THE NEW GERMANY AND ITS CAPITAL.
BERLIN, August 5th.
The greatest political event of the last ten years in Europe--perhaps
the greatest since the battle of Waterloo--is the sudden rise and
rapid development of the German Empire. When Napoleon was overthrown
in 1815, and the allies marched to Paris, the sovereignty of Europe,
and the peace of the world, was supposed to be entrusted to the Five
Great Powers, and of these five the least in importance was Prussia.
Both Russia and Austria considered themselves giants beside her;
England had furnished the conqueror of Waterloo, and the troops which
bore the brunt of that terrible day, and the money that had carried on
a twenty years' war against Napoleon; and even France, terribly
exhausted as she was, drained of her best blood, yet, as she had stood
so long against all Europe combined, might have considered herself
still a match for any one of her enemies _alone_, and certainly for
the weakest of them all, Prussia. Yet to-day this, which was the
weakest of kingdoms, has grown to be the greatest power in Europe--a
power which has crushed Austria, which has crushed France, which
Russia treats with infinite respect, and which would despise the
interference of England in Continental affairs.
This acquisition of power, though recent in its manifestation, has
been of slow growth. The greatness of Prussia may be said to have been
born of its very humiliation. It was after its utter overthrow at the
battle of Jena, in 1806, when Napoleon marched to Berlin, levied
enormous subsidies, and appropriated such portions of the kingdom as
he pleased, that the rulers of Prussia saw that the reconstruction of
their State must begin from the very bottom, and went to work to
educate the people and reorganize the army. The result of this severe
discipline and long military training was seen when, sixty years after
Jena, Prussia in a six weeks' campaign laid Austria at her feet, and
was only kept from taking Vienna by the immediate conclusion of peace.
Four years later came the French war, when King William avenged the
insults to his royal mother by Napoleon the First--whose brutality, it
is said, broke the proud spirit of the beautiful Queen Louise, and
sent her to an early grave--in the terrible humiliation he
administered to Napoleon the Third.
But such triumphs were not wrought by military organization alone, but
by other means for developing the life and vigor of the German race,
especially by a system of universal education, which is the admiration
of the world. The Germans conquered the French, not merely because
they were better soldiers, but because they were more intelligent men,
who knew how to read and write, and who could act more efficiently
because they acted intelligently.
With her common schools and her perfect military organization, Prussia
has combined great political sagacity, by which the fortunes of other
States have been united with her own. Such stupendous achievements as
were seen in the French war, were not wrought by Prussia alone, but by
all Germany. It was in foresight and anticipation of just such a
contingency that Bismarck had long before entered into an alliance
with the lesser German States, by which, in the event of war, they
were all to act together; and thus, when the Prussian army entered the
field, it was supported by powerful allies from Saxony and Wuertemberg
and Bavaria.
And so when the war was over, out of the old Confederation arose an
EMPIRE, and the King of Prussia was invited to take upon himself the
more august title of Emperor of Germany--a title which recalls the
line of the Caesars; and thus has risen up, in the very heart of the
Continent--like an island thrown up by a volcano in the midst of the
sea--a power which is to-day the most formidable in Europe.
As Protestants, we cannot but feel a degree of satisfaction that this
controlling power should be centred in a Protestant State, rather than
in France or Austria; although I should be sorry to think that our
Protestant principles oblige us to approve every high-handed measure
undertaken against the Catholics. We in America believe in perfect
liberty in religious matters, and are scrupulous to give to others the
same freedom that we demand for ourselves. Of course the relations of
things are somewhat changed in a country where the Church is allied
with the State, and the ministers of religion are supported by the
Government. But, without entering into the question which so agitates
Germany at the present moment, our natural sympathies, both as
Protestants and as Americans, must always be on the side of the
fullest religious liberty.
Besides the Church question there are other grave problems raised by
the present state of Germany:--such as, whether the Empire is likely
to endure, or to be broken to pieces by the jealousy of the smaller
States of the preponderance of Prussia? and whether peace will
continue, or there will be a general war? But these are rather large
questions to be dispatched in a few pages. They are questions that
will _keep_, and may be discussed a year hence as well as to-day, _and
better_--since we may then regard them by the light of accomplished
_events_; whereas now we should have to indulge too much in
_prophecies_. I prefer therefore, instead of undertaking to give
lessons of political wisdom, to entertain my readers with a brief
description of Berlin.
This can never be the most beautiful of European cities, even if it
should come in time to be the largest, for its situation is very
unfavorable; it lies too low. It seems strange that this spot should
ever have been chosen for the site of a great city. It has no
advantages of position whatever, except that it is on the little river
Spree. But having chosen this flat _prairie_, they have made the most
of it. It has been laid out in large spaces, with long, wide streets.
