cough, measles, etc. But I’d by all odds rather have it then than not
at all. The life that misses that delicious frenzy is a failure. Yes, I
see you like the Indian summer. Just a sentence about it from your
sympathetic pen, and you make picture days float before inward eyes. The
languid, indolent, dreamy lapse of the autumnal sunshine; the ground
beneath the walnut trees black with fallen nuts--I can hear them
dropping from the branches, and the excited barking of the pretty gray
squirrel; “clear, running brooks,” their babble somewhat deadened by
their “freighted argosies” of dead leaves; flecks of grass here and
there, green as that of early summer; misty distances, half blue, half
gold; purplish shadows where the sun does not strike; flocks and herds
browsing as if they too were more than half dreaming; farm-houses
dotting the landscape, with their great orchards near by--oh! the heaps
and heaps of “golden pippins,” “rosy-cheeked bellflowers,” “Rome
beauties,” “tawny russets,” and so on; and the cider-press, with its
running stream, and the big bucketfuls carried to the house; and the
sheets of “piping hot” gingerbread waiting for them!
Yes, that is what you make me see. And maybe one’s sweetheart made it
while he was fetching the cider! Be sure they will eat and drink
together! Don’t you see their eyes foaming over with felicity? Bless me!
I shouldn’t wonder if you were the very fellow. Napoleon knew all about
that sort of bliss: “The happiest hours of my life were those I spent
_eating cherries with my little sweetheart_ when I was a boy.”
Shouldn’t wonder if they had a frolic shooting the seeds, should you?
_It_ used to be a farm, that place “on the Ohio side” you took in with
the “Germantown view.” Perhaps that’s where you got your “Indian Summer
of life” taste!
When your gaze went wandering and “lingering lovingly” in that
direction, did it light on the two mounds that give their own interest
to
“That vale of Aberdeen,
The vale of gold and green?”
There’s a distich of Mr. W----’s for you--I hope so. Were you alone? or
accompanied by “an exuberant set,” I wonder. Surely, either way, some
one must have told you of the mounds. Perhaps your “most pretentious”
prattler would have told you they were antediluvian as well as
anti-historic. It is plain she would have given some astonishing turn to
the crank of knowledge. And had your exclamatory friend been present he
might have added to the hilarity of the occasion with some such remark
as--I have had so many interruptions, that flash of brilliancy has
escaped me. Please put it in for me. You can do that, though you begged
off on the cat. Yet you knew! You did not fool me a bit with that
pretense of worrying all night. In fact, if you only remember that I am
on the shady side--almost shaky--of the autumn of life, the “Indian
Summer” which you enjoy, you will forbear any attempt in that direction.
How gently you put it--“You’ll know about it one of these days,” just as
if I didn’t already know. Some “antique gems” are afraid of their
antiquity: others are worldly-wise enough to know it is that which gives
them their value: while a rare few shine resplendent in that gracious
acceptance of the course of nature, which takes captive “Old Father
Time,” and converts the awful conqueror into the loyalest henchman. I at
least feel no shame of my plus half-century of years. Though, maybe, my
counter weakness is the hope of growing into one of that “rare few,” the
beautiful “old ladies” I have known, and loved, and revered, and been
made a little friend of when I was young! Their memory is one of my
richest treasures. And now that their crown of years is hovering over
my own head, may I prove worthy to wear it.
Wasn’t I right when I said, “all such gravitate to you as apples and
cannon-balls to the ground?” I might have said, more simply, as “the
sweet widows” gravitate to you, only I didn’t think of that in time. It
was the happier “afterthought.” See how you are attracting all the most
felicitous marvels of speech and gossip garnered in the memories of the
experienced; now rising to the surface and exploding like bubbles in the
froth of talk; now bobbing here and there like cork in the current, as
light and imperishable! What store you will have for illustrations in
some future “Noctes Ambrosion!” That singular death-bed speech I heard
of by accident. The person was not a friend; I just knew her, though she
was connected by marriage with connections of mine in the same way. It
seems to me she died years ago, though I do not know. Who was “the
clergyman’s” wife that told you? Why are all your friends left unnamed?
Haven’t they been christened yet? It seems the strangest thing that you
should have got hold of that speech! The mere fact haunts me. Was Mrs.
