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 would raise his head and look around him.

As we passed out the eastern gate, the workmen were busy near the city, making an embankment for the new railroad to Heilbroun, and we were obliged to wade through half a mile of mud.  Finally the road turned to the left over a mountain, and we walked on in the rain, regardless of the touching entreaties of an omnibus-driver, who felt a great concern for our health, especially as he had two empty seats.  There is a peculiarly agreeable sensation in walking in a storm, when the winds sweep by and the rain-drops rattle through the trees, and the dark clouds roll past just above one’s head.  It gives a dash of sublimity to the most common scene.  If the rain did not finally soak through the boots, and if one did not lose every romantic feeling in wet garments, I would prefer storm to sunshine, for visiting some kinds of scenery.  You remember, we saw the North Coast of Ireland and the Giant’s Causeway in stormy weather, at the expense of being completely drenched, it is true; but our recollections of that wild day’s journey are as vivid as any event of our lives—­and the name of the Giant’s Causeway calls up a series of pictures as terribly sublime as any we would wish to behold.

The rain at last did come down a little too hard for comfort, and we were quite willing to take shelter when we reached Ludwigsburg.  This is here called a new city, having been laid out with broad streets and spacious squares, about a century ago, and is now about the size of our five-year old city of Milwaukie!  It is the chief military station of Wurtemberg, and has a splendid castle and gardens, belonging to the king.  A few miles to the eastward is the little village where Schiller was born.  It is said the house where his parents lived is still standing.