By the author of “German-American Housekeeping,” etc.
[Concluded.]
Travelers are like conchologists, vying with one another in picking
up different shells, and herein lies the unending interest of their
records.
In the roundabout route from the Baltic to the Adriatic and
Mediterranean, Cassel, the electorate in former years of Hesse-Cassel,
afforded a most suggestive visit. To be sure, its history is not
altogether pleasant to an American, for the fact that the old elector
hired his troops to England to fight us during the Revolutionary
war, is not a savory bit of German history. Even Frederick the Great
saw the meanness of it, for when he heard they were to take their
route to England by Prussian roads, he sent word, “if they did so, he
would levy a cattle tax on them.” Perhaps some of the money paid by
England at that time was laid up in the public treasury and expended
afterward upon the extravagant ornamentation of the grounds of the
elector’s summer residence, “Wilhelmshöhe.” The palace is in itself
one of the most magnificent in Europe. Above the cascades in front
of it is the highest fountain on the continent. One stream, twelve
inches in diameter, is thrown to the height of two hundred feet. The
colossal Hercules which crowned the summit of this artificial grandeur
was thirty feet high, and the cascades are nine hundred feet long.
The whole arrangement is said to have kept two thousand men engaged
for fourteen years, and to have cost over ten million dollars! Jerome
Napoleon occupied this palace of Wilhelmshöhe when he was king of
Westphalia.
A walk of three miles under the straight and narrow road shaded by lime
trees, leads one back to Cassel, after this visit to Wilhelmshöhe.
The town is beautifully situated on either side of the river Fulda,
and has a population of thirty-two thousand. The beautiful terrace
overlooking the _angarten_, crowned by its new picture gallery, offers
as delightful promenades as the celebrated Dresden Terrace. The strains
of sweet music coming up from the _angarten_ (meadow) while one is
looking at the beautiful Rembrandts and Van Dykes in the gallery,
give the enchantment which one never fails to find in a German town.
Napoleon carried away many of the most valuable pictures from the
Cassel gallery—but it is redeemed from the number of horrible Jordaens
and Teniers by possessing the “pearl of Rembrandts,” a portrait of
“Saskia,” his wife.
Chemical products, snuff included, are manufactured in Cassel, and
it is quite a wide-awake business place—the old town preserved for
picturesque effect, and the new town building up for enterprising
manufacturers.
Leaving Cassel any day at one o’clock, one can reach Coblenz at
half-past seven in the evening, and the Bellevue Hotel will shelter one
delightfully for the night, provided a room on the _hof_, or court,
is not given. Four hundred feet above the river at Coblenz stands the
old fortress of “Ehrenbreitstein.” How fine its old gray stone and
its commanding situation is! No wonder Auerbach, the novelist, in his
“Villa on the Rhine,” devoted so many pages to Ehrenbreitstein, the
Gibraltar of the Rhine. It cost the government five million dollars.
With its four hundred cannon, and capacity to store provision for ten
years for eight thousand men in its magazine, well may it scorn attacks
“as a tempest scorns a chain.”
Instead of driving up to see this monstrous fortress, one may prefer
to wander into St. Castor’s Church in the early morning, and, like
a devout Catholic, kneel and pray. It may be more restful to thus
“commune with one’s own heart and be still,” than to keep up a
perpetual sight-seeing. Charlemagne divided his empire among his
grandchildren in this very church. It dates to the eighth century,
and is one of the best specimens of Lombard architecture in all the
Rhine provinces. Coming out in the morning about ten o’clock, the sun
will light up the severe outlines of the great old Ehrenbreitstein
across the river, and the thought comes to one, did Luther compose his
celebrated hymn, “_Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott_” (A mighty fortress
is our God), while in such a moment of inspiration as this scene
produces upon the mind?
We left Coblenz at ten o’clock on the steamer “Lorlei” for Mainz. This
romantic name for our boat, the waters we were plying, St. Castor’s
Church on the left, and Ehrenbreitstein on the right, brought a
strange combination of war, romance and religion to the mind. The
only prosaic moment which seized me was in passing the Lorlei Felsen
on the Rhine—when instead of remembering Lorlei, I exclaimed, so my
companions told me: “O! here is where they catch the fine salmon!”
Rheinstein was to my mind the most beautiful and picturesque castle of
all, and being owned by the Crown Prince is kept in becoming repair.