M---- the divine musician? Front street west of Sutton runs so far--way
down around the point, where you’ll lose sight of the old city, “with
its dozens and dozens of agreeable people.” I can’t go prying into every
house all that way to find out who she was. Please hereafter mention
names.
I never read your side-splitting “French book,” “Petty Annoyances,” but
I’ll get it to-day if I can. I have read some of that “bad fellow’s”
books for the French some years ago. Since I have been here I have been
reading Souvestre and Sainte-Beuve. I always liked the former. His was a
noble soul, and I am sure he never wrote a word that he repented of on
that too early death-bed. Did you ever read his “Au Coin du Feu,” a
collection of stories? It shows his sweet, good, wise spirit. You must
have read his “Attic Philosopher.” It had a great run, I remember--how
many years ago? Sainte-Beuve I feel sure you know. I enjoy his
incisiveness and his (on the whole) impartial criticisms. But I am “over
head and ears” in Dutch reading: am now deep in the “Nibelungenlied.”
Having seen the Nibelungenlied suite of rooms in the king’s palace, I
wished to read the story in the original. I had read it in English “ever
so long ago”--long enough for the mists of memory to have made a blur
over some of the details. I sat up till midnight reading it--couldn’t
stop, though knowing I should. It cannot need other evidence of its
fascination. The frescoes at the palace no doubt added to the interest.
They are hauntingly wonderful and beautiful. Even the extraordinary
chanting of the story of each by the stolid guide could not spoil the
impression. If ever I have a chance, I’ll favor you with a specimen of
his performance. Alas! that I shall not have the cut and tinsel of his
royal livery! How I wish you could see all the treasures of this “king’s
palaces.” They have been gathered from a range of time reaching as far
back as his ancestral line, to 1180. I doubt if any other royal line can
quite equal it in many things. And the opinion is not held in the
interest of my Bavarian blood either.
Now, tell me quick about “the last from B----.” Don’t keep me waiting.
“Dogs and children cannot bear suspense,” and I am just like ’em. And
when are you going to tell me all about the sweet detaining cause? I am
a paragon of a confidante. Try me. I shan’t tell it to one, and then she
can’t tell it to two. And so A. P. R. will have nothing to rue.
Impromptu sparkle! Catch it and preserve it under glass.
L. G. C.
Munich, December 12, 1882.
MUNICH.
Just see what your last letter has done. You wished my “counterfeit
presentment.” Here it is. Will you be pleased with it, I wonder?
Had you called on Mrs. W----, as you should have done, you’d have seen a
life-size crayon copy of “that same,” which Mrs. W---- had done in
Washington. It is considered a superb picture and a perfect copy, which
makes it a matter of inferior moment if it is no particular likeness. It
was very well for Cromwell to insist, “Paint me as I am;” but for a
woman, if the beauty is there, paint her as she is; if not, paint her as
she should be.
The photographs I have rejected, destroyed or hid away from sight
forever, because of the lack of this essential! This München artist kept
coaxing: “Look brighter;” “smile;” “_don’t_ look so sad;” “you look as
if you had not a friend in the world;” till I tried my best. “There,
that is good;” “that will do;” “now”--and he “turned the sun on.” All
the same, I am not a picture woman, and I know it. “Why, bless you! of
course you don’t make a good photograph.”
“Don’t you know why?” said a friend in Philadelphia a few years ago, ere
the brown was silver and the roses had faded; “I can tell you.” I looked
an eager inquiry. “When you sit for a picture your face is discharged of
all expression, and the glow of the roses can’t be shown in black and
white.” But wasn’t he a comforter!
Yes, the home of my childhood, but not the house in which I was born, is
gone. I was born in the large old-fashioned house nearest the mill. I
think it is now occupied by a Mr. L----. You must have noticed it. It is
a pleasant-looking place even now; spoiled as all the Point is by those
later houses. When we lived there the houses of my father and
grandfather were the only ones for perhaps a quarter of a mile. There
were, maybe, a dozen houses in “Newtown,” as it was called then. There
was no street except on the river bank in front of our places. The front
yards of both were full of grass, plants, flowers and shrubbery. My
mother had so many roses, ours was called “The Place of Roses.” Each had
large gardens and meadows and orchards. Some of the pear trees are
living and flourishing now, over a hundred years old!
