the Revolution reorganized in 1818. It has grown with a
giant growth, and has reckoned among its professors Niebuhr, Schlegel,
Arndt, Dahlmann, Johann Mueller, Ritschl, Kinkel, Simrock and other less
world-famous but marvellous specialists. Then there is the memory of
Beethoven, the honor of the town, which is his birthplace and has put up a
monument to him, and the last modern element that has effaced the old
recollections--the numerous English colony--not to mention the rich
foreigners whom perhaps the university, perhaps the scenery, and perhaps
the heedless fashion that sets in a tide now toward this place, now toward
that, have drawn to the new Bonn. Poppelsdorf Castle, now the museum of
natural history, and the fine groves and gardens attached to it, now a
public promenade, have the brisk, business-like look of a "live" place:
the building, it is true, is modern, having been built in 1715. But if we
are obstinate enough to search for signs of the days when archbishops
ruled instead of dukes and kings, we shall find old remains, the cathedral
of course included, and nowhere a more curious one than the Kreuzberg, a
place of pilgrimage, where the church of 1627 has replaced an old
wood-shrine: its rich gateway was intended to represent the front of
Pontius Pilate's palace at Jerusalem, and on it are frescoes of the
various scenes of the Passion. Within this thirty marble steps lead up
into a vestibule in imitation of the _Scala Santa_ in Rome, and pilgrims
went up these stairs only on their knees. The vaults used until lately to
contain a quantity of dried or mummied bodies of Servite monks (that order
once had a convent here), reminding one of the ghastly Capuchin crypts in
Rome, in Syracuse and in Malta. This neighborhood is rich in
pilgrimage-shrines and legends, and Simrock has preserved a tale of the
Devil which is a little out of the common run. He and the Wind, it is
said, once went by a certain Jesuit church in company, and the former
begged the latter to wait a moment for him, as he had some business
within. The Devil never reappeared, and the Wind is still blowing
perpetually round the building, waiting and calling in vain. The old myth
of Barbarossa waiting in his cave, his beard grown round and round the
stone table on which he leans his sleepy head, which in another form meets
us in the Mosel Valley, repeats itself in Wolfsberg, not far from
Siegburg, near Bonn. I wonder whether the English anglers and oar