HAMBURG.
HAMBURG.--BERLIN.--POTSDAM.--PALACE OF SANS-SOUCI.--STORY OF THE
STRUGGLES AND TRIUMPHS OF HANDEL.--STORY OF PETER THE WILD BOY.
"Hamburg, the fine old city of the Elbe, is almost as large as was
Boston before the annexation; it is familiar by name to American ears,
for it is from Hamburg, as a port, that the yearly army of German
emigrants come.
"I looked sadly upon Hamburg as I thought how many eyes filled with
tears had turned back upon her spires and towers, her receding harbor,
and seen the Germany of their ancestors, and the old city of
Charlemagne, with its historic associations of a thousand years, fade
forever from view. Down the Elbe go the steamers, and the emigrants
with their eyes fixed on the shores! Then westward, ho, for the
prairie territories of the great empire of the New World!
"More than six thousand vessels enter the harbor of Hamburg in a year.
The flags of all nations float there, but the British red is
everywhere seen.
"We visited the church of St. Michael, and ascended the steeple, which
is four hundred and thirty-two feet high, or one hundred feet higher
than the spire of St. Paul's in London. We looked down on the city,
the harbor, the canals. Our eye followed the Elbe on its way to the
sea. On the north was Holstein; on the south, Hanover.
[Illustration: CANAL IN HAMBURG.]
"From Hamburg we made a zigzag to Berlin and Potsdam. The railroad
between the great German port and the brilliant capital is across a
level country, the distance being about one hundred and seventy-five
miles, or seven hours' ride.
"Berlin, capital of Prussia and of the German Empire, the residence of
the German Emperor, is situated in the midst of a vast plain; 'an
oasis of stone and brick in a Sahara of sand.' It is about the size of
New York, and it greatly resembles an American city, for the reason
that everything there seems new.
"It has been called a city of palaces, and so it is, for many of the
private residences would be fitting abodes for kings. The architecture
is everywhere beautiful; all the elegances of Greek art meet the eye
wherever it may turn. Ruins there are none; old quarters, none; quaint
Gothic or mediaeval buildings, none. The streets are so regular, the
public squares so artistic, and the buildings such models of art, that
the whole becomes monotonous.
"'This is America over again,' said an American traveller, who had
joined our party. 'Let us return.'
"Many of the buildings might remind one of the hanging gardens of old,
so full are the balconies of flowers. The fronts of some of the
private residences are flower gardens from the ground to the roofs.
"The emperor's palace is the crowning architectural glory of the city.
It is four hundred feet long.
"We visited the Zoological Gardens and the National Gallery of
Pictures, the entrance to which makes a beautiful picture.
"We rode to Potsdam, a distance of some twenty miles. Potsdam is the
Versailles of Germany. The road to Potsdam is a continuous avenue of
trees, like the roads near Boston.
"Of course our object in visiting the town was to see the palace and
gardens of Sans-Souci, the favorite residence of Frederick the Great.
[Illustration: THE PALACE IN BERLIN.]
"Frederick loved everything that was French in art. The French
expression is seen on everything at Sans-Souci. The approach to the
palace is by an avenue through gardens laid out in the Louis Quatorze
style, with alleys, hedges, statues, and fountains.
"The famous palace stands on the top flight of a series of broad
terraces, fronted with glass. Beneath these terraces grow vines,
olives, and orange-trees. In the rear of the palace is a colonnade.
There Frederick used to pace to and fro in the sunshine, when failing
health and old age admonished him that death was near. As his
religious hopes were few, his reflections must have been rather lonely
when death's winter came stealing on.
[Illustration: GROTTO.]
"The room where Frederick studied, and the adjoining apartment where
he died, are shown. The former contains a library consisting wholly of
books in French.
"We returned to Hamburg.
"We were in old Danish territory already. We stopped but one night at
Hamburg on our return; then we made our way to the steamer which was
to take us to the Denmark of to-day, Copenhagen."
* * * * *
Among the stories on the Hamburg Night was one by a music-loving
student of Yule, which he called
THE CITY OF HANDEL'S YOUTH.
The composer of the "Messiah," George Frederick Handel, was born at
Halle, Germany, Feb. 23, 1685. He sang before he could talk plainly.