I thought seriously of buying the place of my grandfather when I sold my
other one; went and looked at it several times, but I was too alone to
attempt another home. Now I am sure it was best I did not. You can
comprehend how it made my heart ache to hear of that fire. I have not
been in the house for years; I think not since my father moved into
Maysville, and in all probability would never have been again, but the
pain is inevitable.
I have found and read “Les Petites Miseres de la vie Conjugale.” Psha!
Don’t you believe him--that ruthless anatomist. I believe I could
forgive him if he had not made these “Annoyances” so life-like and
comical. I laughed even when I was “boiling over with rage” at his
revelations. Wish I was not so indolent; I’d write a counter-statement
if I were not! I could, and it would be the God’s truth, just as his is
the devil’s truth. But for one thing I’d set you to do that “spiriting.”
So unfortunately you lack _experience_! But why couldn’t you, any way,
just as well as “Ike Marvel” wrote “Dream Life?” Did you ever read “the
Pendant” to “Les Petites Miseres, Les Menages d’une femme vertuense?” I
got it at the same time, and found it intensely interesting as a picture
of French character and life. But I must not get on to books, or I shall
write all night.
Do you know Christmas is coming? It is so near it takes my breath away
to think of it. This is Friday night--and Monday! I’ll catch you anyhow,
“My Christmas Gift.” Isn’t that the way you shouted it as you tiptoed
round in the early dawn of Christmas morning, when you were a boy? And
hadn’t you already hung up your little sock the night before, knowing
you would find it stuffed full of “goodies and things?” I had a young
bachelor friend in C----, “a fellow of infinite jest,” and much curious
and quaint humor. He was alone at home, so I sent for him to dine with
us.
“What did you do last night, John? Were you not lonesome? Why did you
not come round?”
“Oh! I read awhile! Then I ate apples and nuts. It was lots of fun to
roast the apples and hear them sizzle and sputter and burst, to say
nothing of the eating and burnt fingers. And you never saw ‘a stoker’ (I
think that was the word) beat me at keeping up a fire with my
nut-shells. When I got tired, I _hung up my sock_ and went to bed.”
Will you do the like? I hope you will have “the goodies and things,”
whether you do or not. Yes, I hope you will have the very best Christmas
of all your life. It is to be very “gay and festive” here, and I shall
see many novel and magnificent sights. Maybe I’ll tell you about some of
them.
A merry Christmas! A happy Christmas! The best Christmas of all your
life!
L. G. C.
Munich, December 22, 1882.
[Illustration]
MUNICH.
All the world has been at its busiest getting ready for Christmas, and
the amount of knitting and embroidery is overwhelming. I pity eyes. Even
the blind do the most wonderful knitting. I was at the Blind Asylum not
long ago. There were drawers and drawers full of tidies, caps,
stockings, drawers, etc. Some of their customs are rather startling just
now. Sunday is never very different from other days, except in the
church services. The shops are kept open till late in the afternoon. All
the world goes to church, and then to the military parade, and to hear
the band play in one of the public squares, and then to shop! At home,
the afternoons and evenings are spent in fancywork of whatever kind may
be on hand, or in games or dancing. The last three weeks, our young
ladies have embroidered indefatigably all Sunday, except when at church
or shopping. I am sure I don’t like this custom; but Christmas is a
grand festival in Germany, you know, and I suppose it would be
heart-breaking not to make the most ample preparations. The last two
days, cooking has been the duty of the frau-mother. She prepares all her
cake, but sends to a regular baker to have the baking done. You ought to
have seen the display when it came home! They were brought on great
table-tops (I don’t know what else to call them). On one I counted
thirteen immense loaves; on another as many or more. All were nicely
iced, or dusted with sugar, and they looked very inviting. The baker
says no one sends him such rich batter as our frau--so full of almonds,
citron, etc. One of the young ladies made “a whole lot” of almond
macaroons. They are delicious. What an experience this, of spending
Christmas in a German household! We are having a real homelike
Christmas-time. A beautiful tree--all of us were called on to help adorn
it. Our presents are not wanting. I received a pocket-handerchief
embroidered by the oldest daughter, an apron embroidered by the second,
and a beautiful satin glove-box embroidered and made by the third,
Gretchen. The mother gave me a copy of the “Niebelungenlied” in German,
and a great waiter of all kinds of “goodies,” to be kept in my own
apartment. But the best gift of all was the warmheartedness. Christmas
night, I was at the grandest concert I ever attended: Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony, and a new thing, “Christoforous,” a legend of the
Christ-child, arranged in solos, choruses, and for the orchestra. I
think it was the first time it has been given here. Jammed house;
spell-bound audience; all kinds of people, and toilets to match, from
the most superb and fashionable to the very plainest.
