the right bank of the Danube, is the direct and only approach to Griffenstein. Six hundred years ago, Richard must have followed the same route, the same natural objects must have met his gaze and excited his admiration; if, indeed, we can imagine the mind of a captive to be alive to any other feeling than a sense of his own misfortunes! But during this lapse of time, what changes have occurred in the moral aspect of things! And yet even in this respect, compared with the improvement which has obtained in his native kingdom, Richard might easily recognise, in the present, the Austria of the twelfth century. For the first three miles after leaving Vienna, the road traverses a populous and fertile plain, but as we advance, following the course of the river, the landscape becomes more imposing, and presents bolder, more varied, and highly picturesque views. The open and somewhat monotonous champaign is succeeded by gentlyswelling or abruptly-towering hills, sometimes approaching so close to the precipitous bank of the deep and broad stream which flows beneath, as scarcely to admit a passage. Now receding to a distance, we behold, encircled in their green recesses, small cultivated spaces, surrounding a few white-walled cottages, or the grey towers of an ancient abbey, rising in fine contrast above the embowering foliage. Every elevation is richly clothed with wood, and every abrupt turning of the path, as it winds round each advancing base, discloses new, and, as the traveller deems, lovelier prospects, or more romantic combinations. Over this ever-varying scenery on the left, the Danube, pouring its mass of living waters on the right, diffuses a species of animated charm, adding ideas of power and of magnificence, and uniting the sublime with the beautiful. Such, in a high degree, are the effects, when, having accomplished about half the distance, the river which, at Vienna, is separated by intervening islands into different channels, is henceforth beheld flowing onwards in undivided majesty. Amid the current, and far from either shore, as if beyond "humanity's reach," are, at intervals, to be seen two or three solitary beings on a raft, employed in floating down wood, and other commodities, from the more remote districts to the capital. But though we are acquainted with their destination, and aware of their security, we cannot help being struck with their apparently forlorn and perilous situation, gliding silently, but swiftly along, and, to the distant eye, scarcely separated from the whelming element; while themselves and their little huts seem every moment liable to be swept away. Their appearance lends a peculiar interest, and gives a distinctive character to the scene. The solitary traveller, while he gazes, reverts to his own isolated state, and he sighs at the reflection, that such is his separation from the sympathies of the heart, in a foreign land, where "None that with kindred consciousness endow'd, If he were not, would seem to smile the less." Such, also, to him appears the condition of the friendless adventurer in the voyage of life, who, unprotected and alone, has to combat with its perils. Through scenery such as now described, we continue to advance, while the road, being considerably elevated, enables the eye to range over the varied and extensive plain which terminates the prospect on the opposite bank of the river. At length the object of the excursion is in view,-Griffenstein Castle is perceived, its square tower and pointed roofs crowning the woody brow of a commanding eminence, which rises abruptly from the very margin of the river. The elevation retiring in front with a circular sweep, leaves an open space for a line of cottages, which irregularly mark its base; and among these is the rustic but not uncomfortable inn, whose wooden balcony almost overhangs the wave which toils below. Here we alight; and the traveller will find, after surveying the romantic environs, that there are many worse things in this world than a dinner and a bottle of Renish, in the balcony of the little inn at Griffenstein. The castle is attained by a winding path, overcanopied with the birch, the ash, and the holm oak, which suddenly emerges on an open, smooth platform of green sward, running the whole length of the antique building. On gaining this elevated station, the first burst of the prospect, which now lies extended beneath, is truly grand and imposing. In front the eye traverses the broad expanse of the Danube, and beyond, vision is lost in a plain of interminable extent, and of the richest variety in sylvan and cultivated surface; while, at some distance above, the river is seen to divide into numer ous branches, forming islets of the liveliest verdure, and finally disappearing like threads of silver in the remote obscurity of the unbroken horizon. Downwards, the view embraces the scenes already admired; behind, mountains rise, woods wave, and dales subside, with intervening glades and vistas, opened by Nature's own hand, and soothing the mind with images of beauty and repose. The romantic structure, and singular site, next claim our attention, now beginning to disclose their at tractions. The castle is