While we were standing at a balcony, that overlooks a very pretty tract of wooded country and garden, the guide pointed to a hamlet, whose church tower was peering above a bit of forest, in a distant valley, or rather swell.  “Does Mein Herr see it?” “I do—­it is no more than a sequestered hamlet, that is prettily enough placed.”—­It was Marbach, the birth-place of Schiller!  Few men can feel less of the interest that so commonly attaches to the habits, habitations, and personal appearance of celebrated men, than myself.  The mere sight of a celebrity never creates any sensation.  Yet I do not remember a stronger conviction of the superiority enjoyed by true over factitious greatness, than that which flashed on my mind, when I was told this fact.  That sequestered hamlet rose in a moment to an importance that all the appliances and souvenirs of royalty could not give to the palace of Ludwigsberg.  Poor Schiller!  In my eyes he is the German genius of the age.  Goethe has got around him one of those factitious reputations that depend as much on gossip and tea-drinking as on a high order of genius, and he is fortunate in possessing a coddled celebrity—­for you must know there is a fashion in this thing, that is quite independent of merit—­while Schiller’s fame rests solely on its naked merits.  My life for it, that it lasts the longest, and will burn brightest in the end.  The schools, and a prevalent taste and the caprice of fashion, can make Goethes in dozens, at any time; but God only creates such men as Schiller.  The Germans say, we cannot feel Goethe; but after all, a translation is perhaps one of the best tests of genius, for though bad translations abound, if there is stuff in the original, it will find its way even into one of these.

From Ludwigsberg to Stuttgart it is but a single post, and we arrived there at twelve.  The appearance of this place was altogether different from what we had expected.  Although it contains near 30,000 inhabitants, it has more the air of a thriving Swiss town, than that of a German capital, the abodes and gardens of the royal family excepted.  By a Swiss town, I do not mean either such places as Geneva, and Berne, and Zurich, but such towns as Herisau and Lucerne, without including the walls of the latter.  It stands at the termination of an irregular valley, at the base of some mountains, and, altogether, its aspect, rustic exterior, and position, took us by surprise.  The town, however, is evidently becoming more European, as they say on this side the Atlantic, every day; or, in other words, it is becoming less peculiar.

At and around the palaces there is something already imposing.  The old feudal castle, which I presume is the cradle of the House of Wurtemberg, stands as a nucleus for the rest of the town.  It is a strong prison-like looking pile, composed of huge round towers and narrow courts, and still serves the purposes of the state, though not as a prison, I trust.  Another hotel, or royal residence, is quite near it on one side, while the new palace is close at hand on another.  The latter is a handsome edifice of Italian architecture, in some respects not unlike the Luxembourg at Paris, and I should think, out of all comparison the best royal residence to be found in the inferior states of Germany, if not in all Germany, those of Prussia and Austria excepted.