It is impossible to live in this wonder city and not find each day
adding to one’s admiration for its kings. The most ardent republicanism
cannot withhold this. Their munificent public spirit, grand conceptions,
fine taste, good judgment, energetic execution, and practical
improvements are made manifest in every direction. Bavaria, and
especially this, its capital city, have been subjected to much criticism
and no little ridicule on account of their so-termed pretentious
development--their egotism in attempting to rival Athens and Rome in the
style and magnitude of their public buildings; their “towering
ambition,” as displayed in the number and size of their art works; all
being regarded as quite out of proportion to its insignificant limits
and lack of importance as a political factor in the nations of Europe.
But whatever creates business attracts population, adds to the
prosperity and increases the revenues of a country; and this is surely
no contemptible desideratum in its political economy. That these results
have been accomplished here is shown by the census. Bavaria became a
kingdom in 1806; Munich is the capital, you know; its population in 1840
was about 40,000; in 1850, 100,000; in 1870, 170,000; the last census,
it was over 230,000, and gaining all the time. In every direction, new
streets are being laid out, new buildings are going up, old ones are
being repaired, and the entire city gives the impression of rapid growth
and increasing prosperity, all improvements being of the most
substantial and imposing character.
The reigning house of Wittelsbach dates from 1180. It has ruled under
the titles, duke, elector, one emperor and king; that of duke till 1623;
the one emperor, Elector Charles Albert becoming Emperor Charles VIII
from 1726 to 1745. Maximilian Joseph succeeded as elector in 1799,
holding that title till 1805, when he was invested with that of
king--“Maximilian I, King of Bavaria.” The present king is his
great-grandson. In otherwise idle hours, I have had the curiosity to
make a kind of catalogue of the public work of these rulers. You see,
when one is driving or walking in a strange city, the questions are apt
to come “in battalions.” In my first drive, the finest streets and
buildings evoked some such questions and answers as these: “What street
is this?” “Ludwig Strasse, planned and built by King Ludwig!” “What
building is this?” “The Royal Library, also built by him.” And so on
till I became quite bewildered by the many magnificent structures and
institutions of his creation, or of other kings. But I have continued to
question, read, and keep count, till I feel quite familiar with these
kingly monuments, and have taken much interest in my “busy idleness.”
Maximilian I founded new suburbs: the general hospital which I have
visited and inspected closely, and cannot praise too much, a riding
school, observatory, and the celebrated bronze foundry, much patronized
by the United States. His crowning honor to me is that he was the first
German prince who granted a representative government to his people.
Ludwig I, his son and successor, began his extraordinary career as
patron and lover of art while yet crown prince. His works abound in such
numbers, splendor and variety, it is difficult to realize them as the
creations of one person, one lifetime. Of course you are familiar with
the character of the most, if not all, but perhaps have never taken the
trouble to do this little sum in addition. So I shall only mention the
names: the Glyphothek Exhibition Building, Propilae, Old Pinakothek, New
Pinakothek, Royal Library, University, Bronze Foundry, Stained Glass
Manufactory, Konigsbau, Festaalbau, Ludwig’s Kirche, Basilica, Maria
Hilf, Royal Chapel, Ludwig Strasse, Feldernhalle, Bavaria, Walhalla,
Temple of Liberation--the last two near Ratisbon--Pompaianeum and Donan,
Marie Canal, besides many statues and monuments, such as the obelisk on
the Carolinenplatz, cast in metal from conquered cannon. His son,
Maximilian II, reigned from 1848 to 1864. His attention and efforts seem
to have been principally directed to the advancement of science, though
he was not behind in the beautifying and practical development of the
city. To him it owes the Cornmarket, the Crystal Palace, Railway
Station, Old Winter Garden, Lying-in Hospital, Physiological Institute,
Maximilian Strasse, Riegerung, Bavarian National Museum, Maximilian
Bridge, or rather two bridges in one over the Isar, Maximilianeum,
Gasteig Park, etc.; certainly sufficient evidence that his
comparatively short reign of sixteen years was not frittered away. This
king must have been noble, indeed, and specially qualified for a great
and good ruler; such affection and reverence cling to his memory. Only
last week I read a most touching reminiscence of him recalled by his
physician and spiritual father, Dr. R. von Reindl, who was one of the
few present in attendance when the king was on his death-bed. At five
o’clock of the day he died, in the morning, the great bell of the Frauen
Kirche was rung to summon all Munich to pray for the sick monarch.
