and well I understood the passionate grief, the bitter Aeimweh, that has dug an early grave for so many a German exiled from his native land.
Directly before me, as I stand with my back toward the river, is a long flight of stone steps leading from the upper terrace to the garden below, from whence we can reach the dusty highway. A row of Italian poplars borders the road on either side, forming a magnificent avenue from the castle to the town. Instead of stepping out on the highway, we will turn to the left, which brings us in view of the moat. Alas for romance! The moat, where not filled in, has been turned into a harbor, which fishermen now utilize in their calling. And here we are before the round tower with the Gothic inscription, "1549," above the entrance. Before we ascend the stairs, let us turn a moment, to look at the old stone-trough by the pump in the court-yard. The pump is an innovation— quite a recent affair, in fact, not more than fifty years old; but the well itself was dug when the castle was first built, and is so deep (I quote tradition) that "if you let yourself down to the water's surface, you can see the stars in the noon-sky." (Now I don't vouch for the truth of this, or any other thing that was told me; but if any one doubt it, he had better go to the spot and try the experiment—the place is not hard to find.) This square courtyard was once the parade-ground: on two sides it is inclosed by the building; the third side looks toward the harbor; and the fourth, looking toward the highway now, was formerly likewise protected by a moat. When on the upper terrace, awhile ago, I thought the building was but two stories above the vaults and cellars; here I count four stories above me. The mystery is solved thus: The terraces themselves form the roof of the casemates and magazines that extend so far out on the south side. Originally
the main building had been five stories
high; but the upper story was destroyed by fire two hundred years ago, and the subjects of the bishopric, attempting a revolution about the same time, refused to rebuild it in its former style; then later, in the present century, the old roof became so dilapidated that it was found necessary to remove it—a roof of modern red tiles taking its place, and detracting greatly from the antique appearance of the castle. Two of the largest halls are each forty feet wide by one hundred feet long, and twenty-four feet high. In the uppermost hall were held the assemblages of the people belonging to the bishopric, and owing tithes to it. Viewing the lofty hall, I could not help thinking how much I should have liked to witness a gathering of all these peasants, artificers, and tradesmen. Abject as the slavery of that class of people looks to us at this distant time, they must have possessed not only strength and integrity of character, but a certain sturdy independence; for did not Luther spring from this stock and race? Schloss Petershagen was built when stone-cutting, stone-masonry, and architecture in general, were flourishing: this (north) side of the building exhibits traces of great, but fast-decaying beauty. The long, balustraded galleries and heavy, carved cornices seem to frown darkly on the crowd of plebeian children at play on the green brink, near their father's fishing-nets; and the old tower above looks as though it felt deeply the humiliation of having been "taken down a peg," and brought under the same roof with the rest of the building, in 1828. If we enter the lower story here, we will find the old kitchen, spacious in dimensions, and paved, of course, with flags; next to it was the brewery, and, across the court-yard, the chapel, the granary, and the wine-vaults on the same floor. To judge from the size and capacity of these different institutions, I should say that the garrison might have
