and settle in our Western wilds. In a score of years they return to
their native place, wearing the very garments in which they had stood up
and been pronounced husband and wife. The picture is equal to a volume
of history and one of comedy, the two bound in one. But here, instead of
a score of _years_ we have a score of _ages_, reaching back to a period
farther beyond that great popular movement in which modern society had
its birth, than that is anterior to our own age. If all the costumes,
fashions, implements, and tools of the house, the shop, and the field,
insignia and liveries, from those of the first Dutch settlers of New
Amsterdam, down to those of New York's belles, beaux, and beggars of the
present day, should be made to pass in review before us, how absurdly
grotesque would be the scene! That veritable 'History of New York from
the Beginning of the World to the End of the Dutch Dynasty, by Diedrick
Knickerbocker,' has perhaps shaken as many sides and helped digest as
many dinners as almost any book since Cervantes gave the world his
account of the adventures of his knight Don Quixote, and yet this great
historical work hints but a part of that picture, though doubtless
greatly improved by the author's delicate touches, which would pass
before us in a procession illustrating two centuries of New York's
history. Using such hints, the reader may partially judge of the
impression made by this setting forth of seven centuries of a capital of
Central Europe, and yet one can hardly tell, without the trial, whether
he would rather smile at the grotesqueness of the pageant, or be lost in
the profound contemplation of the magnificent march of history reënacted
in this drama.
This procession spoke but to the eye. It was but a tableau, dumb, though
in its way eloquent. It detailed no actions; it only hinted them. It
simply presented the men who acted, clad in the outward garb, and
bearing the tools and weapons of their day. The cut of a garment, the
form of a helmet or halberd, a saddle or a semitar, a hoe or a hatchet,
or the cut of the hair or the beard, may speak of the heart and soul,
only, however, by distant hints. But just as the representation is less
distinct and detailed, is it a mightier lever for imagination to use in
raising again to life centuries which had long slept in the dust. The
superstructure of history, indeed, which we should rear upon such a
basis, would be wide of the truth on one side, just as the narratives
and philosophical disquisitions which come to us under that name are on
the other. History generally relates those things in which all ages have
been most alike--the same which have 'been from the beginning and ever
shall be'--the intrigues of courts and of diplomacy--varied mainly by
the influence of the religion of the Bible, as at first persecuted, then
rising by degrees to a rank either with or above the state, and becoming
a persecuting power, and then finally modifying and softening down the
native rudeness of the human race, until mutual and universal tolerance
is the result; court life, diplomacy, and war, however, remaining and
still to remain the perpetual subjects of historical composition. But
between this elevated range and the humble one of burghers' tools and
costumes, lies a boundless field of aspect, variegated with all the
forms which checker social and domestic life. Oh!--thought a little
group of American spectators occupying a room near the corner of Ludwig
and Theresien streets--could we but rend the veil of time which conceals
Munich's seven hundred years of burgher and peasant life, how odd, how
rude a scene would present itself! The reader's fancy may make the
attempt. I will aid a little if I can, and there was indeed some
material furnished in addresses prepared for that occasion, and in some
other papers which have come into my hands.
