled in the most exquisite manner imaginable. The principal entrance to the Cathedral is a doorway, thirty-one by ninety-three feet. On the inside, one sees a forest of pillars, fifty-six in number, apparently thirty or forty feet in circumference, and rising, some one hundred and others two hundred feet high. The aisles are twenty, thirty, and sixty feet wide. Some of the windows are twenty by fifty feet. These stained-glass windows and marble pillars have been presented by the kings and queens and emperors of different countries. The inside is profusely adorned and decorated with statues, carvings, paintings and sculpture work of every kind and character.

The Cathedral bell is seventeen feet across, and weighs twenty-three tons. To ring it requires fifteen men. As I stand upon the tower, five hundred and thirty-seven feet above the earth, men in the streets look like little children, and the business houses resemble play-things. This elevation affords a fine view of the surrounding country. I can trace the Rhine and its tributaries for more than twenty miles. Winding around among the hills and grain fields, these streams, gleaming in the sunlight, look like silver threads. I say to my friend: “Ah! behold the ‘silver threads among the gold.’” Although I have climbed this spire to the enormous height of 537 feet, yet above me is a delicate golden ladder; and, as it was placed here to enable the angels to ascend and descend, I quietly descend.

The church of St. Ursula is one of the curiosities of the city. St. Ursula was an English princess who, according to the tradition, when on her return from a pilgrimage to Rome, in the second century after Christ, was barbarously murdered at Cologne with eleven thousand other Christians, most of whom were young women. They were all buried in the same grave. Some time in the eleventh century the grave was opened, the bones taken out, and, on the spot of the grave, the present church was built to the memory of these martyred virgins. These bones form part of the walls of the church; some of them, also, are preserved in glass cases, and placed around in the audience-room. Johnson supposes this is done to inspire in the worshipper a devotional spirit, or, perchance, to remind him of Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones. Near the pulpit is a beautiful monument to Princess Ursula. The statue is of alabaster, with a laurel wreath about her brow and a white dove at her feet.

The Rhine is, indeed, a majestic river. Its broad bosom floats hundreds of vessels, laden with the produce of its fertile valley, and thousands of tourists from all parts of Europe and America. At Cologne, we embark on the “Victoria,” and start up the “legendary stream.” As our graceful bark glides off over the smooth waters, we turn our eyes back toward Cologne for a last, long look. And what a pleasing picture it is to behold the city with its “girdle of fortifications,” to see the splendid cathedrals and numerous towers outlined against the sky! Cologne has scarcely vanished from our sight when Bonn appears. Here we disembark. A few hours suffice to go through the University, to inspect the Cathedral, to see the bronze statue, and visit the birthplace of the great musical genius, Beethoven, born in 1770 and died in 1827.

After leaving Bonn, the scenery is more picturesque and beautiful. On either side of the swiftly-flowing stream, the overhanging cliffs rise high, one above another, each being crowned with a ruined castle, whose long, winding corridors and pictured walls once resounded with mirth and music. High perched upon these basaltic rocks, and surrounded by almost impregnable walls, feudal lords once held despotic sway. It really seems that the once thirsty swords have been beaten into plowshares, and the spears into pruning hooks, for the fruitful vine now flourishes along the “bloody Rhine,” from its water’s edge to the height of the castled crags. Even the crevices in the high cliffs are planted with the vine. This scene inspired Lord Byron to sing the following beautiful song:

“The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o’er the wide and winding Rhine

Whose breast of waters broadly smiles

Between the banks which bear the vine;

And hills all rich with blossom’d trees,

And fields which produce corn and wine,

And scatter’d cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,

Have strew’d a scene which I should see

With double joy wert thou with me.”