The little “_panorama des Rheins_” is a troublesome little companion,
for it leaves one not a moment for calm enjoyment and forgetfulness,
constantly pointing out the places of interest and crowding their
history and romance upon one.
The Dom at Mainz is a curious study for an architect—combining as it
does so many styles and containing such curious old tombs.
Frankfort, the birthplace of Goethe, and the native place of the
Rothschilds family, has too much history to detail in an article like
this. When it was a free city it had, and still retains, I believe, the
reputation of being the commercial capital of that part of Germany.
Goethe preferred little Weimar for the development of his poetical
life. His father’s stately house in Frankfort, still to be seen, was
not equal to his own in Weimar.
But let us leave the river Main and the river Rhine and look up
Nuremberg and Munich before we follow our southern course to the
Adriatic. An erratic journey this, but have we not found some shells
which the other conchologists overlooked?
Nuremberg seems to have lost more in population than any German city we
know of. Having once numbered 100,000, it now claims only 55,000. It is
a curious fact that Nuremberg toys which were so celebrated formerly,
have been surpassed in this country, and now American manufactures in
this line are taken to Nuremberg and actually sold as German toys.
This was told me by a gentleman interested in the trade. But buy a
lead-pencil in Nuremberg if you want a good article very cheap—perhaps
you can learn to draw or sketch with one, being inspired with the
memory of Albert Dürer.
Nuremberg is Bavaria’s second largest city, and attracts more
foreigners or visitors than Munich, perhaps, yet to the mind of the
Bavarian Munich is Bavaria, as to the Frenchman Paris is France, and
to the Prussian Berlin is Prussia! No traveler can be contented,
however, without some time in Nuremberg, although I dare say many go
away disappointed. The old stone houses with their carved gables, the
walls and turrets, St. Sebald Church, and the fortress where Gustavus
Adolphus with his immense army was besieged by Wallenstein, are things
which never grow tedious to the memory. In this fortress now they keep
the instruments of torture used in the middle ages to extract secrets
from the criminal or the innocent, as it might chance to be. A German
in Berlin laughingly told me when I described the rusty torturous
things, that they were all of recent manufacture, and were not the
genuine articles at all! But new or old, genuine or reproduced, they
make one shudder as does Fox’s “Book of Martyrs.” I know of no church
in Germany more worthy of study than St. Sebald’s. In it one finds a
curious old gold lamp, which swings from the ceiling about half way
down one aisle of the church. It is called _die ewige lampe_, because
it has been always burning since the twelfth century. It is related of
one of Nuremberg’s respectable old citizens that he was returning in
the darkness one stormy night to his home, and finally almost despaired
of finding his way, when a faint light from the St. Sebald’s Church
enabled him to arrive safe at his own door. He gave a fund to the
church afterward for the purpose of keeping there a perpetual light.
When the Protestants took St. Sebald’s, as they did so many Catholic
churches in Germany after the Reformation, the interest money which the
old man gave had still to be used in this way according to his will. So
_die ewige lampe_ still swings and gives its dim light to the passer-by
at night. Our American consul told me a characteristic story of an
American girl and her mother, whom he was showing about Nuremberg, as
was his social duty, perhaps. They were in St. Sebald’s Church, and
he related the story of the lamp as they stood near it. Underneath
stands a little set of steps which the old sexton ascends to trim the
lamp. “Oh!” said this precocious American girl, “I shall blow it out,
and then their tradition that it has never been out will be upset.” So
she climbed the steps fast, and as she was about to do this atrocious
thing our consul pulled her back, and said she would be in custody in
an hour, and he would not help her out. The mother merely laughed, and
evidently saw nothing wrong about the performance. It is just such
smart acts on the part of American girls abroad which induce a man
like Henry James to write novels about them. The fine, intelligent,
self-poised girls travel unnoticed, while the “Daisy Millers” cause the
judgment so often passed upon all American girls by foreigners, that
they are “an emancipated set.”
It was our good fortune while in Munich to board with most agreeable
people. The _Herr Geheimrath_ (privy counselor) had retired from active
life of one kind, to enjoy the privilege of being an antiquarian
and art critic. He had his house full of most valuable and curious
treasures. The study of ceramics was his hobby, and fayence, porcelain,
and earthenwares of the rarest kinds were standing around on his
desk, on cabinets, and on the floor. He edited _Die Wartburg_, a
paper which was the organ of _Münchener Alterthum-Verein_, and wrote
weekly articles _Ueber den Standpunkt unserer heutigen Kunst_. His
wife was formerly the _hof-singerin_ (court-singer) at the royal opera
in Munich, but was then too old to continue. Every Saturday evening
she would give a home concert, and would sing the lovely aria from
“Freischutz,” or Schumann’s songs.
