the cradle of genius; amid no other scenes
could his infant mind catch a more benign inspiration. Even the common
people are deeply imbued with a poetic feeling. We saw it in their
friendly greetings and open, expressive countenances; it is shown in
their love for their beautiful homes and the rapture and reverence with
which they speak of their country's bards. No river in the world, equal
to the Neckar in size, flows for its whole course through more
delightful scenery, or among kinder and happier people.

After leaving Esslingen, we followed its banks for some time, at the
foot of an amphitheatre of hills, covered to the very summit, as far as
the eye could reach, with vineyards. The morning was cloudy, and white
mist-wreaths hung along the sides. We took a road that led over the top
of a range, and on arriving at the summit, saw all at once the city of
Stuttgard, lying beneath our feet. It lay in a basin encircled by
mountains, with a narrow valley opening to the south-east, and running
off between the hills to the Neckar. The situation of the city is one of
wonderful beauty, and even after seeing Salzburg, I could not but be
charmed with it.

We descended the mountain and entered it. I inquired immediately for the
monument of Schiller, for there was little else in the city I cared to
see. We had become tired of running about cities, hunting this or that
old church or palace, which perhaps was nothing when found. Stuttgard
has neither galleries, ruins, nor splendid buildings, to interest the
traveler; but it has Thorwaldsen's statue of Schiller, calling up at the
same time its shame and its glory. For the poet in his youth was obliged
to fly from this very same city--from home and friends, to escape the
persecution of the government on account of the free sentiments
expressed in his early works. We found the statue, without much
difficulty. It stands in the Schloss Platz, at the southern end of the
city, in an unfavorable situation, surrounded by dark old buildings. It
should rather be placed aloft on a mountain summit, in the pure, free
air of heaven, braving the storm and the tempest. The figure is fourteen
feet high and stands on a pedestal of bronze, with bas reliefs on the
four sides. The head, crowned with a laurel wreath, is inclined as if in
deep thought, and all the earnest soul is seen in the countenance.
Thorwaldsen has copied so truly the expression of poetic reverie, that I
waited, half-expecting he wo