is well worth a visit. Its two towers are 408 feet in height; a very
elaborate belfry rises from the roof at the point of intersection of the
transept. The towers of Lübeck have the peculiarity, every one of them,
of being out of the perpendicular, leaning perceptibly to the right or
left, but without disquieting the eye, like the tower of Asinelli at
Bologna, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Seen two or three miles away,
these towers, drunk and staggering, with their pointed caps that seem to
nod at the horizon, present a droll and hilarious silhouette.
On entering the church, the first curious object that meets the eye is
a copy of the Todtentanz, or Dance of Death, of the cemetery at Bâsle. I
do not need to describe it in detail. The Middle Ages were never tired
of composing variations upon this dismal theme. The most conspicuous of
them are brought together in this lugubrious painting, which covers all
the walls of one chapel. From the Pope and the Emperor to the infant in
his cradle, each human being in his turn enters upon the dance with the
inevitable terror. But death is not depicted as a skeleton, white,
polished, cleaned, articulated with copper wire like the skeleton of an
anatomical cabinet: that would be too ornamental for the vulgar crowd.
He appears as a dead body in a more or less advanced state of
decomposition, with all the horrid secrets of the tomb carefully
revealed....
The cathedral, which is called in German the Dom, is quite remarkable in
its interior. In the middle of the nave, filling one whole arch, is a
colossal Christ of Gothic style, nailed to a cross carved in open-work,
and ornamented with arabesques. The foot of this cross rests upon a
transverse beam, going from one pillar to another, on which are standing
the holy women and other pious personages, in attitudes of grief and
adoration; Adam and Eve, one on either side, are arranging their
paradisaic costume as decently as may be; above the cross the keystone
of the arch projects, adorned with flowers and leafage, and serves as a
standing-place for an angel with long wings. This construction, hanging
in mid-air, and evidently light in weight, notwithstanding its
magnitude, is of wood, carved with much taste and skill. I can define
it in no better way than to call it a carved portcullis, lowered halfway
in front of the chancel. It is the first example of such an arrangement
that I have ever seen....
The Holstenthor, a city gate close by the railway station, is a most
curious and picturesque specimen of German medieval architecture.
Imagine two enormous brick towers united by the main portion of the
structure, through which opens an archway, like a basket-handle, and you
have a rude sketch of the construction; but you would not easily
conceive of the effect produced by the high summit of the edifice, the
conical roofs of the towers, the whimsical windows in the walls and in
the roofs, the dull red or violet tints of the defaced bricks. It is
altogether a new gamut for painters of architecture or of ruins; and I
shall send them to Lübeck by the next train. I recommend to their notice
also, very near the Holstenthor, on the left bank of the Trave, five or
six crimson houses, shouldering each other for mutual support, bulging
out in front, pierced with six or seven stories of windows, with
denticulated gables, the deep red reflection of them trailing in the
water, like some high-colored apron which a servant-maid is washing.
What a picture Van den Heyden would have made of this!
Following the quay, along which runs a railway, where freight-trains
were constantly passing, I enjoyed many amusing and varied scenes. On
the other side of the Trave were to be seen, amid houses and clumps of
trees, vessels in various stages of building. Here, a skeleton with
ribs of wood, like the carcass of some stranded whale; there, a hull,
clad with its planking near which smokes the calker's cauldron, emitting
light yellowish clouds. Everywhere prevails a cheerful stir of busy
life. Carpenters are planing and hammering, porters are rolling casks,
sailors are scrubbing the decks of vessels, or getting the sails half
way up to dry them in the sun. A barque just arriving comes alongside
the quay, the other vessels making room for her to pass. The little
steamboats are getting up steam or letting it off; and when you turn
toward the city, through the rigging of the vessels, you see the
church-towers, which incline gracefully, like the masts of clippers.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.]
[Footnote B: The decline of Lübeck dates from the first quarter of the
sixteenth century and was chiefly due to the discovery of America and
the consequent diversion of commerce to new directions. Other
misfortunes came with the Thirty Years' War. As early as 1425, one of
the constant sources of Lübeck's wealth had begun to fail her--the
herring, which was found to be deserting Baltic waters. The discovery by
the Portuguese of a route to India by the Cape of Good Hope was another
cause of Lübeck's decline.]
