Tuileries of Berlin. In one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is
the monument erected by the people of Berlin to their old king. The
pedestal is Carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called
garden pleasures--children in all manner of outdoor sports, and parents
fondly looking on. It is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those
grounds where parents and children are constantly congregating. The
whole is surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble--the finest
representation of him I have ever seen. Thoughtful, yet benign, the old
king seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch
over the pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. There was
something about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and
pastoral, that I at once preferred them to all I had seen in Europe.
Choice flowers are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks,
as if they had grown by accident: and an air of sweet, natural wildness
is left amid the most careful cultivation. The people seemed to be
enjoying themselves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in
France, but with a calm inwardness. Each nation has its own way of being
happy, and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of
appropriateness to character. The trim, dressy, animated air of the
Tuileries suits admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society
there. Both, in their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal,
and more according to nature.
[Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."]
[Footnote B: King Frederick William III. and Queen Louise are here
referred to. Since Mrs. Stowe's visit (1854) the Emperor William I. and
the Empress Augusta have been buried in this mausoleum.]
LEIPSIC AND DRESDEN[A]
BY BAYARD TAYLOR
I have now been nearly two days in wide-famed Leipsic, and the more I
see of it, the better I like it. It is a pleasant, friendly town, old
enough to be interesting and new enough to be comfortable. There is much
active business-life, through which it is fast increasing in size and
beauty. Its publishing establishments are the largest in the world, and
its annual fairs attended by people from all parts of Europe. This is
much for a city to accomplish situated alone in the middle of a great
plain, with no natural charms of scenery or treasures of art to attract
strangers. The energy and enterprise of its merchants have accomplished
all this, and it now stands in importance among the first cities of
Europe.
On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the
Augustus Platz--a broad green lawn on which front the university and
several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades
encircles the city on the site of its old fortifications. Following
their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with
flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian
Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private
cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once
directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it a glorious choral
swelled by a hundred voices came through the open windows like a tribute
to the genius of the great master.
Having found my friend, we went together to the Sternwarte, or
observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and
in particular the battlefield. The castellan who is stationed there is
well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the
hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles
which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle
around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond
was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here.
Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Blücher, from
Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three
hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and
ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days
raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly
conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The
small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead.
It is difficult to conceive of such slaughter while looking at the quiet
and tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is to
be hoped that the world will never see such another.
There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee and enjoy a
few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets. One can walk for
miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows or the
banks of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a
short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house,
hangs the sign, "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic "literati" have
built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here
dwelt Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Everywhere through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.
I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over
the plain to the city, and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks
entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to
the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The
stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French to cut off
pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till
the Poles had all passed over as the river, tho narrow, is quite deep
and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait, and
the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to plunge
into the stream to join the French army, which had begun retreat toward
Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way through a garden
near, and escaped on horseback into the water. He became entangled among
the fugitives, and sank. By walking a little distance along the road
toward Frankfort we could see the spot where his body was taken out of
the river; it is now marked by a square stone covered with the names of
his countrymen who have visited it. We returned through the narrow
arched way by which Napoleon fled when the battle was lost.
Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerbach's Cellar, which, it is
said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust from which Goethe
derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and
one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched
passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretense for
entering. The streets are full of book-stores, and one-half the business
of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and
binding. The publishers have a handsome exchange of their own, and
during the fairs the amount of business transacted is enormous.
At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have christened
it! Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely
surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural beauty of
its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green
meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping
around like an amphitheater and the craggy peaks of the highlands
looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance give it a
rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas embowered in
trees gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there is no bustle of
business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most
cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment.
The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic over the eighty
miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the
Neustadt, passing the Japanese palace and the equestrian statue of
Augustus the Strong. The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much
injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we were obliged to
go some distance up the river-bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next
morning my first search was for the picture-gallery. We set off at
random, and after passing the church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of
solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with
Frederick the Great, came to an open square one side of which was
occupied by an old brown, red-roofed building which I at once recognized
from pictures as the object of our search.
I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it
with real regret; for during the two visits Raphael's heavenly picture
of the Madonna and Child had so grown into my love and admiration that
it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many mere
which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest
degree the love for the beautiful, that I left them with sadness and the
thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the inspired
eye and godlike brow of the Jesus-child as if I were still standing
before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the Madonna still
looks upon me. Yet, tho this picture is a miracle of art, the first
glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat faded during the
three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of Raphael
worked on the canvas, and the glass with which it is covered for better
preservation injures the effect. After I had gazed on it a while, every
thought of this vanished.
