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befriezed—induced us to pause for a day on our road to
Travemünde. I had left her a city of red brick—I found her
all paint and whitewash, less respectable to mediaeval
eyes, but still interesting; her churches, with their
glorious spires, rival those of Pisa and Saragossa in their
stern contempt for the perpendicular; her rath-house,
quaint and incomprehensible, with each proud blazon
of the once powerful league slung “en pignon” to a
separate rosace, is partly Gothic, partly Renaissance,
resting on arcades, no two parts alike—the whole,
however, blending smoothly in harmony together. Now on
that Place, where the commerce of Europe once held
its court, a few old women vend their cherries; in that
rath-house, where her arrogant burghers debated whether
they would deign to accept the alliance of Henry of
England, or side with his rival of Scotland—whether
they would support the second Christian of Denmark
against his nobles, or Frederic against his
nephew—what do you find? emptiness and desolation: it is a
thing of the past, yet all looks solid and fresh, as in the
days of their might and power.
Give Lubec and her grass-grown streets a kick if you
will; she is down in the wrorld, fallen from her high
estate, and has few friends; but he who neglects to visit
her is wrong, for, independent of her Dance of Death,
her altarpiece by Hans Hemling—pre-Raphaelite in
the minuteness of its execution—and Overbeck’s
masterpiece, Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem, she possesses many
objects of interest undescribed in Murray. On our
arrival we had intended only to pass the night; we
ended by lingering several days.
The following day was Sunday. Never in the most
Catholic realms of Italy or Spain did I behold Sunday
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