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Andernach.
I write to you again from Andernach, where I returned three days ago.
Andernach is an ancient Roman station, succeeded by a Gothic community
still existing. The landscape from my window is enchanting: I see, at
the foot of a high hill which allows me only a slight glimpse of the
sky, a tower of the 13th century, at the summit of which shoots forth
another, smaller, octagonal, and crowned with a conical roof. To my
right lies the Rhine, and the pretty village of Leutersdorf peeping
through the trees; to my left, the four Byzantine steeples of a beautiful
church of the 11th century—two at the portal, and two at the apsis.
The two large towers of the portal are of a strange and irregular outline,
but produce a fine effect. They are square, surmounted by four sharp
triangular gables, with four slated interstitial lozenges, which, joining
at their summits, form the point of the pinnacle. Under my window the
ducks, hens, and children are cackling in perfect harmony; and yonder
I see in the distance the peasants working in the vineyards. This noble
view did not suffice to the tasteful being who embellished my room;
for suspended near my window is a glazed frame, containing the portraits
of two immense candlesticks, at the bottom of which is inscribed "View
Of Paris." By dint of uncommon penetration, I discovered it to
be intended for the Barriere du Trone—a striking likeness, certainly.
On the day of my arrival I visited the interior of the handsome church
which is spoiled by whitewashing. The Emperor Valentinian, and a child
of Frederick Barbarossa, are buried in this church. A Christ in the
sepulchre, the figures of natural size, of the 15th century—a
knight of the 16th, in semi-relief, fixed in a wall—in a loft,
a number of minor figures in grey alabaster, fragments of some mausoleum,
but admirably executed—this is all a humpbacked ringer had to
show me, for a piece of plated copper representing thirty sols.
I must now relate to you an adventure, the impression of which on my
mind is that of a painful dream.
On leaving the church, which almost adjoins the fields, I walked round
the town. The sun had just set behind the wooded and cultivated hill,
which was a volcanic mass out of the memory of history, and is now a
basaltic quarry of millstone, which formed the export of Artonacum two
thousand years ago, and is that of Andernach in the present day, which
has witnessed the decay of the citadel of the Roman prefect, of the
palace of the kings of Austrasia (from the windows of which those ingenious
princes are recorded to have fished for carp in the Rhine); the tomb
of Valentinian, the abbey of the noble nuns of St. Thomas, now falling
to decay; to say nothing of the ancient walls of the feudal city of
the Electors of Treves.
I traced out the ditch along these walls, against which the peasants
pitch their huts, and find shelter for their cabbages and carrots against
the northern blast. The noble city, though dismantled, still exhibits
fourteen round or square towers, used at present as dwellings for the
poor, and the ragged children play at the doors, while the young maidens
chatter with their lovers in the embrasures of the catapults. The formidable
stronghold, which defended Andernach, to the east, is a vast ruin, dolefully
opening its shattered bays and windows to the rays of the sun or moon;
while the quadrangle, overgrown with beautiful turf, is used by the
old women for bleaching their linen.
Leaving behind me the high Gothic gateway of Andernach, shattered by
black shot-holes, I found myself on the bank of the river. The beautiful
sand, with here and there patches of soft turf, allured me towards the
distant hills of the Sayn. The evening was gratefully mild, and nature
sinking into repose. The reed-sparrows flew to the water, then back
to their haunts. Beyond some fields of tobacco I saw carts yoked with
oxen, dragging loads of the basaltic tufa with which the Dutch construct
their dykes. Close beside me was moored a boat from Leutersdorf, having
on its prow the austere but endearing word "Pius."
On the other side of the Rhine, at the foot of a long hill, another
vessel with sails was towed along by thirteen horses. The cadenced tread
of the cattle and the tingle of their bells reached my ears. A white-looking
city was visible in the distant haze; while towards the east, at the
extreme verge of the horizon, the full moon, red and round as the eye
of a Cyclops, shone betwixt two lids of clouds, on the tranquil brow
of heaven.
How long I wandered thus, plunged in the mysteries of nature, I know
not; but night had set in, the country was hushed, and the moon shining
at its very zenith, when I suddenly came to myself at the foot of an
eminence crowned by an obscure mass, round which black lines defined
themselves; some in the form of a gallows, others like masts, with transversal
spars. Having reached the eminence, by striding through sheaves of fresh-cut
beans, I found the dark object to be a tomb, placed upon a circular
foundation of stone.
Why this tomb in the fields? Why this scaffolding?
I was full of eager interest and curiosity; and perceiving a low door
constructed in the masonry, clumsily closed up with boarding, I knocked
with my cane, but the inmate, if inmate there were, did not answer.
By an easy ascent, on turf covered with blue flowers, which seemed to
have expanded in the moonshine, I clambered up to view the tomb, which
consisted of a large truncated obelisk, placed on an immense block representing
a Roman sarcophagus, the whole being in blue granite. Around the monument,
and up the shaft, was a scaffolding with a long ladder placed against
it; and I perceived four spaces on the four sides of the block, from
which bas-reliefs had been lately displaced. At my feet were strewed
fragments of cornices and entablatures, visible by the light of the
moon.
With anxious eyes I sought the name of the occupant of the tomb. Three
sides were blank; but on the fourth I found in copper letters the following
dedication: "The Army Of The Sambre And Meuse To Their General-in-chtef;"
and below, the moon enabled me to read the name of
"HOCHE"
The letters had been removed, but their grooves in the granite still
remained indelible.
This name, in such a place at such an hour, caused a deep and inexpressible
sensation in my mind. I always admired Hoche. Like Marceau, he was one
of those great men by whose ministry Providence, intending that the
cause of the revolution should triumph, and France prevail, prepared
the way for Bonaparte; mere precursors—incomplete ordeals—crushed
into dust by Destiny, as soon as she brought from the shade the complete
and stern profile of the one man needful. Such was the fate of Hoche.
