488 ANNUAL REGISTER, 1818. 



The spacious red stone palace 

 of the Electors flanks the town, 

 next the Rhine. This once splen- 

 did edihce, which stretches its 

 wings and quadrangles over 

 ground enough to hold half a 

 dozen royal palaces of Stutgard 

 or Carlsruhe, now looks forlorn 

 under royal neglect. The great 

 clock stands still — the gilded 

 pannels and other symptoms of in- 

 terior magnificence peep through 

 a mean casement — and the drying 

 shirts of the Baden soldiers hang 

 out of the windows of one wing 

 degraded to a caserne. The wide 

 gravel terrace, under the windows 

 of the palace, is the favourite 

 Sunday promenade of the beaux 

 and belles of Manheim ; but the 

 weeds that sprout up in spite of 

 them, the unpruned luxuriance 

 of the shrubberies and lawns, 

 denote the absence of the court 

 gardener. The Rhine flows at 

 the bottom of the gardens, which 

 are protected from this formidable 

 jieighbour by a substantial mound 

 planted with shrubs. On the top 

 runs a fine terrace, commanding 

 the majestic stream as it glides 

 through a bridge of boats, the 

 little cluster of barges, and the 

 scanty bustle of the quay ; while 

 behind, the expanse of shrubbery 

 is crowned by the desolate looking 

 corps de togis and wings of the 

 palace, once the scene of gay 

 imitations of the splendors of 

 Versailles. 



The munificent Charles Theo- 

 dore, the last Elector Palatine, 

 was the Louis Quatorze of the 

 Palatinate — the costly decorator 

 and oppressor of his country. His 

 cypher recalls his memory on most 

 of the handsome buildings, and 

 every child is familiar witli the 



name of Karl Theodor, who built 

 the right wing of the palace, and 

 erected the noble portals, whose 

 stud drank out of marble troughs, 

 now profaned by the Baden 

 troop-horses, whose German 

 and Italian opera, and French 

 theatre, were the admiration of 

 the cognoscenti of Germany. 



One theatre still survives, and 

 supports some of the reputation 

 which it acquired as the nursery 

 of IfBand, and a school of great 

 tragedians, to whom Germany 

 looks back as we do to our Gar- 

 rick, Cooke, and Kemble. I saw 

 a new piece performed on these 

 classic boards, in which the prac- 

 tical jokes, the gorgeous scenery, 

 and a troop of cantering Hussars, 

 headed by a graceful heroine, 

 seemed to denote that modern 

 German managers cater for the 

 public something like our own; 

 but, on admiring the military 

 evolutions, I found they had gone 

 a step farther, and, that no one 

 might accuse their biped and 

 quadruped performers of want of 

 nature, the dramatic troop was 

 neither more nor less than a file 

 of the Baden Light Dragoons 

 from the garrison in the town. 

 Though the theatre is still cele- 

 brated and much frequented, it 

 declines like every thing here, for 

 want of patronage. A German 

 theatre never supports itself by- 

 its prices of admittance, which 

 generally vary from about twelve 

 kreutzers (about four-pence half- 

 penny) for the gallery, to a florin 

 and a half (three shillings) for 

 the boxes. The Grand Duke of 

 Baden allows the theatre at Man- 

 heim 25,000 florins a-year: but 

 the townsmen complain that this 

 is a poor recompence for the 



favoured 