His father, a physician, was alarmed, for he had a poor opinion of
music and musicians. As the child grew, nature asserted that he
would be a musician; the father declared he should be a lawyer.
Little George was kept from the public school, because the gamut was
there taught. He might go to no place where music would be heard,
and no musical instrument was permitted in the house.
But nature, aided by the wiser mother, triumphed. In those days
musical nuns played upon a dumb spinet, that they might not disturb
the quiet of their convents. It was a sort of piano, and the strings
were muffled with cloth. One of these spinets was smuggled into the
garret of Dr. Handel's house. At night, George would steal up to the
attic and practise upon it. But not a tinkle could the watchful
father hear. Before the child was seven years of age he had taught
himself to play upon the dumb instrument.
One day Dr. Handel started to visit a son in the service of a German
duke. George begged to go, as he wished to hear the organ in the
duke's chapel. But not until he ran after the coach did the father
consent.
They arrived at the palace as a chapel service was going on. The boy
stole away to the organ-loft, and, after service, began playing. The
duke, recognizing that it was not his organist's style, sent a
servant to learn who was playing. The man returned with the
trembling boy.
Dr. Handel was both amazed and enraged. But the duke, patting the
child on the head, drew out his story. "You are stifling a genius,"
he said to the angry father; "this boy must not be snubbed." The
doctor, more subservient to a prince than to nature, consented that
his son should study music.
[Illustration: SANS-SOUCI.]
During three years the boy studied with Zachau, the organist of the
Halle Cathedral. They were years of hard work. One day his teacher
said to George, "I can teach you no longer; you already know more
than I do. You must go and study in Berlin." Berlin was at once
attracted to the youthful musician by his playing on the harpsichord
and the organ. But the death of his father compelled him to earn his
daily bread. Willing to descend, that he might rise, he became a
violin player of minor parts at the Hamburg Opera House. The homage
he had received prompted his vanity to create a surprise. He played
badly, and acted as a verdant youth. The members of the orchestra
sneeringly informed him that he would never earn his salt. Handel,
however, waited his opportunity. One day the harpsichordist, the
principal person in the orchestra, was absent. The band, thinking it
would be a good joke, persuaded Handel to take his place. Laying
aside his violin, he seated himself at the harpsichord, amid the
smiles of the musicians. As he touched the keys the smiles gave
place to looks of wonder. He played on, and the whole orchestra
broke into loud applause. From that day until he left Hamburg, the
youth of nineteen led the band.
Handel's extraordinary skill as a performer was not wholly due to
genius. He practised incessantly, so that every key of his
harpsichord was hollowed like a spoon.
Handel's greatest triumphs, as a composer, were won in England. But
the music-loving Irish of Dublin had the honor of first welcoming
his masterpiece, the "Messiah." Such was the enthusiasm it created
that ladies left their hoops at home, in order to get one hundred
more listeners into the room.
A German poet calls the "Messiah" "a Christian epic in musical
sounds." The expression is a felicitous description of its theme and
style. It celebrates the grandest of events with the sublimest
strains that music may utter. The great composer commanded, and all
the powers of music hastened with song and instrument to praise the
life, death, and triumph of the Christ. No human composition ever
voiced, in poetry or prose or music, such a masterly conception of
the Virgin's Son as that uttered by this magnificent oratorio.
The sacred Scriptures furnish the words. The seer's prophecies, the
Psalmist's strains, the evangelist's narrative, the angels' song,
the anthem of the redeemed, are transferred to aria, recitative, and
chorus. The sentiment is as majestic as the music is grand. He who
sought out the fitting words had studied his Bible, and he who
joined to them musical sounds dwelt in the region of the sublime.
All the emotions are touched by the oratorio. Words and music quiver
with fear, utter sorrow, plead with pathos, or exult in the joy of
triumph. A symphony so paints a pastoral scene that the shepherds of
Bethlehem are seen watching their flocks. One air, "He was
despised," suggests that its birth was amid tears. It was; for
Handel sobbed aloud while composing it. It is the threnody of the
oratorio.
The grandeur of the "Messiah" finds its highest expression in the
"Hallelujah Chorus." "I did think," said Handel, describing, in
imperfect English, his thought at the moment of composition,--"I did
think I did see all heaven before me, and the great God himself."