The date of 18th April, 1797, occurred to my mind, as bright in the
annals of heroism. Not knowing where I was, I looked anxiously around
me: to the north was a vast plain; to the south, at about a gun-shot
distance, the Rhine; and at my feet, at the bottom of the hillock which
served for the base of the tomb, a village having at its entrance an
old square tower.
At that moment a man passed, at a short, distance from the monument,
of whom I asked in French the name of the village. He was perhaps an
old soldier, war being as active as civilisation in conveying our language
to all the nations of the earth; for he instantly answered, "Weisse
Thurm," and disappeared.
These two words, signifying the " White Tower," reminded me
of the "Turris Alba" of the Romans. Hoche died upon an illustrious
spot; for it was here that Caesar first passed the Rhine two thousand
years ago!
What is the object of the scaffolding? Are they degrading or repairing
the monument? I could not guess! Having scaled the basement, and ascended
the scaffolding, I looked into an aperture of the base, and discerned
the interior of a gloomy quadrangular chamber. The moon penetrating
one of the crevices, I perceived a white figure, upright and standing
against the wall: and having entered the chamber by a narrow aperture,
creeping on my knees, I found in the centre of the pavement a hole,
through which they had no doubt lowered the coffin into the vault below.
A cord was still suspended there, the ends of which were lost in the
darkness.
Having approached and looked into the vault below, I vainly attempted
to discern the coffin. I could scarcely distinguish the vague outline
of a recess, formed in the vault.
I remained there for some time, absorbed in the two-fold mystery of
death and darkness. An icy breath appeared to issue from the aperture
of the vault, as if blown from the yawning mouth of the grave. I can
scarcely express the excitement of my mind. This tomb in this lonely
spot—the unexpected recognition of so great a name—the gloomy
chamber—the vault, whether occupied or empty—the mysterious
scaffolding—all served to overwhelm my thoughts and depress my
mind.
Emotions of pity filled my heart, on seeing how the illustrious dead
become neglected when their graves lie in a land of exile! This trophy,
erected by a victorious army, is at the mercy of all and every one.
A French general lies far from his country, in a common bean-field;
and Prussian masons appear to be in possession of his tomb!
Methought I heard a voice issue from the disjointed stones, exclaiming
"France! take back the Rhine."
Half an hour afterwards I was on the road to Andernach.
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I cannot understand these tourists! This is a charming town, and the
country about it beautiful. The view from the summits of the hills includes
a circle of giants, from the Siebengebiirge to the crests of Ehrenbreitstein.
Every stone recalls an historical recollection—every step produces
a fresh charm; while the inhabitants exhibit joyous good-humored faces,
such as breathe welcome to the traveller. The inn (Hôtel de l'Empereur)
ranks among the best in Germany. Yet, in spite of all this, Andernach,
though a charming spot, is literally deserted! No one makes it an object!
Foreign tourists resort exclusively to Coblentz, Baden, or Mannheim;
rarely attracted by memorable scenes of history, the beauties of nature,
or such poetry as abounds at Andernach.
I returned a second time to the church, the Byzantine ornaments of which
are very rich, and in exquisite style. The southern portal has some
curious capitals and fine groinings, deeply carved. The pediment, forming
an obtuse angle, presents a Byzantine painting of the Crucifixion, still
tolerably distinct.
Upon the front, near the arched door, is a bas-relief of the period
of the revival of the arts, in which Jesus is represented kneeling,
his arms out-spread in an attitude of terror, while around him are crowded
all the dreadful images and implements pertaining to his passion. The
mantle of mockery, the reed sceptre, the wreath of thorns, rods, hammers,
pincers, nails; the ladder, lance, and sponge filled with gall; the
sinister profile of the bad thief; the livid effigy of Judas, with the
purse about his neck; and lastly, immediately before the eyes of the
Divine Master, the cross, betwixt the arms of which, as the most supreme
and most insupportable of his torments, on the summit of a small column,
is a crowing cock, as the emblem of the ingratitude and desertion of
a friend! This last accessory is well imagined,—developing the
ascendency of moral over physical torture.
The gigantic shadows of the two towers extend over this mournful elegy.
Round the bas-relief the sculptor has engraved a legend which I copy
:—
"0 vos omnes qui transitis per viam,
attendite, et videte si est dolor similis sicut dolor meus, 1538."
Before this severe facade, at a short distance from this united lamentation
of Job and Jesus, some beautiful rosy-faced children were gambolling
on the turf, wheeling about an unfortunate halfwild, half-tamed rabbit
in a barrow. Such were for the moment the "passers by!" There
is another church at Andernach— Gothic, and having a nave of the
fourteenth century, now transformed into a stable for Prussian cavalry.
As the door stands open, one perceives within the aisles long ranks
of horses. Over the door is inscribed "Sancta Maria, ora-pro nobis;"
which at present seemed to apply to the horses! I could have wished
to ascend into the curious tower I see from my window, which most probably
is the ancient watch-tower of the town ; but the steps are broken, and
the roofs falling in. I therefore gave up the project.
This magnificent ruin is, however, so embellished with flowers, so well
taken care of, that it appears to be inhabited. The tenant is at once
the most capricious and mildest of inmates, being no other than the
presiding genius of ruins, who, whenever she takes possession of an
old pile, rips up the floors, ceilings, and stairs, so that man cannot
disturb the peaceful nests of the birds she cherishes; and places flowers
at all the windows, in pots formed of venerable stones, hollowed out
by the wind and rain. The old town of Andernach is literally crested
with wild flowers.
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