Hearing it in his sick-room, he asked, “Dear Reindl, what holy day is
this?” “Sire,” he replied, “the Bavarian people are praying for their
king.” He spoke again: “Ah, am I so near my end? Well, I am ready. I
have always wished the best for my people, and never intentionally
injured anyone. I ask forgiveness from all.” There is something sublime
in such an exhibition of resignation and humility. He was not yet
fifty-four years of age, and in the prime of his powers and usefulness.
Among the many monuments of Munich, his, at the end of Maximilian
Strasse, is the grandest and most imposing.
He stands in his coronation robes, holding the charter, on a pedestal of
granite and syenite, around which are beautiful figures representing
Peace, Religion, Justice and Strength. It bears the simple, perfect
inscription, “Erected by his faithful people.”
The present king, Ludwig II, has, it is said, carried out some of the
plans of his father, and is as much given to building castles as was
Charlemagne. Doubtless you are familiar with his reputation for
eccentricity, as it has a world-wide publicity. So extreme has been its
exhibition, it has obtained for him the title of “the mad king.” It is
difficult to get a fair estimate of him; but if he is mad, there is,
like Hamlet’s, “method in his madness.” He held his own against the
Kaiser in the adjustment of United Germany; would not be swallowed by
the whale, though he was such a little fish. He works daily for hours on
state matters, and signs no papers without his full personal
examination. He is credited with being so shrewd that neither his
ministers nor others can get the advantage. “No fooling him to the top
o’ his bent.” He is kind-hearted and benevolent--gave forty thousand
marks, against the Kaiser’s fifteen thousand, to the recent sufferers
from the inundations; and he seems to keep watch for, and is swift to
reward, any special exhibition of merit in science or art. All this on
the one hand; on the other there is quite as much. He lives his own
life, regardless of everything but his own will and tastes. He absents
himself from his capital. He lives alone, leading a singularly isolated
life--he would seem to be a misanthrope. He does the most anomalous
things. Here is a specimen: one of his residences (Residenz is the name
of the royal palaces here), six miles from the city, is interesting for
its pictures and extensive and fine grounds. He spent some weeks there
last summer, and won the idolatrous worship of the villagers and country
folk around, by mingling with them and treating them with the utmost
kindness. One of the picture galleries is called “the Gallery of
Ancestors,” its walls being hung with portraits of five hundred of the
Wittelsbach house. Well, he ordered a magnificent banquet laid in this
gallery, calling it “the feast of the ancestors;” a plate for each and a
tall wax candle for each; and he spent the night at table, the only
living guest and banqueter!
It is to be hoped the long line of unsubstantial shadows of the house of
Wittelsbach were able to appreciate the honor conferred on them. In
personal appearance, he has been an extraordinarily handsome man; tall,
a head and shoulders above most men; symmetrical, of superb, real kingly
bearing; with a finely shaped head, rich masses of brown hair, and
splendid, large, dark, expressive eyes. I have seen fine portraits of
him at different periods from seventeen or eighteen years of age till
now. In all, he is a strikingly handsome man. He was here the first of
November, after an absence of six months; remained two weeks. I saw him
twice in his carriage. He is growing exceedingly stout--too much so for
my taste--but still shows what he has been. What sharp-tongued Frenchman
was it who said, “_un homme d’esprit meurt, mais n’engraisse pas_?” How
much more applicable to looks than wit!