The people of that little village on the banks of the Isar were but the
owners and tillers of the barren soil. Nearly a century (1238) after
Henry the Lion had surrounded it with walls, and a local magistracy had
been chosen; when two parishes--those of St. Peter and St. Mary--had
been already long established, we find a schoolmaster signing, doubtless
by virtue of his office, a certificate of the freedom of a certain
monastery from the city customs. That the school teacher must, _ex
officio_, sign such papers, spoke volumes. How few could have had the
learning, for it must indeed be done in Latin. And then the history of
the city runs nearly a century back of this date. What was the burgher
life of that first century of Munich's history? It is but the faintest
echo that answers. Schools there were at that day and long before. Nay,
the cloister schools were already in decay; but more than three hundred
years were yet to elapse before the rise of the Jesuit schools. Three
hundred years! How can we, of this age of steam, estimate what was
slowly revolving in society in those years? In 1271 we find an order of
the bishop of Freising requiring the parish rector to have a school in
each parish of the city; half a century later than this we meet
documentary evidence that school teaching had assumed a rank with other
worldly occupations, and was no longer subject to the rector of the
parish. If I could but set the reader down in a school room of that day,
I might forego any attempt to portray the times; but, alas! I cannot. He
would, however, doubtless see there groups of boys--for I half suspect
that this was before girls had generally developed the capability of
learning--the faces and garments clean or smutty, showing the grade of
social progress which had been gained, for we may presume that the use
of soap and water had been to some extent introduced, and if so, I have
erred again, for the dirty and the ragged did not go to school. These
could do without education. We should see, too, the beaming or the dull
and leaden eye--if, indeed, the eye spoke then as now--proclaiming the
master's success or failure. And then the schoolmaster, the chief figure
in the group, would be found to have the _otium cum dignitate_, and
especially the former, in a higher sense than is now known. And what was
the staple information which circulated among the people? Of this we
know more. It was made up of adventures of knights, miracles wrought by
the host, by crucifixes and Madonnas, and apparitions of saints, leading
some emperor or prince to found a church or monastery--a kind of history
which few churches or other religious institutions want. If there was
less of life in the humanity of that age than we have at present, there
was as much more in other things; for even those holy pictures and
statues could move their eyes and other parts. They found various ways
of expressing approbation of the pious, and frowning upon scoffers.
Crucifixes and Madonnas, carried by freshets over barren fields, brought
fertility. The devil, too, figured more largely in the narratives of
days before printed books formed the basis of education. He generally
appeared in the persons of giants and witches, which latter were his
agents by special contract. Their freaks had all shades of enormity,
from the slight teasing of the housewife in her baking and churning to
the peril of life and limb and endless perdition. The devil sometimes
coming in one of these forms endangered the lives of the quiet people of
the city by formally dismissing the watch between the hours of eleven
and twelve o'clock at night. So hundreds of things which he has become
too genteel in our day to practise.
The founding of the city was near the close of that great movement known
as the crusades. What a world of material these furnished to be used in
popular education! The feats of knights, instead of assuming distinct
forms and being stereotyped and told to them in books, were surrendered
to the popular mouth for preservation and propagation. Saints, angels,
and demons attached themselves from time to time to these circulating
myths. Original characters often dropped out, and the discrimination of
the wisest believer in the real and ideal, became confused. Then came
the period of the Hussite war. This gave rise to many a miracle of
divine judgment. The Bohemian mocker of the holy mass, or of some
wonder-working statue of the Virgin, is pursued with divine vengeance.
The Jews--how suggestive the name, in the history of mediæval Europe, of
mystery, miracle, and murder!--were early allowed to settle in Munich.
They were assigned to a particular street. In the year 1285 a story was
started--it had been long stereotyped, and editions of it circulated in
every part of Christendom--of the murder of a Christian child. A
persecution of the Jews was the result--one hundred and forty were
burned in their own houses--and the poor Israelites must doubtless
suffer without redress, although many of them were then, as they now
are, bankers and brokers to the spiritual and temporal lords. Not far
from the same time the ducal mint was destroyed, because the people were
enraged to find the metal in their coin growing alarmingly less. For
this the city must pay a fine.
From our first knowledge of this town it continued gradually, but very
slowly, to advance in intelligence--we should rather say from century to
century than from year to year; for during this period progress was too
slow to be perceptible, unless the observation were verified by the
pillars erected to mark the boundary lines between successive centuries.
