paradise or fairy land, or some submarine grotto of the Nereides, than any earthly habitation of men? Well may Granada be the theme of heroic poets. "Cadiz has its palms, and Murcia its groves of orange; Jaen its gothic palace, and Agreda its convent built by St. Edmond "; Llers has its embattled crown, and Cordova its stupendous mosque; Valencia has its belfreys of three hundred churches, and Pampeluna its girdle of towers; but Granada has the Alhambra. Do the monuments of the Grand Masters of the order of St. John of Jerusalem impart no increase of interest to Malta? And does the tower of St. Nicholas confer no additional glory upon Rhodes? Nay, within the bounds of our own island, what numberless remains present themselves on all sides, abounding in romantic and heroic interest to fire the chosen genius! Witness Winchester and Windsor, Camelot and Caerlleon, Bamborough and Berwick, the Castle Orgillous and the Joyeuse Garde of romance, to the former of which Sir Lancelot's body was borne, though some say that it was to Alnwick. The castle of Lacken appears old enough to have seen the Argonauts, if we are to credit Orpheus that they sailed by these shores of Ierne. On the northern coast of Cornwall the walls of Tintagel Castle on its rocky peninsula may still be seen, though the land of Lyonnois or Leonnoys, the birth-place of Tristan, is now forty fathoms under water; this castle of tin had six stories, and the lady to whom it belonged was an enchantress.* Are not even many of our sweet meadows and our never-failing brooks immortalised by the muse of history? What beauty in the terraced height, the ancestral grove of heroes dear to fame, the softly swelling hills, the ivy-mantled tower washed by the silver stream, the hoary cloister, and the level lawn! Ah, what sorrow glooms that parting day which calls us from our native walks! or from the place where our gravest hours were passed with gentle comrades, only feeling a restraint which was to sweeten liberty! Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of our youth, when every sport could please! To distant climates chivalry may sometimes point the way, and every high scene of the majestic world may be dear to fancy; pride too may love to collect the evening groups to tell of all that has been felt and seen: ἀλλ ̓ ἀναγκαίως ἔχει πατρίδος ἐρᾶν ἅπαντος· ὃς δ ̓ ἄλλως λέγει, It is not merely right, and a duty, it is of necessity; his tongue may recount the wonders and the beauties of a foreign land, but, oh! his heart is there. But others too have their native hills, and their memorials of ancestral chivalry, to which, wherever they roam, their fancy fondly turns. Perhaps it is the Germans above all who have reason to be proud of the monuments of our heroic age. Who can behold the stupendous arches and the vast dome of the Danzigers, or the gigantic tower which contains the immense hall of Marienburg, the castle and chief capital of the Teutonic knights, or the majestic ruins of Eilau, which once employed 20,000 men in building, without a feeling of reverence for those past ages which could produce such works? Still some fragments are to be seen at Ingelheim, the favourite castle of that mighty emperor whose dominion extended from Palermo to the Baltic, and from the Ebro to Raab. Here stood that palace with its hundred gates, and hundred marble columns, Godefridus. 2 A which had been brought from Ravenna, whose walls glittered with gold and jewels, and resounded with the clang of arms and the song of the minstrel.1 Nor is it with less interest that the Germans may visit Germersheim, where the glorious Rudolph of Hapsburg ended his days in peace and happiness with his beloved wife, the beautiful Agnes of Burgundy, or the castle of Wartburg, from which St. Elizabeth walked down to Eisenach, where she took refuge in the church of the friars. The Pfalzgrafenstein, on the rocky island in the Rhine, is still a monument to remind the powerful and great, that there is something more powerful in the world than their greatness and policy; for it was here that the Pfalzgraf Conrad of Suabia resolved to bestow the beautiful Agnes upon some relative of the Emperor Henry VI, that the inheritance of the palatinate might enter into the imperial house; but Henry of Brunswick, with no other recommendation but a noble person and an heroic spirit, being favoured by her mother, was enabled to disappoint this scheme of ambition, and