I Wish I Could Carry You With Me To The Palace At Versailles.
The
magnificent equestrian statue of Louis XIV., which you can see afar
off as you approach, the noble statues in the grand court yard, and
the ancient regal aspect of the whole scene, with its countless
fountains and its seven miles of pictures, are beyond all
description.
As I stood lost in wonder and admiration, my friend,
who introduced me to this world of wonders, pointed to a window in
one corner of the building; there, she said, Louis XVI. passed much
of his time making locks; and there, from that balcony, Marie
Antoinette appeared with her children and the king, when she
addressed the wild, enraged Parisian mob. We saw the private
apartments of the unhappy queen, and the small door through which
she escaped from the fury of the soldiers. We went to see the little
Trianon which she had built for her amusement; a lovely place it is.
Here she tried to put aside state and the queen, and be a happy
human being.
Here Marie Antoinette had a laiterie, a milk house, where she is
said to have made butter and cheese. Here she caused to be built
twelve cottages after the Swiss fashion, and filled them with poor
families whom she tried to make happy.
We went into her dairy. It was fit for a queen to make butter in. In
the centre of the beautifully shaped room was a large oblong, white
marble table; on each side were places for admitting the water, and
under them beautiful marble reservoirs in the shape of shells, and,
underneath, large slabs of white marble. All is still, all so
chaste, so beautiful, all as it once was, and she, the poor
sufferer, what a story of blighted hope and bitter sorrow! See her
the night before her trial, which she knew would end in death,
mending her own old shoes, that she might appear more decently. The
solemn realities of life had come to her unsought.
I left Paris and travelled through Belgium to Cologne. The day I
arrived was some holiday; so there was grand mass in the cathedral,
and such music! - the immense building was filled with the sound. The
full organ was played, and some of the priest singers took part.
Never did music so overcome me. The sublime piece, - as I thought of
Beethoven's, surely of some great composer, - performed in this
glorious old cathedral, was beyond all that I had ever dreamt of. It
seems to me that I might think of it again in my dying hour with
delight. I felt as if it created a new soul in me. Such gushes of
sweet sound, such joyful fulness of melody, such tender breathings
of hope, and love, and peace, and then such floods of harmony
filling all those sublime arches, ascending to the far distant roof
and running along through the dim aisles - O, one must hear, to have
an idea of the effect of such music in such a place.
At Bonn we took the steamer; the day was perfect, and our pleasure
was full. You must see one of these fine old castles on the top of
the beautiful hills - you must yourself see the blue sky through its
ruined arches - you must see the vines covering every inch of the
mountain that is not solid rock, and witness the lovely effect of
the gray rock mingling with the tender green - you must hear the wild
legend of the owner of the castle in his day of power, and feel the
passage of time and civilization that has changed his fastness of
strength and rapine to a beautiful adornment of this scene of peace
and plenty, its glories all humbled, its terrors all passed away,
and its great and only value the part it plays in a picture, and the
lesson it preaches, in its decay, of the progress of justice and
humanity.
From Coblentz to Bingen is the glory of the Rhine scenery; old
castles looking down over these lovely hills covered with vines and
cornfields; little villages nestled in between them; beautiful
spires of the prettiest churches you can imagine, looking as if they
gathered the houses of the villages under their protecting wings.
Your soul, in short, is full of unutterable delight. It was a sort
of relief to laugh at the legend as we passed the little island on
which is the Mouse Tower, so named from the history of Bishop Hatto,
who it is said was eaten up by rats because he refused corn in a
time of scarcity to the starving poor, when he had a plenty rotting
in his storehouses.
When I was obliged at last to turn away from all these glories, the
words of Byron were in my heart: -
* * * * *
Adieu to thee again; a vain adieu;
There can be no farewell to scenes like thine.
The mind is colored by thy every hue,
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherished gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine,
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise.
More mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine,
But none unite in one attracting maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft, the glories of old days,
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of summer ripeness, the white cities' sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom,
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been,
In mockery of man's art."
End of Travellers' Stories, by Eliza Lee Follen
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