The inquirer into the past often sighs out the wish that art had found a
way to transmit full impressions of all departed generations to the
latest living one. Perhaps he prudently limits the desired favor to
himself, otherwise the wish would not be wise; its realization would
place every lazy observer upon the same level with the studious
investigator. The cumbrous details, too, of sixty centuries piled upon
one mind would crush it, unless human nature were a very different thing
from that which we now behold. It is in accordance with a wise plan of
Providence that the deeds of past ages should perish with them, except
the few needed to cast their gleam of light upon the world's future
pathway. We are made capable of rescuing just enough for the highest
purposes of life, not enough to overwhelm and burden us in our march
toward the goal before us. It is thought by some that the point and
finish of the ancient Greek authors, as compared with the moderns, is
attributable to the fact that they were less perplexed with accumulated
lore and the multiplication of books and subjects of study. Their minds
were not subject to the dissipating effects of large libraries, and
daily newspapers with telegraphs from Asia, Africa, and Hesperia. I
shall not discuss this question. The amount of information handed down
from past ages even _now_ is but as the spray which rises above the
ocean's surface to the vast depths which lie below. The historical
fossils of those ages are therefore left to exercise the genius of the
Cuviers of historical inquiry. As that naturalist could, from a single
bone of an extinct animal species, make up and describe the animal, so
have inquirers into the past succeeded in picturing a departed age from
the few relics left of it. Hence we are treated occasionally with such
agreeable surprises in the march of history as the discovery of Pompeii,
Herculaneum, and Nineveh. The genius of our Wincklemanns, Champollions,
Humboldts, and Layards has found a worthy field. Such days as that I am
attempting to describe, representing seven centuries of a modern capital
before the admiring eyes of the present generation of its people, become
possible. Instead of the monotony of a perpetual observation, we have
the charm of alternate lulls and surprises.
This picture has a further likeness to the naturalist's description made
from the fossils of extinct genera of animals. In the latter the animal
is made to stand before us. We have the data necessary to infer his
habits. But we see him not perfect in his wilderness home of unnumbered
ages past. We see him not the pursuer or the pursued; we hear not the
fierce growls or the plaintive note of alarm or distress. These we must
imagine. So, too, the slowly and peacefully moving train which passes
our windows, setting forth the sleeping centuries of this city. There is
the emperor in state--dukes in ducal magnificence--knights in armor with
horses richly and fancifully caparisoned--citizens in the dress of their
times--the various mechanics' and traders' guilds, with their
implements, their badges and their banners, with priests thickly
scattered through the whole line, which is ever changing as the
representatives of one age succeed those of another. The whole is calm
and quiet. The fierce contests, the angry broils, private and
public--now throwing the whole city into a ferment of innocent alarm,
now deluging its streets with blood--the rage of plagues, sealing up the
sources of human activity, and causing the stillness of the grave to
settle over the scene--all these we must supply; and surely the
thoughtful mind is busy in doing this as it contemplates the passing
train. We conceive rival claimants for the ducal throne, contending,
regardless of dying counsel, until death again settles what death had
thrown open to contest. Everything which has ever transpired on the
theatre of the world's great empires, may be conceived as enacted on
this narrower stage. The difference is less in talents and prowess than
in the extent of the field and the numbers of actors.
From the period of the Reformation down we can form the picture with
more distinctness. Seehofen, son of a citizen of Munich, while a student
at Wittenberg, received Luther's doctrine, and through him many of his
townsmen. The most learned and able opponent whom the Reformer had to
encounter was John Eck, chancellor of the Bavarian University of
Ingolstadt--one of the most renowned at that day in Europe--which, by
removal to the capital, has now become the University of Munich. In 1522
Duke William, of Bavaria, issued an edict forbidding any of his people
to receive the reformed doctrine. Bavaria, therefore, remained Catholic,
and Munich became the headquarters of German Catholicism. The electoral
duke, Maximilian, of Bavaria, was head of the Catholic league which
carried on the 'Thirty Years' War' against the Protestants under
Gustavus Adolphus, king of Sweden, in the early part of the seventeenth
century. The city is full of sayings derived from this whole period,
such as to leave us no ground to wonder that few Catholics are inclined
to become Protestants. The only Protestant church in the city was built
within the last thirty years. It is but a few years since the house was
still shown in Scudlinger street, in which Luther, in his flight from
Augsburg, whither he had been called to answer for his teaching before
Cardinal di Vio in 1518,[8] stopped, his horse all in a foam, to take a
drink, and in his hurry forgot to pay for the piece of sausage which he
ate. In the market place was a likeness of Luther and his 'Katherl.'[9]
There are also numerous derisive pictures, such as the Reformer riding
upon a swine, with a sausage in his hand, which, however, all originated
in the mockery of the Jews, who were afterward compelled to surrender
some of them to the leading spirit of the Reformation. At Saurloch, a
little distance south of Munich, there were still, in 1840, to be seen
pictures of Luther and his wife in a group made up of chimney sweeps,
buffoons, and many others of the class. As this age passed before the
eyes of the spectators, they would doubtless give it new life by
attributing to it the spirit exemplified in these choice and tasteful
pictures and sayings, amusing at this day, doubtless, to both parties.