St. Petersburg never looked whiter from snow than did Munich that
winter. The galleries were cold, but the new and old Pinakothek were
too rich to be forsaken. Fortunately the new building was just across
the street from the _Herr Geheimrath’s_. If it had only been the
old Pinakothek I found myself continually saying, for who cares for
Kaulbachs, and modern German art, compared with the rich Van Dykes,
the Rubens, the Dürers, and the old Byzantine school? I should say the
Munich gallery is superior to the Dresden in numbers, but not in gems.
But they have fine specimens from the Spanish, the Italian, and German
schools.
The Glyptothek is Munich’s boast. There is a stately grandeur in this
building that suggests Greece and her art. On a frosty morning, to
wander out beyond the Propylæum and enter through the great bronze door
of the Glyptothek, one feels like a mouse entering a marble quarry. I
presume there is no such collection of originals in any country but
Italy. Ghiberti, Michael Angelo, Benvenuti, Cellini, Peter Vischer,
Thorwaldsen, Canova, Rauch, Schwanthaler, are all represented by
original works. But it needs a warm climate to make such a collection
of statuary altogether attractive.
Going from Germany to Italy, one takes the “Brenner Pass,” generally,
over the Alps—the oldest way known, and used by Hannibal. After winding
around the side of these snowy peaks, and being blinded by the mists
enveloping the landscape, trembling with admiration or fear, as the
case may be, a glimpse of sunny Italy is most encouraging.
To reach the Adriatic and Venice is enough earthly joy for some
souls. Elizabeth Barrett Browning felt so; and all people feel so,
perhaps, who, as Henry James and W. D. Howells, give themselves up to
Venice, and write about her until she becomes identified with their
reputation. But let Venice and the Adriatic be silent factors in this
article, and let Verona, Florence, and Rome substitute them.
We alighted at Verona at midnight, and in the pale moonlight, which
gave a ghastly appearance to the quaint old place. “The Two Gentlemen
of Verona” were not to be seen that night. The streets were silent, yet
I thought perhaps they might greet us in the morning; but their shadowy
old cloaks are only to be seen thrown around a thousand beggars, who
are as thick as bees and as ugly as bats.
“The tomb of Juliet” is also a deception—a modern invention; but the
house of Juliet’s parents (the Capuletti), an old palace, stands as it
did in the days when Shakspere represents its banqueting halls and good
cheer.
The scenery from Verona to Florence, with the exception of a few views
of the Apennines, is very tedious—nothing beyond almond orchards,
which in March, the time of the year I saw them, resembled dead apple
trees. You will be surprised to hear that the Italian gentlemen wore
fur on their coats. They were, I imagine, traveled gentlemen, for the
genuine Italian, whether count or beggar, has a cloak thrown over his
shoulders in bewitching folds. When he pulls his large felt hat over
his magnificent eyes so that it casts a dark shadow over his mysterious
face, and stands in the sunshine, he looks simply a picture.
Verona is more Italian in appearance than Florence. The principal
street runs along either side of the river Arno, and is crowded for
some distance with little picture and jewelry shops; but farther on
toward the _cascine_, or park, the street widens, and is enriched
with handsome modern buildings, most of which are hotels. This drive
to the _cascine_ and the grand hotel was made when Victor Emmanuel
allowed the impression to exist that Florence would remain the capital
of Italy. This drive is thronged with carriages about four o’clock
in the afternoon. It was here I remember to have had the carriage of
the Medici family pointed out to me. Within sat two ladies with dark,
lustrous eyes, jet hair, and a great deal of lemon color on their
bonnets. The livery was also lemon color, and the carriage contained
the coat of arms on a lemon-colored panel. The Italians are very
partial to this shade of yellow. The beds are draped with material of
this same intense hue—very becoming to brunettes, but ruinous, as the
young ladies would say, to blondes.
Every one knows of the old Palazzo Vecchio, which rises away above
every object in the city of Florence. Its walls are so thick that in
them there are places for concealment—little cells—and in one of these
the great reformer of Florence, Savonarola, was kept until they burned
him at the stake in front of the palace.