small, occupying a rocky and almost insulated platform, precipitous on three sides, but joined by a broad ridge on the other, to the lofty elevation of which it forms a portion. The groundplan is nearly triangular, the apex being the point nearest the connecting ridge, which is formed by a square tower from fifty to sixty feet high, and about thirty in flank. The two sides nearest the Danube are occupied by lofty narrow buildings, while the third is marked only by a strong and lofty wall, joining the Keep with the other erections. The architecture is rude, but very strong; the only attempt at elegance being displayed in the fretwork of an old window, which admits light into a small Gothic chapel. Throughout their whole extent the walls follow the inequalities of the rocky surface, and the red granite on which they rest shooting upwards its spiry masses to a great distance in their height, seem to incorporate the masonry with the living stone. An air of venerable antiquity surrounds the place, but, with every interesting appearance of great age, we do not discover its more frequent accompaniment decay. Time has, indeed, marked with many a varied tint the massy Keep and antique battlements, but, as yet, both are unrifted by the flash, and unshattered by the storm. The labours of man seem here destined to outlive many successive productions of nature. In the lapse of centuries, many a series of sylvan births must have flourished and decayed; yet, to judge from the existing condition of things, many successors to the young wood, which at present only surrounds the castle, must, in turn, yield to the effects of age, before the grey walls which now surmount the vigorous shade have bowed beneath the silent flight of years! Shading one angle of the Keep, and here and there in the distance, is still to be seen a half-blighted, mossgrown oak, the lingering remain of a race long extinct, rearing its fantastic and writhed branches through the summer, and waving, with melancholy sound, its thin and scattered foliage. These hardy and longlived tenants of the soil cannot be regarded as even the nurslings of those whose gnarled boughs overhung the royal captive, as he entered within the very door-way which now admits us. A green knoll beneath the most aged and nearest of these trees, and fronting the eastern window of the apartment in which Richard was detained, is still pointed out as the seat of the minstrel who first discovered the place of his confine ment. The incident, indeed, is discredited by history, but is dear to feeling; and under the influence those impressions, which the scene is calculated so powerfully to awaken, we love to listen to the long-cherished memorials of romantic tradition, in preference to the colder and more sceptical relation of the historian. We delight, therefore, in believing that we are seated on the same bank where a minstrel once reclined; imagination even carries us back to long past days of poetry, and love, and chivalry; in fancy we view the troubadour advance, we gaze on his noble air and warlike form, adapted alike to excel, "In tented field, or lady's bower, Soft! he assumes his harp, the fire of genius and of rapt enthusiasm beams from his eyes, he strikes its chords,-'tis an unusual strain, but hark! responsive sounds breathe from that high and grated window, far above, within the lofty Keep,the minstrel starts, he knows the unseen author of these notes, and gladly, but silently, hails the hand of England's King. What a singular picture is presented in the manners and pursuits of these troubadours! and what a delightful pause from the disorders, the calamities, and the crime of the period, does not their history afford! as if by one of those charming episodes which abound in the older Epic poets, the mind is refreshed, and the spirit soothed, amid slaughter and bloodshed, by some happy and unforeseen event, introducing descriptions of the most touching tranquillity, innocence, and happiness. How gratifying, also, it must be to that high and noble pride, which the consciousness of talents inspires, to view, amid ignorance, fierceness, and barbarity, a class of men revered for refined and intellectual attainments, and by these alone exercising a commanding influence over their haughty compeers, denied to power, or wealth, or rank! What a glorious superiority is that of intellectual eminence,-to be distinguished in that which constitutes the divinity of our nature! Kings and potentates of the earth may die, and the world inquires not after them; but when a man of genius departs, all seem to mourn the loss of a friend-a brother. Humanity then deplores the fall of an ornament which shed lustre on its weakness. Alas! even now, how strikingly is this melancholy truth illustrated!while I write, it is within this hour announced, in my secluded retirement, that Byron is no more! And may we not boldly and fearlessly put the question-Breathes there now in Europe the man whose death would make a deeper-a more universal impression? Not only the general, but the solitary response of each individual's bosom, we believe, will answer, No!