became the husband of Agnes, and lord of this castle. Who has not felt his spirits warmed with a wild romantic glow, when, passing between the embattled towers which crest the beautiful winding banks of this majestic river, he has listened to each venturous tale of "the brothers," the knights of Sternfels and Liebenstein, Counts John of Spanheim and Werner of Greiffenklau; of Hans Brömser of Rüdesheim, who, after thrice breaking his vow, and being delivered by divine mercy, founded the church of Nothgottes, whose chains are still to be seen at Rüdesheim; and of Gilgen von Lorch, who, on his premature return from the crusade, so fatally delivered his wife from the robber's castle, and whose Vogt, Rheinische Geschichte, I, 114. saddle is still to be seen at Lorch? Who can do justice in report to the beautiful embattled heights. of Johannisberg, with the ruins of the majestic Ehrenfels; to the deep pool and gloomy towers of Bingen, with all their historic and romantic charms; to the grey ruins of Schönberg, with its legend of the seven virgins; to the solemn Lurlei, still endued with something of unearthly sound? What silent poetry is found in the terraced heights of the knightly Rheinfels, memorable for the misfortunes of Count Philip; in the ruins of Thurnberg, the work and grave of the mighty Kunos; in the ancestral towers of the Katzenellenbogen; in the very aspect of Coblentz, fronted by the noble Ehrenbreitstein! What heroic images are recalled upon beholding Reichenberg, marvellous for oriental pomp, and still resounding with the glories of the crusade, and the deeds of surpassing chivalry which were achieved by its illustrious founders! Is there not an air of heroic grandeur, a high romantic interest, associated with the towers of Nassau, which gave title to the old house of Luxemburg; with Reinhartsbrunn, where you see the grave of Ludwig IV and his spouse Juta; with Solms, the seat of another historical race; with the knightly Stolzenfels; with the beautiful plain of Maifeld, renowned for its ancient assemblies of the free German people; with Kunoberg, under St. Goar, the castle of the heroic Kuno; with Irenberg, where that beauty lay, the cynosure of neighbouring eyes, for whom so many noble knights, Diether von Staffel, Johann von Heinesbach, Hauptmann von Limburg, and a hundred others, would have died; with those seven hills, each crowned with its castle, whose name recalled an image of chivalry; with that stately fortress of Hammerstein, above Andernach, whose origin no history records, though some traditious. ascribe it to Charles Martel, to the lofty Grimberg, near Treves; with the stupendous Stackelberg; with the fearful Rothenberg of the Odenwald? Do we wish to recall only the romantic history of an illustrious line? What scene more favourable than under the walls of Hundsburg near Löwenstein, the cradle of that ancient family, von Hund, of whose origin there is so interesting a report? Are we for visiting one of those convertites like Duke Frederick, who forsakes his pompous court for the cloistered shade-from whom, as Shakspeare says, "there is so much matter to be heard and learned "--behold the castle of Argentine in the Lyonnais, which had been changed by its lord into a convent; visit the castle of Gandia, where a grandee of Spain maintained his immense household in the order and sanctity of a bishop's palace, so that it was the admiration of all Spain; or view the ruins of Chantilly, where the great Condé ended his days in retirement and the practice of penitence, resembling that of a cloister. But where could we find a castle or palace of the middle ages which would not recall the memory of some saint, or at least one of those convertites? Do we desire a tale of maternal affection, and a monument of ancient faith? Let us repair to Bischoffzell, on the river Thur; for here formerly lived a noble widow with two sons. It happened once that these two young men went across the river, on a hunting party, and during their absence the waters of the river suddenly rose in a manner not unusual in that country. On returning, the daring youths, being resolved to proceed home, dashed into the stream, hoping to stem its violence, but both were swept away and drowned. The sorrowful widow caused this bridge to be erected over the spot, and ordained that every one who passed over it should say a pater 1 Vie de St. François de Borgia, tom. I, p. 138. |