The period of the 'Thirty Years' War' and the visit to Munich of
Gustavus Adolphus has left more sayings and monuments, and thus do more
honor to the people. After the Catholic victory near Prague, in 1620,
the elector celebrated a public entry into the city amid the jubilations
of the people and the Jesuits. A pillar was erected in remembrance of
the victory, and dedicated, eighteen years afterward, to the Virgin, in
accordance with a vow. The city was also variously adorned. The
rejoicing was somewhat premature. In 1632 the duchess and ducal family
had to remove to Salzburg for safety, whither they carried with them the
bones of St. Benno, the patron saint of the city, and other valuables.
The king of Sweden entered the walls under a promise, which he had made
in consideration of three hundred thousand florins, to be paid to him by
the people, to secure them against fire, sword, and plunder. Ladies
freely gave up their precious ornaments to make up the amount. But they
failed. The conqueror took forty-two priests of the religious orders,
and twenty respectable citizens, as hostages for the payment. These
wandered around with his camp for three years, and then all returned
except four, who died during the time. The traditions of the people give
the king credit for having strictly abstained from plunder, and executed
the only man who transgressed his rule, although the citizens failed on
their part. How beautifully the brilliant and the glorious mingle with
the sad and the sombre in the picture which we form of this age as the
passing train brings it before our minds! How religion, variously tinged
with the sable hues of superstition, wrought upon that age! The Swedish
king, the moment victory turns in his favor, dropping upon his knees in
the midst of the dead and the dying, the clouds of smoke and dust as yet
unsettled, pours out his soul in fervent prayer and thanksgiving.[10] He
but represents his army and his age. The Catholic army are not less
devout in their way. Germany is full of monuments and sayings of this
period. Those of Munich are of the Catholic side. There stands in a
public square an equestrian statue of colossal size, in bronze, of the
elector Maximilian, head of the Catholic League--his pillar to the
Virgin still stands--and the great general of the League, Count Tilley,
represented in bronze, is among the prominent objects viewed by the
visitor to this capital. On the other hand, the greatest organization in
Europe for the aid of Protestants in Catholic lands, having branches
everywhere, bears the name of Gustavus Adolphus. Let the reader then
conceive the visions which flit through the minds of the spectators as
this age passes in review before them.
But here I shall close this part of the picture. The description of the
city as it now exists belongs in other connections. It has been
suggested, as greatly adding to the interest of this birthday festival
of the capital, that it concurred in time with the exhibition of the art
of all Germany in the Crystal Palace. Although the two had no natural
connection, yet they became so intertwined in fact as not easily to be
separated. I shall therefore just touch upon the art display.
Works of art are dry subjects of description, and that too just in the
proportion of their exquisiteness to behold. Things made for the eye
must be presented to the eye. Works of a coarse and comic nature can,
indeed, be described so as to produce their effect. Here, for instance,
is a railroad-station man. Such in Bavaria, dressed in their quaint
little red coats, must stand with the hand to the hat as if in token of
profound respect for the train while it passes. This one, when lathered
and half shaved, was suddenly called by the train, and in this
predicament he stands while it passes. The best new work in the
exhibition was one in water colors by Professor Schwind, of Munich,
setting forth the popular German myth of the seven ravens. It sold to a
prince for seven thousand florins. I know better than to attempt a
description. The 'Raising of Jairus' Daughter,' a picture sent on by the
king of Prussia, gave the best impression I have ever had of life once
departed, and now suddenly beginning again to quiver on the lip and
gleam in the eye; or as Willis has it:
'And suddenly a flush
Shot o'er her forehead and along her lips,
And through her cheek the rallied color ran;
And the still outline of her graceful form
Stirred in the linen vesture;'
thus changing the sadness of the family assembled round the couch into a
lustre sympathetic with that of her own reopened eyes.