At first, it must have been, like Washington, a city of magnificent
distances, but in the course of a hundred years these distances have
been filled up with buildings, many of them of fine architecture, so
that gradually the city has taken on a stately appearance. Since I was
here in 1858, it has enlarged on every side; new streets and squares
have added to the size and the magnificence of the capital; and the
military element is more conspicuous than ever; "the man on horseback"
is seen everywhere. Nor is this strange, for in that time the country
has had two great wars, and the German armies, returning triumphant
from hard campaigns, have filed in endless procession, with banners
torn with shot and shell, through the Unter den Linden, past the
statue of the great Frederick, out of the Brandenburg gate to the
Thiergarten, where now a lofty column (like that in the Place Vendome
at Paris), surmounted by a flaming statue of Victory, commemorates the
triumph of the German arms.
Of course we did our duty heroically in the way of seeing sights--such
as the King's Castle and the Museum. But I confess I felt more
interest in seeing the great University, which has been the home of so
many eminent scholars, and is the chief seat of learning on the
Continent, than in seeing the Palace; and in riding by the plain house
in a quiet street, where Bismarck lives, than in seeing all the
mansions of the Royal Princes, with soldiers keeping guard before the
gates.
The most interesting place in the neighborhood of Berlin, of course,
is Potsdam, with its historical associations, especially with its
memories of Frederick the Great. The day we spent there was full of
interest. An hour was given to the New Palace--that is, one that _was_
new a hundred years ago, but which at present is kept more for show
than for use, though one wing is occupied by the Crown Prince.
Externally it has no architectural beauty whatever, nothing to render
it imposing but _size_; but the interior shows many stately
apartments. One of these, called the Grotto, is quite unique, the
walls being crusted with shells and all manner of stones, so that,
entering here, one might feel that he had found some cave of the
ocean, dripping with coolness, and, when lighted up, reflecting from
all its precious stones a thousand splendors. It was here that the
Emperor entertained the King of Sweden at a royal banquet a few weeks
ago. But palaces are pretty much all the same; we wander through
endless apartments, rich with gilding and ornament, till we are weary
of all this grandeur, and are glad when we light on some quiet nook, like
the modest little palace--if palace it may be called--Charlottenhof,
where Alexander von Humboldt lived and wrote his works. I found more
interest in seeing the desk on which he wrote his Kosmos, and the
narrow bed on which the great man slept (he did not need much of a
bed, since he slept only four hours), than in all the grand state
apartments of ordinary kings.
But Frederick the Great was not an ordinary king, and the palace in
which _he_ lived is invested with the interest of an extraordinary
personality. Walking a mile through a park of noble trees, we come to
_Sans Souci_ (a pretty name, _Without Care_). This is much smaller
than the New Palace, but it is more home-like--it was built by
Frederick the Great for his own residence, and here he spent the last
years of his life. Every room is connected with him. In this he gave
audience to foreign ministers; at this desk he wrote. This is the room
occupied by Voltaire, whom Frederick, worshipping his genius, had
invited to Potsdam, but who soon got tired of his royal patron (as the
other perhaps got tired of _him_), and ended the romantic friendship
by running away. And here is the room in which the great king breathed
his last. He died sitting in his chair, which still bears the stains
of his blood, for his physicians had bled him. At that moment, they
tell us, a little mantel clock, which Frederick always wound up with
his own hand, stopped, and there it stands now, with its fingers
pointing to the very hour and minute when he died. That was ninety
years ago, and yet almost every day of every year since strangers have
entered that room, to see where this king, this leader of armies, met
a greater Conqueror than he, and bowed his royal head to the
inevitable Destroyer.
But that was not the last king who died in this palace. When we were
here in 1858, the present Emperor was not on the throne, but his elder
brother, whose private apartments we then saw; and now we were shown
them again, with only this added: "In this room the old king died; in
that very bed he breathed his last." All remains just as he left it;
his military cap, with his gloves folded beside it; and here is a cast
of his face taken after his death. So do they preserve his memory,
while the living form returns no more.
From the palace of the late king we drove to that of the present
Emperor. Babelsberg is still more interesting than Sans Souci, as it
is associated with living personages, who occupy the most exalted
stations. It is the home of the Emperor himself when at Potsdam. It is
not so large as the New Palace, but, like Sans Souci, seems designed
more for comfort than for grandeur. It was built by King William
himself, according to his own taste, and has in it all the
appointments of an elegant home. The site is beautiful. It stands on
elevated ground (it seems a commanding eminence compared with the flat
country around Berlin), and looks out on a prospect in which a noble
park, and green slopes, descending to lovely bits of water, unite to
form what may be called an English landscape--like that from Richmond
on the Hill, or some scene in the Lake District of England. The house
is worthy of such surroundings. We were fortunate in being there when
the Family were absent. The Empress was expected home in a day or two;
they were preparing the rooms for her return; and the Emperor was to
follow the next week, when of course the house would be closed to
visitors. But now we were admitted, and shown through, not only the
State apartments, but the private rooms. Such an inspection of the
_home_ of a royal family gives one some idea of their domestic life;
we seem to see the interior of the household. In this case the
impression was most charming. While there was very little that was for
show, there was everything that was tasteful and refined and elegant.