HELIGOLAND[A]
BY WILLIAM GEORGE BLACK
In Heligoland itself there are few trees, no running water, no romantic
ruins, but an extraordinary width of sea-view, seen as from the deck of
a gigantic ship; and yet the island is so small that one can look around
it all, and take the sea-line in one great circle.
Seen from a distance, as one must first see it, Heligoland is little
more than a cloud on the horizon; but as the steamer approaches nearer,
the island stands up, a red rock in the ocean, without companion or
neighbor. A small ledge of white strand to the south is the only spot
where boats can land, and on this ledge nestle many white-walled,
red-roofed houses; while on the rim of the rock, nearly two hundred feet
above, is a sister hamlet, with the church-tower and lighthouse for
central ornaments.
On the Unterland are the principal streets and shops, on the Oberland
are many of the best hotels and government-house. As there is no harbor,
passengers reach the shore in large boats, and get their first glimpse
of the hardy, sun-browned natives in the boatmen who, with bright
jackets and hats of every picturesque curve that straw is capable of,
pull the boat quickly to the steps of the little pier. Crowds of
visitors line the way, but one gets quickly through, and in a few
minutes returns either to familiar quarters in the Oberland, or finds an
equally clean and moderate home among the lodging-house keepers or
seamen. The season is a very short one, only ten weeks out of fifty-two,
but the prices are moderate and the comfort unchallengeable....
Heligoland is only one mile long from pier to Nordkap, and a quarter of
a mile wide at its widest--in all it is three-quarters of a square mile
in size. There are no horses or carts in Heligoland--only six cows, kept
always in darkness, and a few sheep and goats tethered on the Oberland.
The streets are very narrow, but very clean, and the constant
repetition in houses and scarves and flags of the national colors gives
Heligoland a gay aspect; for the national colors are anything but dull.
Green land, red rocks, white strand--nothing could be better descriptive
of the island than these colors. They are easily brought out in domestic
architecture, for with a whitewashed cottage and a red-tiled roof the
Heligolander has only to give his door and window-shutters a coat of
bright green paint, and there are the colors of Heligoland. In case the
unforgettable fact should escape the tourist, the government have worked
the colors into the ingenious and pretty island postage-stamp, and many
of our German friends wear bathing-pants of the same unobtrusive tints.
Life is a very delightful thing in summer in this island. On your first
visit you feel exhilarated by the novelty of everything as much as by
the strong warm sea wind which meets you wherever you go. When you
return, the novelty has worn away, but the sense of enjoyment has
deepened. As you meet friendly faces and feel the grip of friendly
hands, so you also exchange salutations with Nature, as if she, too,
were an old Heligoland friend. You know the view from this point and
from that; but, like the converse of a friend, it is always changing,
for there is no monotony in the sea. The waves lap the shore gently, or
roar tumultuously in the red caverns, and it is all familiar, but none
the less welcome and soothing because of that familiarity. It is not a
land of lotus-eating delights, but it is a land where there is little
sound but what the sea makes, and where every face tells of strong sun
and salt waves. No doubt, much of its charm lies in its contrast to the
life of towns or country places. Whatever comes to Heligoland comes from
over the sea; there is no railway within many a wide mile; the people
are a peculiar people, with their own peculiar language, and an island
patriotism which it would be hard to match....
From the little pier one passes up the narrow white street, no broader
than a Cologne lane, but clean and bright as is no other street in
Europe, past the cafés with low balconies, and the little shops--into
some there are three or four steps to descend, into others there is an
ascent of a diminutive ladder--till the small square or garden is
reached in front of the Conversation House, a spacious building with a
good ball-room and reading-room, where a kiosque, always in summer full
of the fragrant Heligoland roses, detains the passer-by. Then another
turn or two in the street, and the bottom of the Treppe is
approached--the great staircase which winds upward to the Oberland, in
whose crevices grow masses of foliage, and whose easy ascent need not be
feared by any one, for the steps are broad and low.
The older flight of steps was situated about a hundred paces northward
from the present Treppe. It was cut out of the red crumbling rock, and
at the summit passed through a guard-house. Undoubtedly the present
Treppe should be similarly fortified. It was built by the government in
1834. During the smuggling days, it is said, an Englishman rode up to
the Oberland, and the apparition so shocked an old woman, who had never
seen a horse before, that she fell senseless to the ground.
