the left,—the latter in appearance, the former in reality the highest of the chain,—slopes off somewhat more rapidly to westward, rising again in the soft waves of the Rossert and Staufen, till it dies away in long elevations in the plain of the Rhine. In front of the main strength of the mountain, or mountains (for the Taunus is in appearance one), stands out independently on a knoll of its own the town and castle of Cronberg; behind it, to the right, and at the top and to the right of a woody, craggy hill, the ghost-like tower of Falkenstein, with a white village creeping up under it; while away to the left nestles behind a hill, the still more imposing Königstein, keeping in the background as if to surprise on approach, midway in height between Cronberg and Falkenstein. These three strongholds form the angles of a triangle, within which lies the heart of the beauty of the Taunus. They lie between those equivocal places, Wiesbaden and Homburg, like Aristotle’s mean of good between two extremes of evil, with a leaning, as it should be, to the lesser. Of them, Königstein is the most majestic, as its name, Stone of the King, implies, Falkenstein the most aërial, as its name, Stone of the Falcon, implies; and Cronberg, the richest and the most finely placed, as its name also, the Crown of the Hill, denotes. If we start from Frankfort by the Homburg railroad, popularly known as the “The road to ruin,” and leave it, as Prudence suggests, before its final terminus, at Weisskirchen, a short walk will bring us to Cronberg.
The most striking peculiarity of this place is its thoroughly southern aspect. Any traveller brought thither blindfold would guess himself, not in Germany, but in Italy. It is like those hill-fortresses so common on the flanks of the Apennines, which existed long before Rome and the Romans were ever heard of, whose origin must be looked for in the pre-historic times, when men or giants built Cyclopean walls; and in whose massive recesses the memories and dirt of two thousand years at least have been treasured up. The climate also is southern, from its exposure, the mountains at the back forming a screen against the north and east winds. Cronberg rises from the midst of a grove of chestnuts, which have grown to a great size in the park near the Frankfort gate, and have much of the grandeur of oaks. The town itself is full of mulberry-trees and white plum-trees, the very pavements of the streets being purple with crushed mulberries, which the people, from their abundance, seem to hold in little estimation. It is a town of fantastic and irregular build, full of quaint gables, and strange court-yards, where the rich browns of the old wood beams contrast with the lush greens of the interspersed trees. So painters love it, and make it a summer residence. in tailless fowls and foul children. As an artistic friend of mine objected to the latter as models when cleaned up for high days, I must suppose that the children are kept dirty for the benefit of the painters; as there are fountains enough to wash them, if their mothers were so minded.
Below the town of Cronberg winds a wooded glen, spreading upwards into a space open and cultivated, and backed by the hill of Falkenstein, and furnishing a good specimen of the distinctive beauty of the valleys of the German hills, as found in the Hartz, Thuringia and Taunus, best expressed by the word idyllic. The great spreading chestnut shades with soft natural lawns under them, numerous though small rills, with peeps of castles through the trees, all belong to the pastoral, not the pastoral of real life, but of the stage. Nor are costumed peasants wholly wanting, though costume in these parts, as everywhere else, is fast becoming extinct under the influence of Manchester and steam. On Sundays and holidays the picturesque contrasts of blue and red petticoats, with bright coloured handkerchiefs over the head, may still be seen about Cronberg. The red handkerchief over the head is universal in the central parts of Franconia. If the cattle were kept loose in the fields as they are in Great Britain, the women would be in some danger from the bulls, assuming it true that red is a peculiarly irritating colour to horned cattle. But, whatever may be the taste of bulls, artists love red in costume, as it contrasts with greens, and carries off the distance, to use an expression which frightened an old lady out of a coach, when travelling with two painters, making her believe them lunatics. It is as well to observe here, that those who go to German mountains north of the Alps, in search of what is called beautiful scenery, will generally be disappointed. The Riesen-Gebirge, in Bohemia, is perhaps an exception, but the most beautiful parts of the Taunus, the Hartz and Thuringia, are not where the mountains are highest, but rather where they are lowest, so as to be mountains at all. The wooded character of these hills detracts from their appearance of height. They seem weighted with a heavy dark green mantle, which prevents their rising towards the sky. The British mountains, with the same number of inches, produce an infinitely grander effect. There are places and times where Snowdon acquires a thoroughly Alpine aspect, and might be six or seven thousand feet high; and a much lower mountain, Moel Siabod, seen through the valley of Dolwyddelan, from the road above Bettws, in certain states of the air, is positively sublime. This can never be said of the aspect of the Great Feldberg, or the Brocken, or Schnee-koppe in Thüringen, mountains which vie with the best of the British in mere height. Except for the sake of saying that one has been there, or seeing the sun rise or set, there can be no motive for ascending these German mountains. After the exploits of the Alpine Club, the former motive would be absurd, for “I have been at the top of the Brocken” would be of a piece with the remark of a stay-at-home Oxonian, who capped the recitals of the perilous adventures of his friends by quietly observing, as he sipped his port, “and I have been to the top of Shotover!” But the Brocken or the Feldberg may be reasonably ascended for the sake of sunsets or sunrises, as there are inns on the tops of both; and an occasional spectre, as all the world knows, to be seen on the former. The peculiar idyllic character of the German hills is principally found in such places as the beechy glens about Eisenach