It was pleasant to hear the attendant who showed us the rooms speak in
terms of such admiration, and even affection, of the Emperor, as "a
very kind man." One who is thus beloved by his dependents, by every
member of his household, cannot but have some excellent traits of
character. We were shown the drawing-room and the library, and the
private study of the Emperor, the chair in which he sits, the desk at
which he writes, and the table around which he gathers his
ministers--Bismarck and Moltke, etc. We were shown also what a New
England housekeeper would call the "living rooms," where he dined and
where he slept. The ladies of our party declared that the bed did not
answer at all to their ideas of royal luxury, or even comfort, the
sturdy old Emperor having only a single mattress under him, and that a
pretty hard one. Perhaps however he despises luxury, and prefers to
harden himself, like Napoleon, or the Emperor Nicholas, who slept on a
camp bedstead. He is certainly very plain in his habits and simple in
his tastes. Descending the staircase, the attendant took from a corner
and put in our hand the Emperor's cane. It was a rough stick, such as
any dandy in New York would have despised, but the old man had cut it
himself many years ago, and now he always has it in his hand when he
walks abroad. And there through the window we look down into the
poultry yard, where the Empress, we were told, feeds her chickens
with her own hand every morning. I was glad to hear this of the grand
old lady. It shows a kind heart, and how, after all, for the greatest
as well as the humblest of mankind, the simplest pleasures are the
sweetest. I dare say she takes more pleasure in feeding her chickens
than in presiding at the tedious court ceremonies. Such little touches
give a most pleasant impression of the simple home-life of the Royal
House of Prussia.
Our last visit was to the tomb of Frederick the Great, who is buried
in the Garrison Church. There is nothing about it imposing to the
imagination, as in the tomb of Napoleon at Paris. It is only a little
vault, which a woman opens with a key, and lights a tallow candle, and
you lay your hand on the metallic coffin of the great King. There he
lies--that fiery spirit that made war for the love of war, that
attacked Austria, and seized Silesia, more for the sake of the
excitement of the thing, and, as he confessed, "to make people talk
about him," than because he had the slightest pretence to that
Austrian province; who, though he wanted to be a soldier, yet in his
first battle ran away as fast as his horse could carry him, and hid
himself in a barn; but who afterwards recovered control of himself,
and became the greatest captain of his time. He it was who carried
through the Seven Years' War, not only against Austria, but against
Europe, and who held Silesia against them all. "The Continent in
arms," says Macaulay, "could not tear it from that iron grasp." But
now the warrior is at rest; that figure, long so well known, no more
rides at the head of armies. In this bronze coffin lies all that
remains of Frederick the Great:
"He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle,
No sound shall awake him to glory again."
Speaking of tombs--as of late my thoughts "have had much discourse
with death"--the most beautiful which I have ever seen anywhere is
that of Queen Louise, the mother of the present Emperor, in the
Mausoleum at Charlottenburg. The statue of the Queen is by the famous
German sculptor, Rauch. When I first saw it years ago, it left such an
impression that I could not leave Berlin without seeing it again and
we drove out of the city several miles for the purpose. It is in the
grounds attached to one of the royal palaces but we did not care to
see any more palaces, if only we could look again on that pure white
marble form. At the end of a long avenue of trees is the Mausoleum--a
small building devoted only to royal sepulture--and there, in a
subdued light, stretched upon her tomb, lies the beautiful Queen. Her
personal loveliness is a matter of tradition; it is preserved in
innumerable portraits, which show that she was one of the most
beautiful women of her time. That beauty is preserved in the reclining
statue. The head rests on a marble pillow, and is turned a little to
one side, so as to show the perfect symmetry of the Grecian outlines.
It is a sweet, sad face (for she had sorrows that broke her queenly
heart); but now her trials are ended, and how calmly and peacefully
she sleeps! The form is drooping, as if she slumbered on her bed; she
seems almost to breathe; hush, the marble lips are going to speak! Was
there ever such an expression of perfect repose? It makes one "half in
love with blissful death." It brought freshly to mind the lines of
Shelley in Queen Mab:
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep!
One, pale as yonder waning moon,
With lips of lurid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn
When throned on ocean's wave,
It blushes o'er the world:
Yet both so passing wonderful!
By the side of the statue of the Queen reposes, on another tomb, that
of her husband--a noble figure in his military cloak, with his hands
folded on his breast. The King survived the Queen thirty years. She
died in her youth, in 1810; he lived till 1840; but his heart was in
her tomb, and it is fitting that now they sleep together.
On the principle of rhetoric, that a description should end with that
which leaves the deepest impression, I end my letter here, with the
softened light of that Mausoleum falling on that breathing marble; for
in all my memories of Berlin, no one thing--neither palace, nor
museum, nor the statue of Frederick the Great, nor the Column of
Victory--has left in me so deep a feeling as the silent form of that
beautiful Queen. Queen Louise is a marked figure in German history,
being invested with touching interest by her beauty and her sorrow,
and early death. I like to think of such a woman as the mother of a
royal race, now actors on the stage. It cannot but be that the memory
of her beauty, associated with her patriotism, her courage, and her
devotion, should long remain an inheritance of that royal line, and
their most precious inspiration. May the young princes, growing up to
be future kings and emperors, as they gather round her tomb, tenderly
cherish her memory and imitate her virtues!