“Santa Croce” is the name of the church which contains the tombs of
Michael Angelo, Alfieri Galileo, and Machiavelli. Byron, moved with
this idea, writes:
“In Santa Croce’s holy precincts lie
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is
Even in itself an immortality.”
Every American goes to Powers’s studio to see the original of the
Greek Slave. Next to the Venus of Milo it seems the loveliest study in
marble of the female figure. But “our lady of Milo,” as Hawthorne calls
her—there is no beauty to hers!
The Baptistery in Florence is a curious octagonal church, built in
the twelfth century, and has the celebrated bronze doors by Ghiberti,
representing twelve eventful scenes from the Bible. Those to the south
are beautiful enough, said Michael Angelo, to be the gates of paradise.
As often as I had reflected upon Rome and her seven hills, on arriving
there the hills seemed to be a new revelation to me, and the rapid
driving of the Italians up and down the steep and narrow streets
bewildered me not a little. I found myself on the way from the depot,
constantly asking, can this be Rome? Everything looks so new. The
houses are light sandstone, like the buildings in Paris. I was
informed that this portion of Rome was calculated to mislead me, and
that I would find our hotel quite like Paris and New York houses. The
next morning, instead of making a pilgrimage to the Roman forum, the
Colosseum, and the palace of the Cæsars, we drove to St. Peter’s, which
kept me still quite in the notion that Rome had been whitewashed, or
something done to destroy her ancient classic aspect. We spent four
hours in the great church wandering around and witnessing a procession
of priests, monks, and gorgeous cardinals. There is no gewgaw, no
tinsel in St. Peter’s as one sees in so many other Catholic churches;
although gold is used in profusion, yet it is kept in subjection to
the tone of the walls. The bronze altar over St. Peter’s tomb is
wonderfully effective in the way of concentrating color and attention.
It is almost necessary to find a niche in the base of some pillar and
sit there awhile before plunging into the immensity of this great
building, just as a bird gets ready before darting into space. But
after all, the feeling of immensity which St. Peter’s gives is not so
grateful to the religious sense as the Gothic style of architecture,
with its stained window, and deep recesses,
“Its long drawn aisles and fretted vaults.”
There is little solemnity in St. Peter’s, little shade and no music,
only from side chapels; but there are grand proportions, perfect
simplicity, and the pure light of heaven sending a beam upon a golden
dove above St. Peter’s tomb, which radiates in a thousand streams of
light over the marble pavement.
Nothing impressed me so much in Rome or suggested the ancient glory
so much as the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. The magnificence of
this building must have been unparalleled. It accommodated sixteen
hundred bathers at once, and some of its walls are so thick one fears
to estimate the depth. What would the old Romans have thought of the
buildings of the present generation, which fall down or burn up without
much warning. Here is solid masonry standing since the year 212.
The different arches and columns of Rome constitute one of the most
attractive features to almost every traveller. Let those who enjoy
them climb their steps or strain their eyes to decipher in a scorching
Italian sun the dates, the seven golden candlesticks, the shew bread,
and Aaron’s rod, on Titus’s arch for example. I shall wander off while
they are so occupied into the old capitol—into the room where Rienzi
stood and exhorted the people to recover their ancient rights and into
the basement below where St. Paul was imprisoned.
The present king had just been crowned at that time. I saw the king and
queen in a procession where they were driving to gratify the people,
and again we saw him unattended driving with his brother through the
grounds of the Borghese Villa. The carnival was forbidden that year
in Rome on account of the death of the King and Pope, but there were
out-croppings of it on the streets. The tinseled finery and humbug of
it seem so incongruous in ancient classic Rome. I was glad to escape it.
The old Pantheon is too important in its history for any one to write
of it, but I have always liked the following paragraph from James
Freeman Clarke concerning it: “The Romans in this church, or temple,
worshiped their own gods, while they allowed the Jews, when in Rome,
to worship their Jewish god, and the Egyptians to worship the gods of
Egypt, and when they admitted the people of a conquered state to become
citizens of Rome their gods were admitted with them; but in both cases
the new citizens occupied a subordinate position to the old settlers.
The old worship of Rome was free from idolatry. Jupiter, Juno, and
the others were not represented by idols. But there was an impassable
gulf between the old Roman religion and modern Roman thought, and
Christianity came to the Roman world not as a new theory but as a new
life, and now her churches stand by the side of the ruins of the Temple
of Vesta and the old empty Pantheon.”