-Byron! farewell! Thy spirit bears back to those mansions whither it has winged its flight, the noblest portion of inspiration granted to our age. Oh! had the productions of thy genius breathed inore freshly of that hallowed source whence all talent is derived, how had we been proud of having lived with thee, and how had future times revered thy memory! Oh! how had religion triumphed in thy faith, and truths divine come recommended from thy pen! But peace be to thy departed shade !-may thy errors be pardoned-thy wanderings forgiven: for thine were errors and wanderings of the head-not of the heart! Let us now examine the interior of this ancient and interesting edifice. In an angle on the southern side of the tower is a low, broad door-way, admitting into a small outer-court, or rather open passage, leading by a slight ascent to the principal entrance. We are not yet within the castle : this court appears to have been merely intended for an additional defence, by keeping the assailants at a distance from the entrance, and by subjecting those who approached to the scrutiny of the inmates. The only access to the interior is now gained; but this door of massy oak, thickly studded with large iron nails, will it yield admittance? and these narrow loop-holes, the only apertures in the threatening wall, do they still pour the arrowy sleet of the bow, or the arbalist? I shall venture, however, to apply to its proper use this ponderous and rusty knocker. Hark! how its harsh echoes ring around, and are answered by the hoarse screaming of the raven, whose repose they have disturbed! An aged seneschal at length appears, and courteously invites me to enter. The castle and its dependencies forming part of the domains of Prince Lichenstein, who occasionally sleeps here in his hunting excursions, the place is kept in excellent repair, and a few domestics constantly reside within. Fortunately, however, during more barbarous periods, and afterwards with singularly good taste, nothing has been changed in the apartment of Richard, which strangers are permitted to visit; and the name of Lowenhertz is almost as well known in this part of Germany as in England the appellation of Coeur de Lion. On entering, we perceive that great part of the ground-story is excavated from the solid rock. Turning a little on the right, a narrow gallery conducts into the interior. Through this passage Richard must have been led. We will follow the steps of the captive monarch; and having first visited his cell, as possessing the most interest, next view the other parts in succession. A gloomy and winding gallery conducts to a steep and narrow stair of oaken plank, entering, in some degree, into the thickness of the wall. At the top, a small door-way on the left leads into the open air, upon a long platform composed also of planks of oak, extending the whole length of one side of the building to the square tower at its opposite extremity. At the termination, twelve or fourteen steps are ascended to a second, but smaller and square platform, projecting from the inner flank of the tower, and elevated about forty feet above the rocky bottom of the court beneath. From thence a strong and iron-bound door, grating harshly as it turns on its massive hinges, admits into a chamber occupying the whole inner circumference of the Keep. This was Richard's prison, and now remains as he left it. This apartment is about fourteen feet square, of gloomy, but not uncomfortable appearance, being entirely free from damp, both by reason of its great height from the ground, and the excellent repair of the upper part of the tower. The architecture is a very barbarous Gothic, the roof, which is elevated about sixteen feet, being supported on pointed groins; and the windows, of which there are two, exhibit an arch neither pointed nor round, but angular externally, and circular within. The floor is composed of flagstones, resting, as seen from the story below, also on ground arches; and in the centre is a trap-door, opening into the dungeon beneath, a distance of at least forty feet from the ground. The only furniture in this memorable chamber is in the southern angle, which directly fronts the river, and where there is no window. Here still remains a frame of oaken planks closely united, and resembling an immense chest. Each plank, or rather beam, is from eight to ten inches on a side, roughly hewn, and fixed as closely as the inequalities of the surface will thus permit, to the others below, so that very small apertures are left, through which the air and a certain portion of light have access. At each angle these planks are rudely dovetailed into each other, and fastened together by strong pins of the same material. The inte rior length of this cage, or chest, is above six feet, the height about three and a half, and the breadth nearly the same. It is floored with similar, or rather thicker beams than those which compose the sides and top; entrance being obtained by means of a small door in the side, about two and a half feet square, which is secured by a hatch, strongly hinged, and bolted on the outside. This was Richard's bed; and, according to the traditions of the place, the King was constantly confined in this cage, except during three hours