The figure of the Virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult
to think the clouds were not in motion. An aërial lightness clothes her
form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the
clouds. Two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the
sacred Child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of
angels. The mild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chain
one like a spell. There is something more than mortal in its
expression--something in the infant face which indicates a power
mightier than the proudest manhood. There is no glory around the head,
but the spirit which shines from those features marks its divinity. In
the sweet face of the mother there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed
with its tenderness, as if she knew the world into which the Savior was
born and foresaw the path in which he was to tread. It is a picture
which one can scarce look upon without tears.
There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio which are said to
be among his best works--one of them, his celebrated Magdalen. There is
also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the Virgin with the shepherds in the
manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the Child. The
surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully exprest. In one of the
halls there is a picture of Van der Werff in which the touching story of
Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young Ishmael
is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in childish
unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the corner of
his mother's mantle around him and smiles at the tears of his lost
playmate.
Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two portraits of
Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You almost think the
artist has in sport crept behind the frame and wishes to make you
believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of half the
gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are twelve
large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures.
The plain south of Dresden was the scene of the hard-fought battle
between Napoleon and the allied armies in 1813. On the heights above the
little village of Räcknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the
battle. We took a footpath through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees
in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is
simple--a square block of granite surmounted by a helmet and sword, with
the inscription, "The hero Moreau fell here by the side of Alexander,
August 17, 1813," I gathered as a memorial a few leaves of the oak which
shades it.
By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to
the royal library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among
them, the most complete collection of historical works in existence.
Each hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large
room is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of
rare and curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the
seventh and eighth centuries, a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan
Bajazet, the handwriting of Luther and Melanchthon, a manuscript volume
with pen-and-ink sketches by Albert Dürer, and the earliest works after
the invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by
Faust and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican
manuscripts written on the aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish
volumes of the Middle Ages.
We were fortunate in seeing the Grüne Gewölbe, or Green Gallery, a
collection of jewels and costly articles unsurpassed in Europe. The
first hall into which we were ushered contained works in bronze. They
were all small, and chosen with regard to their artistical value. Some
by John of Bologna were exceedingly fine, as was also a group in iron
cut out of a single block, perhaps the only successful attempt in this
branch. The next room contained statues, and vases covered with reliefs
in ivory. The most remarkable work was the fall of Lucifer and his
angels, containing ninety-two figures in all, carved out of a single
piece of ivory sixteen inches high. It was the work of an Italian monk,
and cost him many years of hard labor. There were two tables of
mosaic-work that would not be out of place in the fabled halls of the
Eastern genii, so much did they exceed my former ideas of human skill.
The tops were of jasper, and each had a border of fruit and flowers in
which every color was represented by some precious stone, all with the
utmost delicacy and truth to nature. It is impossible to conceive the
splendid effect it produced. Besides some fine pictures on gold by
Raphael Mengs, there was a Madonna, the largest specimen of
enamel-painting in existence.
However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an
introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in
splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows
of goblets, vases, etc., of polished jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli.
Splendid mosaic tables stood around with caskets of the most exquisite
silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of
them weighing six hundred pounds, were placed at the foot of the
columns. We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers,
made of gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the
"Spanish Dwarf," nearly as large as a pullet's egg, globes and vases cut
entirely out of the mountain-crystal, magnificent Nuremberg watches and
clocks, and a great number of figures made ingeniously of rough pearls
and diamonds.
The officer showed me a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently
nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing it came apart and
disclosed the yolk of gold. This again opened, and a golden chicken was
seen; by touching a spring a little diamond crown came from the inside,
and, the crown being again taken apart, out dropt a valuable diamond
ring. The seventh hall contains the coronation-robes of Augustus II. of
Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood. A cherry-stone is
shown in a glass case which has one hundred and twenty-five facets, all
perfectly finished, carved upon it.
The next room we entered sent back a glare of splendor that perfectly
dazzled us; it was all gold, diamond, ruby, and sapphire. Every case
sent out such a glow and glitter that it seemed like a cage of
imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it was met by a blaze of
broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and every gem was a
fortune--whole cases of swords with hilts and scabbards of solid gold
studded with gems, the great two-handed coronation sword of the German
emperors, daggers covered with brilliants and rubies, diamond buttons,
chains, and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and emerald, and
the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind.
We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and
four inches broad. One of the most remarkable works is the throne and
court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated
goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two
figures, all of enameled gold and each one most perfectly and
elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for
fifty-eight thousand thalers,[B] which was not a high sum, considering
that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven
years.
It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these
halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must be many millions
of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is
incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil they are
interesting, but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy
have been wasted in producing things which are useless to the world and
only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if men
could be diverted by such playthings from more dangerous games, it would
be all the better.
[Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]
[Footnote B: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about seventy cents. Author's
note--The thaler went out of use in Germany in 1906.]
WEIMAR IN GOETHE'S DAY[A]
BY MADAME DE STAËL
Of all the German principalities, there is none that makes us feel so
much as Weimar the advantages of a small state, of which the sovereign
is a man of strong understanding, and who is capable of endeavoring to
please all orders of his subjects, without losing anything in their
obedience. Such a state is as a private society, where all the members
are connected together by intimate relations. The Duchess Louisa of Saxe
Weimar is the true model of a woman destined by nature to the most
illustrious rank; without pretension, as without weakness, she inspires
in the same degree confidence and respect; and the heroism of the
chivalrous ages has entered her soul without taking from it any thing of
her sex's softness. The military talents of the duke are universally
respected, and his lively and reflective conversation continually brings
to our recollection that he was formed by the great Frederic. It is by
his own and his mother's reputation that the most distinguished men of
learning have been attracted to Weimar, and by them Germany, for the
first time, has possest a literary metropolis; but, as this metropolis
was at the same time only an inconsiderable town, its ascendency was
merely that of superior illumination; for fashion, which imposes
uniformity in all things, could not emanate from so narrow a circle.
Herder was just dead when I arrived at Weimar; but Wieland, Goethe, and
Schiller were still there. Their writings are the perfect resemblances
of their character and conversation. This very rare concordance is a
proof of sincerity; when the first object in writing is to produce an
effect upon others, a man never displays himself to them, such as he is
in reality; but when he writes to satisfy an internal inspiration which
has obtained possession of the soul, he discovers by his works, even
without intending it, the very slightest shades of his manner of
thinking and acting.
The residence in country towns has always appeared to me very irksome.
The understanding of the men is narrowed, the heart of the women frozen
there; people live so much in each other's presence that one is opprest
by one's equals; it is no longer this distant opinion, the reverberation
of which animates you from afar like the report of glory; it is a minute
inspection of all the actions of your life, an observation of every
detail, which prevents the general character from being comprehended;
and the more you have of independence and elevation of mind, the less
able you are to breathe amidst so many little impediments.
This painful constraint did not exist at Weimar; it was rather a large
palace than a little town; a select circle of society, which made its
interest consist in the discussion of all the novelties of art and
science: women, the amiable scholars of some superior men, were
constantly speaking of the new literary works, as of the most important
public events. They enjoyed the whole universe by reading and study;
they freed themselves by the enlargement of the mind from the restraint
of circumstances; they forgot the private anecdotes of each individual,
in habitually reflecting together on those great questions which
influence the destiny common to all alike. And in this society there
were none of those provincial wonders, who so easily mistake contempt
for grace, and affectation for elegance.
[Footnote A: From "Germany."]
ULM[A]
BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN
We were now within about twenty English miles of Ulm. Nothing particular
occurred, either by way of anecdote or of scenery, till within almost
the immediate approach or descent to that city--the last in the Suabian
territories, and which is separated from Bavaria by the River Danube. I
caught the first glance of that celebrated river (here of comparatively
trifling width) with no ordinary emotions of delight. It recalled to my
memory the battle of Blenheim, or of Hochstedt; for you know that it was
across this very river, and scarcely a score of miles from Ulm, that the
victorious Marlborough chased the flying French and Bavarians--at the
battle just mentioned. At the same moment, almost, I could not fail to
contrast this glorious issue with the miserable surrender of the town
before me--then filled by a large and well-disciplined army, and
commanded by that nonpareil of generals, J.G. Mack!--into the power of
Bonaparte almost without pulling a trigger on either side--the place
itself being considered, at the time, one of the strongest towns in
Europe. These things, I say, rushed upon my memory, when, on the
immediate descent into Ulm, I caught the first view of the tower of the
minster which quickly put Marlborough, and Mack, and Bonaparte out of my
recollection.
I had never, since quitting the beach at Brighton, beheld such an
English-like looking cathedral--as a whole; and particularly the tower.
It is broad, bold, and lofty; but, like all edifices, seen from a
neighboring and perhaps loftier height, it loses, at first view, very
much of the loftiness of its character. However, I looked with
admiration, and longed to approach it. This object was accomplished in
twenty minutes. We entered Ulm about two o'clock: drove to an excellent
inn (the White Stag--which I strongly recommend to all travelers), and
ordered our dinner to be got ready by five; which, as the house was
within a stone's cast of the cathedral, gave us every opportunity of
visiting it beforehand. The day continued most beautiful: and we sallied
forth in high spirits, to gaze at and to admire every object of
antiquity which should present itself.