at table d'hôte yesterday, the name of two wines,
certainly not a little remarkable—the one "Himmelreich," "The kingdom of heaven wine," which grows near Gumpelzheim, on the Neckar; the other
"Hollenwein," "The kingdom——,"
what in Miltonic language one might designate
pandemonium. We were curious as to their respective flavours, and tested both qualities. With
shame we confess that that which nominally
belonged to the region, called by the Germans
"The land where the pepper grows," certainly
possessed the most piquant flavour.
Joyous sounds of the vintage come up from hidden glens which lead far away into the Odenwald. The mention of those hills recalls the legend of the "Wild Huntsman," whose spectral host, arrayed for their midnight flights, is the sure presage of war and calamity. But turning to the extreme left, where the broken and picturesque line of the Vosges attracts the eye, we are reminded of sounds once more welcome than the portentous voice of the "wild Jäger." There is but one tower remaining of the Castle of Trifels, beneath whose walls, tradition says, the faithful minstrel sung that song, whose response discovered to him the prison of Coeur de Lion. Not so far back seem those chivalrous days of the crusades,—if we recall the still older time when this very Rhine plain was the scene of much of the mythic heroism detailed in the Nibelungenlied, the Homeric Epic of Germany. The Minnesänger called this fertile district "Wonnegan," the land of joy. Here loved, suffered, and fought, many of the personages who figure in that grand old poem. Truly there are few spots in Germany where the field of vision includes so many historical memories as those recalled by the prospect from the Altan.
On this particular autumn day, the shifting sunlight lit up at intervals the silvery thread of the Rhine: at first Spires, Manheim, and then Worms, came out of shadow-land. What stirring thoughts are awakened while looking at the towers of the old Domkirche, beneath whose roof Luther boldly confronted the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and the Diet.
In Heidelberg itself—just beneath the Schlossberg—we look down on the roof of St. Peter's Church, to the door of which Jerome of Prague nailed his celebrated Theses—an event in itself more fraught with consequences than all the bombardments, sieges, sackings, and assaults, which the town has suffered. Pleasant old Heidelberg! except for the "Gesprengte Thurm" and a few other gaping rents in the ruined Schloss, one might deem that Time only had laid his hand on castle and town. The former has been adorned rather than ravaged by time, and the quaint old town itself has grown into harmonious irregularity. There are here no impertinent improvements, reminding one of rates and taxes; the streets are as narrow, ill-smelling, and as badly paved as in the "good old days." The song says:
It is a pleasant place when it has left off raining.
To-day there is nothing but sunshine and gladness. Leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, we can trace the streets by the gay flags which hang from upper windows, all in honour of the Battle of Leipzig; and, looking down on the Carl Platz and Dult Platz, we see that they are filled with booths and whirligigs, and other indications of merry-making. It seemed worth while to join the busy throng, and retracing our steps through the quadrangle, for the sake of one more look at the cinque cento façade, with its decorations of sculptured heroes, we made our way by the carriage-road to the town.
In the Hauptstrasse, or High Street, we find "confusion worse confounded," besides the ordinary jostle of foot-passengers on a narrow trottoir, each indiscriminately persisting in having both right and left hand to the wall ; besides this, there are scores of huge dogs resolutely following at the heels of their masters, the students. This order of canine march is occasionally disturbed by a fight amongst the quadrupeds, which fills the whole place with uproar, upsetting small children and frightening old ladies. Big dogs are an institution at Heidelberg—the young men have a passion for big dogs, as the father of Frederick the Great had for tall soldiers. The students of the University wear coloured caps according to their corps, and the dogs are muzzled; both contend for the pavement against men and dogs, not of the University. Giving up the trottoir in despair, you take yourself to the street, but here you encounter all manner of impediments. At this season, opposite almost every house, there are huge piles of wood which are being measured, sawn, and chopped up for winter fuel. While in the act of springing over some of the outlying logs, you suddenly find yourself poked in the ribs by the pole of a lumbering bullock-waggon, drawn by two meek-eyed, cream-coloured cows. You had almost need mount one of these beasts to escape being crushed by a rattling post-omnibus with three horses in rope-harness, which comes thundering up the pitched street, the driver crack ing his long whip in a way which makes you con scious of every vertebrae in your possession. Darwin might have been inspired to write his chapter on "Struggle for Life" in the Haupstrasse. We were forced to retreat, by way of "natural selection," into the midst of a bevy of German girls with beautifully dressed hair, who smiled provokingly at our discomfiture. We were, however, content to remain where we were with perfect humility while much clang and uproar announced the approach of another post-omnibus, surmounted, as was the case in the former vehicle, by a Pomeranian dog, who barked at the whole world as if incited by the furies. At the same moment up drives a droskey filled with English tourists, Murray in hand, en route for the Wolfs Brunnen, which barely escapes collision with another droskey freighted with students out for a lark.
Persistence will carry you to the end of every thing; add then to persistence, patience and pushing, and you will have proceeded along the Haupstrasse as far as the Ritter, a very curious old inn of the 16th century. Opposite is the church of the Holy Ghost, now amicably shared between Catholics and Protestants. Hereabout
are the first signs of the fair. The lower walls of the Ritter and some of the adjacent houses are covered with prints and pictures of the most