at mid-day, when he was permitted to take exercise in the more enlarged dimensions of his chamber, but never allowed to walk in the open air. There may be some truth in this account, for history informs us that he was treated with great indignity, in order to hasten his own impatience to be gone, and render him more willing to pay the ransom which the mercenary and dishonourable prince who detained him demanded as the price of freedom. There are, however, in the chamber no indications remaining that the unhappy captive suffered the ignominy of fetters, as historians assure us; and, indeed, this mode of treatment rendered these latter unnecessary. The windows of the cham ber are large, with rudely-hewn stone-seats in the thickness of the wall, which is here about nine or ten feet. They command beautiful views of the mountains behind the castle, and of the scenery and river below. On these seats Richard may have frequently sat, meditating on his forlorn state, the evils of captivity heightened by the beauties of nature with which his prison was surrounded. Where the rude plaster still adheres to the wall, the whole space is covered with names, as is also the wooden cage; but among these I could hardly discover one which marked the devotion of a countryman. In such places, this is rather a tribute to the imemory of the former inhabitant, than a desire of spreading our own renown. Thus, in the cell of Jass, in the hospital of St. Ann at Ferrara, and there only, did I discover in large characters, inscribed with his own hand, the name of Byron. It was a tribute at which the shade of Tasso might rejoice, the meed of an equal mind, of a kindred spirit. To the apartment above the prison of Richard we ascend by stone steps projecting from the wall; it is very tastefully fitted up; and from the wooden balcony which externally surrounds the tower upon which its folding glass-doors open, the most delightful and extensive prospects are enjoyed. We now descend by the same way as we mounted, and perceive that the long platform which extends along that side, which has already been described as consisting only of a high wall, served a double purpose. Access was thus not only afforded to the upper stories of the Keep, but support was given to the defenders of the place, the wall in front rising in a crenelled battlement; while behind, to prevent them falling into the court below, is a rude, but strong railing. The same mode of defence is common in several old castles in Germany. The buildings on that side, which may be termed the base of the triangle, and which partially looks towards the Danube, are occupied by the apartments of the domestics, the kitchen, and by a stable for three horses, which last is almost entirely excavated in the solid rock. In the principal part of the edifice, we ascend, by a spacious stair of oak, to a spacious suit of public apartments. These have been recently embellished, but still in the ancient taste, with Gothic ornaments, stained glass, and all other appurtenances and "circumstance" of the times. They might still receive the "high dame" and "courtly knight," who here formerly maintained the “gay gallion," or listened to the "tale of chivalry." Through the small interior court we penetrate to the lowest dungeon of the Keep, into which not a ray of light penetrates, and where the rough unhewn rock rises in its native rudeness. The last inmate of this "doleful region," according to chronicles of the place, was the Abbot of a neighbouring convent, who had irritated the lady of the castle, in certain ceremonies highly displeasing to her lord. Here the churchman remained in durance seven years, by which, it is said, the revellings of the flesh were almost subdued. In this court, partly built into the wall, is a block of granite, now almost black with age, which still exhibits on its upper part, on which a tall man can lay hold with ease, the impression of the right hand deeply marked. Here it is stated the feudatory chiefs of the district swore fealty to their liege-lord, placing their right hand, while the oath was administered, on this stone; hence the name Griffenstein, that is, "Holdingstone" Castle. While sketching in the beautiful environs of the castle, I was attracted by the singing of a young peasant, in whose song the name of Lowenhertz caught my ear. With some difficulty, and after many repetitions, I was able to note down the words, which are a complaint supposed to be composed and sung by Richard in prison. The origi nal, indeed, is attributed to that monarch, who is known to have excelled in poetical compositions, and said to have long ago been translated into German. Be this as it may, the present is undoubtedly a very ancient composition, and possessed of great simplicity, beauty, and pathos. Its effect in the original is much heightened by the antique and obsolete phraseology; many of the expressions, and even single words, being so old, that they were explained to me by pointing out the objects which they were intended to signify. Of this production, the following is a very close translation: Complaint of Lowenhertz. Confine the wishes of the mind! My soul more sadly feels its thrall. |