These specimens have been given to show that such subjects are incapable
of description. The exhibition continued from June to October, and the
collection was so extensive that a shorter period would have been
scarcely sufficient for the study of works exhibited. During this time
the characteristic enthusiasm and jealousies of the artists were
variously exemplified. The delightful hours spent in walking through
these halls will be among my latest remembrances.
This whole festive period culminated with the closing days of September.
The city had been unusually full all summer, but as its great birthday
festival approached, the crowds thickened, until its capacity for
lodging room had been transcended. All parts of Germany were
represented, nor did delegates from the rest of the civilized world
fail.
The question naturally arises, whether New York, Boston, or Philadelphia
has a history which would appear well in such a drama! Although our
history extends back over little more than one fourth of the period
occupied by that of Munich, it might afford this material. The annals of
public events would be found preserved with great fulness and
distinctness--the archives of city and state councils and of the
churches would supply the needed facts--but who could furnish the
fashions, tools, and implements of each successive age from that of the
Pilgrim fathers to that of the great rebellion? Who would perform the
labor of research necessary to ascertain what they were? Where is the
American court, supported at an expense of several millions per annum,
to preserve all these in collections, or to get them up for court
theatres? Who would pay for making all these for a procession of twenty
thousand persons, with all the necessary horses and carriages? And
surely, if we could not feel the confidence that everything was
historical, all our interest in the display would be gone. I am
apprehensive that we shall be obliged to leave such exhibitions to those
countries which have hereditary heads, and, making a virtue of
necessity, console ourselves with the thought that we have something
better.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 8: Luther was not in Munich at that time, if indeed he ever
was.]
[Footnote 9: Catherine Bora, Luther's wife.]
[Footnote 10: _Vide_ Schiller's 'Geschichte des dreisigjährigen
Krieges.']
THE DANISH SAILOR.
Far by the Baltic shore,
Where storied Elsinore
Rears its dark walls, invincible to time;
Where yet Horatio walks,
And with Marcellus talks,
And Hamlet dreams soliloquy sublime;
Though forms of Old Romance,
Mail-clad, with shield and lance,
Are laid in 'fair Ophelia's' watery tomb,
Still, passion rules her hour,
Love, Hate, Revenge, have power,
And hearts, in Elsinore, know joy and gloom.
* * * * *
Grouped round a massy gun
Black sleeping in the sun,
The belted gunners list to many a tale
Told by grim Jarl, the tar,
Old Danish dog of war,
Of his young days in battle and in gale.
The medal at his breast,
The single-sleeved blue vest,
His thin, white hair, tossed by the Norway breeze,
His knotted, horny hand,
And wrinkled face, dark tanned,
Tell of the times when Nelson sailed the seas.
* * * * *
Steam-winged, upon the tides
A gallant vessel glides,
Two royal flags float blended at her fore,
Gay convoyed by a fleet,
Whose answering guns repeat
The joyous 'God speeds' thundered from the shore.
'Look, comrades! there she goes,
Old Denmark's Royal Rose,
Plucked but to wither on a foreign strand;
Can Copenhagen's dames
Forget their country's shames--
Her sons, unblushing, clasp a British hand?
'Since that dark day of shame
Which blends with Nelson's fame,
When the prince of all the land led us on,
I little thought to see
Our noblest bend the knee
To any English queen, or her son.
'What the fate of battle gave
To our victor on the wave,
Was as nothing to the bitter, conscious sting,
That our haughty island foe
Struck a sudden, traitor blow,
In the blessed peace of God and the king.
'Ay, you were not yet born
On that cursed April morn,
When they sprang like red wolves on their prey,
And our princeliest and best
By our humblest lay at rest,
In the heart's blood of Denmark, on that day.
'And now, their lady queen,
O'er our martyrs' graves between,
Stoops to cull our cherished bud for her heir,
And the servile, fickle crowd
Shout their shameless joy aloud,
All but one old crippled tar--_who was there_!