And now, if Berlin wants taste and magnificence, here’s Potzdam built
on purpose, I believe, to shew that even with both a place may be very
dismal and very disagreeable. The commonest buildings in this city look
like the best side of Grosvenor-square in London, or Queen’s-square at
Bath. I have not seen a street so narrow as Oxford Road, but many here
are much wider, with canals up the middle, and a row of trees planted
on each side, a gravel walk near the water for foot passengers, instead
of a _trottoir_ by the side of the houses. Every dwelling is ornamented
to a degree of profusion; but to one’s question of, “Who lives in these
palaces?” one hears that they are all empty space, or only occupied by
goods never wanted, or corn there is nobody to feed with: this amazes
one; and in fact here are no inhabitants of dignity at all proportioned
to the residences provided for them; so that when one sees the copies of
antique bas-reliefs, in no bad sculpture, decorating the doors whence
dangle a shoulder of mutton, or a shoemaker’s last, it either shocks one
or makes one laugh, like the old Bartholomew trick of putting a baby’s
face upon an old man’s shoulders, or sticking a king’s crown upon a
peasant’s head.
The churches are very fine on the outside, but strangely plain within:
that, however, where the royal body reposes looked solemn and stately in
its mourning dress. Black velvet, with silver fringe and tassels very
rich and heavy, hung over the pulpit, family seat, &c. and every thing
struck one with an air of melancholy dignity. The king of Prussia’s
corpse, no longer animated by ambition, rests quietly in an unornamented
solid silver coffin, placed in a sort of closet above ground, the door to
which opens close to the pulpit’s feet, and shews the narrow space which
now holds his body, beside that of his father, and the great elector, as
he is still justly called.
My sepulchral tour is now nearly finished: we have in the course of
this journey seen the last remains of many a celebrated mortal. Virgil,
Raphael, Ariosto, Scipio, Galileo, Petrarch, Carlo Borromeo, and the king
of Prussia. How different each from other in his life! How like each
other now! But
Tous ces morts ont vecu; toi qui lis--tu mourras:
L’instant fatal approche, et tu n’y pense pas[53].
I could have wished before my return to have paused a moment on the
tomb of Melancthon, who might be said to have united in himself _their_
separate perfections. Courage, genius, moderation, piety! persevering
steadiness in the right way himself; candid acknowledgment of merit, even
in his enemies, where he saw their intentions right, though he thought
their tenets and their conduct wrong. But we are removed far from the
dwelling of the _peacemaker_; let us at least look at the palace, now we
have examined the coffin of him whose study and delight was _war_.
Sans Souci is surely an elegantly chosen spot, its architecture
excellent, its furniture rich yet delicate, the gardens very happily
disposed, the prospect from its windows agreeable, the pictures within
an admirable collection. A hall built in imitation of the Colonna
gallery shews Frederick’s taste at once and liberal spirit: the front
seems borrowed from something at St. Peter’s; all is beautiful; the
gilding of his long-room makes a very sudden and strong effect, nor are
marbles of immense value wanting; here is a specimen of every thing I
think, and two agate tables of prodigious size and beauty. The Silesian
chrysopaz, and Carolina marble of a bright scarlet colour, quite luminous
like the feathers of a fighting cock, struck me with their singular and
splendid appearance. Rubens’s merit was not new to me, I hope; yet here
is a resurrection of Lazarus, in which he has been lavish of it. The
composition of this picture seems to have been intended to surpass every
thing put together by other artists: its colouring glows like life.
The king’s town-house, however, is finer far than this his villa was
designed to be; but I grew very tired walking over it: when one has
dragged through twenty-four rooms variously hung with pink and silver,
green and gold, &c. one grows cruelly weary with repeating the same
ideas by drawling through forty-eight more. I wished to see his own
private living apartments, and to mind with what books and pictures he
adorned the dressing-room he always sate in: the first were chiefly
works of Voltaire and Metastasio--the last were small landscapes of
Albano and Watteau. At our desire they shewed us the little bed he slept,
the chairs he sate in familiarly. Suetonius in French and Italian was
the last author he looked into; they have made a mark at the death of
Augustus, where he was reading when the same visitant called on him,
quite unexpected by himself it seems, though all his attendants were well
aware of his approach. As he expired he said, _I give you a vast deal
of trouble_. We saw the spot he sate in at the moment; for Frederick no
more died in his bed, than did the famous Flavius Vespasian; his servants
wept as they repeated the particulars, caressing while they spoke his
favourite dogs, one of which, a terrier, could hardly be prevailed upon
to quit the body. It used to amuse the king to see them frighted when he
would take them to a long room lined with French mirrors, which he did
now and then to laugh at the effect.
Every thing at Potzdam shews a man in haste to enjoy what he had
laboured so hard to procure; nor did he ever refuse himself, they say,
any gratification that could make age less wearisome, or illness less
afflictive. He had much taste of English ingenuity--combinations of
convenience, and improvements in mechanism: his own writing-table,
however, was contrived by himself; it stands on four legs, one pair
longer than the other to make it slope; the covering is green velvet,
with a square hole for the standish to drop in and not spill the ink: I
liked the device exceedingly, but wondered he thought any device worth
his preference. His conversation to his servants was affable and even
gay; they loved his person, it is plain, and half adore his memory.
Such were the manners then, and such the death, of the far-famed
philosopher of Sans Souci! And in truth, when he had so often set all
present and future happiness to hazard, it would have been inconsistent
not to hasten the enjoyment: nobody comes to inhabit his fine town,
however, which has much the look of buildings in a stage perspective.
Soldiers only, and such as sell wares necessary to soldiers, were all
the human creatures I could see here; nor are families, or travellers of
any sort indeed, better accommodated here than at inns of less pompous
appearance on the outside.
For accommodations, however, I care but little; I have now walked over
the oldest and the youngest cities in all Europe, and have left each with
sincere admiration of their contents. Both are full of buildings and
empty of inhabitants, nor am I desirous to add to the number in either. I
was going to step forward into some room of the palace yesterday--“Madam,
come back this instant,” exclaimed our Cicerone; “if that chamber is
entered, my head will be off my shoulders in three days time.” Another
well attested anecdote may be worth relating: A gentleman with whom we
passed an agreeable evening at Berlin, whose lady invited to meet us
whatever was most charming in the town, told the following story of a
soldier who, being desirous of his body’s dissolution, but fearful of
his soul’s rushing unprepared into eternity, caught and murdered a six
months old baby; giving this strange account of his own feelings on
the occasion, and adding, that he did not like to kill an adult, lest
his own impatience of life’s insupportable torment might by that means
precipitate his neighbour to perdition; but that a baptized infant
would be sure of heaven, and he himself should gain time to prepare for
following it--“And, Lord!” said my informer, “what reasoners this world
has in it!” The soldier was hanged six weeks after the dreadful crime was
committed; he made a very decent and penitential end.
On such facts what observations or reflections can result? I made none,
but gave God thanks that I was born a subject of Great Britain.