From the Falm or road skirting the edge of the precipice from the head
of the stairs to Government House, one of the loveliest views in all the
world lies before our eyes. Immediately beneath are the winding stairs,
with their constant stream of broad-shouldered seamen, or coquettish
girls, or brown boys, passing up and down, while at each resting-place
some group is sitting on the green-red-white seats gossiping over the
day's business. Trees and plants nestle in the stair corners, and almost
conceal the roadway at the foot.
Lifting one's eyes away from the little town, the white pier sprawls on
the, sea, and countless boats at anchor spot with darkness the shining
water. Farther away, the Düne lies like a bar of silver across the view,
ribbed with emerald where the waves roll in over white sand; and all
around it, as far as the eye can reach, white sails gleam in the light,
until repose is found on the horizon where sea and sky meet in a vapory
haze. At night the Falm is a favorite resort of the men whose houses are
on the Oberland. With arms resting on the broad wall, they look down on
the twinkling lights of the houses far beneath, listen to the laughter
or song which float up from the small tables outside the café, or watch
the specks of light on the dark gleam of the North Sea. It is a prospect
of which one could hardly tire, if it was not that in summer one has in
Heligoland a surfeit of sea loveliness....
Heligoland is conjecturally identified with the ocean island described
by Tacitus as the place of the sacred rites of the Angli and other
tribes of the mainland. It was almost certainly sacred to Forsete, the
son of Balder the Sun-god--if he be identified, as Grimm and all Frisian
writers identify him, with Fosite the Frisian god. Forsete, a
personification to men of the great white god, who dwelt in a shining
hall of gold and silver, was among all gods and men the wisest of
judges.
It is generally supposed that Heligoland was first named the Holy Island
from its association with the worship of Forsete, and latterly in
consequence of the conversion of the Frisian inhabitants. Hallier has,
however, pointed out that the Heligolanders do not use this name for
their home. They call the island "det Lunn"--the land; their language
they call "Hollunner," and he suggests that the original name was
Hallig-lunn. A hallig is a sand-island occasionally covered with water.
When the Düne was connected with the rock there was a large stretch of
sand covered by winter floods. Hallig-lunn would then mean the island
that is more than a hallig; and from the similarity of the words to
Heligoland a series of etymological errors may have arisen; but
Hallier's derivation is, after all, only a guess.
[Footnote A: From "Heligoland and the Islands of the North Sea."
Heligoland, an island and fortress in the North Sea, lies thirty-six
miles northwest of the mouth of the Elbe--Hamburg. It was ceded to
Germany by Great Britain in 1890; and is attached to Schleswig Holstein.
As a fortress, its importance has been greatly increased since the
Germans recovered possession of the island.]
V
VIENNA
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL[A]
BY BAYARD TAYLOR
I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great capital, this
German Paris, this connecting-link between the civilization of Europe
and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It looks familiar to be in a
city again whose streets are thronged with people and resound with the
din and bustle of business. It reminds me of the never-ending crowds of
London or the life and tumult of our scarcely less active New York. The
morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the
Leopoldstadt to explore the world before us. Entering the broad
Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube which
separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent
coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their
breakfasts in the shady porticos. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses
the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the
dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little
brown Hungarian boys were going around selling bunches of lilies, and
Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the sidewalk.
The throng became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The
streets were filled with carts and carriages, and, as there are no
side-pavements, it required constant attention to keep out of their way.
Splendid shops fitted up with great taste occupied the whole of the
lower stories, and goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvas awnings in
front of them. Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some
particular person or place, which was represented on a large panel by
the door. The number of these paintings added much to the splendor of
the scene; I was gratified to find, among the images of kings and dukes,
one dedicated "To the American," with an Indian chief in full costume.
The Altstadt, or "old city," which contains about sixty thousand
inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population,
taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a
million.[B] It is situated on a small arm of the Danube and encompassed
by a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a
quarter to half a mile in length, called the "Glacis." This formerly
belonged to the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up
so rapidly on all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk.
The city is still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat,
but, since it was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed
into a garden with a beautiful carriage-road along the bottom around the
whole city.