We land at Konigswinter (King’s Winter), and ascend the bluff, nine hundred and eighty feet above the Rhine, to the Castle of Drachenfels, or dragon’s rock. This Castle commands the most extensive view of any on the Rhine. In descending, we visit the curious cave which, according to a mythical story, was once the dwelling-place of a huge serpent who jealously guarded the pass and allowed no one to ascend the cliff. A brave knight slew the dragon, and after bathing himself in its blood, became invulnerable and mighty in strength. He then built the Castle on the uplifted rock, and made himself lord of the surrounding country.

Just as the sun sets, we approach the beautiful island of Nonenwerth where, half hidden beneath the rich foliage, we see an old convent. Just above this floating island, rises a huge rock whose summit was once crowned with a splendid castle, of which only one crumbling arch now remains. The legendary history connecting the castle and convent is as beautiful as it is touching. Just after the time of Charlemagne, a brave and gallant knight, by the name of Roland, paid court to the beautiful and accomplished Princess Hildegude. The affection was reciprocated, and the two soon became affianced lovers. At this time, Roland was summoned by his king to the Crusade. Time sped on, and anxiously did the devoted Hildegude look for his return. But, alas! she received tidings of his death. Straightway for her all beauty faded from every earthly object. She therefore gave her heart to God, and her body to the convent on the adjacent island. The sad news, however, proved untrue. Roland had been wounded but not fatally. All during his absence the fires of love burned brightly upon the altars of devotion. With joyous anticipation, he returned to receive the hand of her whose radiant smile was the light of his life. But, alas! poor Roland! He found that his lady-love was in that living tomb from which death alone could set her free. Broken-hearted, he built the castle, one moldering arch of which still stands, and there lived in solitude and wretchedness, catching an occasional glimpse of his imprisoned love. After her death, he spoke no more until he passed beyond the stars to meet her who anxiously awaited his coming.

The last rays of the setting sun light the lamps of night, and it seems as if each star tries to outshine every other one. The moon, with these brightly-beaming stars as her attendants, comes forth as “Empress of the Night.” Standing on deck and looking out over the scene, I find that moon and stars are pouring a perfect flood of glory over tower, and castle, and crag, and cliff, and wooded hill.

By this time we are so completely intoxicated with pleasure that we think it best not to indulge any longer. So, as the clerk of the boat calls out, “Coblentz,” we step ashore, and one hour later we are dreaming about what we had seen during the day. Next morning, as the sun first peeps over the eastern hills, he finds the pedestrians on their way to Ems, a beautiful little city nestling among the wooded hills of Germany. The walk proves a delightful exercise; and before the dew is off the grass, we are seated in Ems on the bank of the river which flows through the city. This was a favorite resort of the late Emperor William during the summer. On the way to Ems, we have the pleasure of witnessing a sham battle between several thousand German soldiers. No one is killed. One officer is badly hurt by his horse falling on him.

Before eleven o’clock, we are again gliding up the river. We seem now to have entered an enchanted region. No description we have ever read of the Rhine could equal the sight itself. Here

“The noble river foams and flows,

The charm of the enchanted ground,

And all its thousand turns disclose

Some fresh beauty varying round.”

The channel now becomes narrow, the stream swift and deep. As we pass castle after castle and behold the wrecks and ruins, we feel that we are “passing back down the stream of time.” Here on the left is the Loreli, a great rock rising up more than four hundred feet. According to the legend, a nymph had her dwelling in a cavern of this rock, and, with the music which issued forth from her golden harp, she enticed sailors and fishermen to their destruction in the terrific whirlpools and rapids at the foot of the precipice.

Passing the national monument erected in honor of Germany’s victory over France, in 1870, and Bingen, “fair Bingen on the Rhine,” we come at length to Mayence, a frontier town of fifty thousand inhabitants, strongly fortified with a garrison of thirty thousand soldiers. Mayence was founded B. C. 14, by Drusus, the son-in-law of Julius Caesar. Here the grandsons of Charlemagne met to divide his mighty empire into Germany, France, and Italy. This is the birthplace of Gutenberg who, in 1440, invented the art of printing. Mayence has shown her high appreciation of that gifted son of genius by erecting the handsome “Gutenberg Statue.”