It is a beautiful sight to stand on the summit of the wall and look over
the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every direction and
filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The Vorstaedte, or new
cities, stretch in a circle, around beyond this; all the finest
buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid Vienna Theater
and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The mountains of
the Vienna forest bound the view, with here and there a stately castle
on their woody summits.
There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Besides the
numberless walks of the Glacis there are the imperial gardens, with
their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and
opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph; and the Prater, the largest
and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of
the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle
at the end of the Praterstrasse broad carriage-ways extend through its
forests of oak and silver ash and over its verdant lawns to the
principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined
with stately horse-chestnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense
canopy, completely shutting out the sun.
Every afternoon the beauty and nobility of Vienna whirl through the
cool groves in their gay equipages, while the sidewalks are thronged
with pedestrians, and the numberless tables and seats with which every
house of refreshment is surrounded are filled with merry guests. Here on
Sundays and holidays the people repair in thousands. The woods are full
of tame deer, which run perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw
several in one of the lawns lying down in the grass, with a number of
children playing around or sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk
there in the cool of the evening, when the paths are crowded and
everybody is enjoying the release from the dusty city. It is this free
social life which renders Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws
yearly thousands of visitors from all parts of Europe....
We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to
Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the
Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment-hall nearly five hundred feet long,
with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a
garden-walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled
with tables, where the people seated themselves as they came and
conversed sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed
in a little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I
stationed myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king whose
magic tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion.
After the band had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized,
handsome man stept forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand
and bow in the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a
magician summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his
bow, the tones leaped forth from the instruments, and, guided by his eye
and hand, fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every
instrument performed its part was truly marvelous. He could not have
struck the measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his
own piano than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth so
perfect and distinct that one almost expected to see them embodied,
whirling in wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely
light and bounding the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it
sank into a mournful lament with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away
in a long-breathed sigh.
Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He would wave his
fiddle-bow a while, then commence playing with desperate energy, moving
his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from his brow. A
book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use of it. He
often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at the
restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from bounding to
the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The composition
of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted more in the
exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the perfect,
the wonderful, exactness with which each performed its part--a piece of
art of the most elaborate and refined character.
The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of
enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight with the
stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between
the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We
walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such
a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends and
the language our mother-tongue.
We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon to a little
cemetery about a mile from the city to find the grave of Beethoven. On
ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are
many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the
narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz
Clement, a young composer who died two or three years ago. On turning
again my eye fell instantly on the word "Beethoven" in golden letters on
a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the pedestal,
above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem of
resurrection. Here, then, moldered the remains of that restless spirit
who seemed to have strayed to earth from another clime, from such a
height did he draw his glorious conceptions.
The perfection he sought for here in vain he has now attained in a
world where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There
were no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius;
only one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long
ago by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their
bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not
resist the temptation to steal one or two while the old gravedigger was
busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open in a
few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred
relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer whose
beautiful songs are heard all over Germany.
We visited the imperial library a day or two ago. The hall is two
hundred and forty-five feet long, with a magnificent dome in the center,
under which stands the statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble,
surrounded by twelve other monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls
are of variegated marble richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling
and dome are covered with brilliant fresco-paintings. The library
numbers three hundred thousand volumes and sixteen thousand manuscripts,
which are kept in walnut cases gilded and adorned with medallions. The
rich and harmonious effect of the whole can not easily be imagined. It
is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such splendor should be used
to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may seem hollow and vain, for
it is but the dwelling of a man; but no building can be too magnificent
for the hundreds of great and immortal spirits to dwell in who have
visited earth during thirty centuries.
Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a
brass plate containing one of the records of the Roman Senate made one
hundred and eighty years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth
and sixth centuries, and a volume of Psalms printed on parchment in the
year 1457 by Faust and Schoeffer, the inventors of printing. There were
also Mexican manuscripts presented by Cortez, the prayer-book of
Hildegard, wife of Charlemagne, in letters of gold, the signature of San
Carlo Borromeo, and a Greek Testament of the thirteenth century which
had been used by Erasmus in making his, translation and contains notes
in his own hand. The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem
Delivered" of Tasso, in the poet's own hand, with his erasures and
corrections.