When the oratorio was first performed in London, the audience were
transported at the words, "The Lord God omnipotent reigneth." They
all, with George II., who happened to be present, started to their
feet and remained standing until the chorus was ended. This act of
homage has become the custom with all English-speaking audiences.
"You have given the audience an excellent entertainment," said a
patronizing nobleman to Handel, at the close of the first
performance of the "Messiah" in London.
"My lord," replied the grand old composer, with dignity, "I should
be very sorry if I only _entertained_ them; I wish to make them
_better_."
A few years before his death Handel was smitten with blindness. He
continued, however, to preside at his oratorios, being led by a lad
to the organ, which, as leader, he played. One day, while conducting
his oratorio of "Samson," the old man turned pale and trembled with
emotion, as the bass sung the blind giant's lament: "Total eclipse!
no sun, no moon!" As the audience saw the sightless eyes turned
towards them, they were affected to tears.
Seized by a mortal illness, Handel expressed a wish that he might
die on Good Friday, "in hope of meeting his good God, his sweet Lord
and Saviour, on the day of his resurrection." This consolation, it
seems, was not denied him. For on his monument, standing in the
Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey, is inscribed: "Died on Good
Friday, April 14, 1759."
Another story, which is associated with the woods of Hanover, near
Hamburg, was entitled
PETER THE WILD BOY.
In the year 1725, a few years after the capture of Marie le Blanc, a
celebrated wild girl in France, there was seen in the woods, some
twenty-five miles from Hanover, an object in form like a boy, yet
running on his hands and feet, and eating grass and moss, like a
beast.
The remarkable creature was captured, and was taken to Hanover by
the superintendent of the House of Correction at Zell. It proved to
be a boy evidently about thirteen years of age, yet possessing the
habits and appetites of a mere animal. He was presented to King
George I., at a state dinner at Hanover, and, the curiosity of the
king being greatly excited, he became his patron.
In about a year after his capture he was taken to England, and
exhibited to the court. While in that country he received the name
of Peter the Wild Boy, by which ever after he was known.
Marie le Blanc, after proper training, became a lively, brilliant
girl, and related to her friends and patrons the history of her
early life; but Peter the Wild Boy seems to have been mentally
deficient.
[Illustration: PETER THE WILD BOY.]
Dr. Arbuthnot, at whose house he resided for a time in his youth,
spared no pains to teach him to talk; but his efforts met with but
little success.
Peter seemed to comprehend the language and signs of beasts and
birds far better than those of human beings, and to have more
sympathy with the brute creation than with mankind. He, however, at
last was taught to articulate the name of his royal patron, his own
name, and some other words.
It was a long time before he became accustomed to the habits of
civilization. He had evidently been used to sleeping on the boughs
of trees, as a security from wild beasts, and when put to bed would
tear the clothes, and hopping up take his naps in the corner of the
room.
He regarded clothing with aversion, and when fully dressed was as
uneasy as a culprit in prison. He was, however, generally docile,
and submitted to discipline, and by degrees became more fit for
human society.
He was attracted by beauty, and fond of finery, and it is related of
him that he attempted to kiss the young and dashing Lady Walpole, in
the circle at court. The manner in which the lovely woman received
his attentions may be fancied.
Finding that he was incapable of education, his royal patron placed
him in charge of a farmer, where he lived many years. Here he was
visited by Lord Monboddo, a speculative English writer, who, in a
metaphysical work, gives the following interesting account:--
"It was in the beginning of June, 1782, that I saw him in a
farmhouse called Broadway, about a mile from Berkhamstead, kept
there on a pension of thirty pounds, which the king pays. He is but
of low stature, not exceeding five feet three inches, and though he
must now be about seventy years of age, he has a fresh, healthy
look. He wears his beard; his face is not at all ugly or
disagreeable, and he has a look that may be called sensible or
sagacious for a savage.
"About twenty years ago he used to elope, and once, as I was told,
he wandered as far as Norfolk; but of late he has become quite tame,
and either keeps the house or saunters about the farm. He has been,
during the last thirteen years, where he lives at present, and
before that he was twelve years with another farmer, whom I saw and
conversed with.
"This farmer told me he had been put to school somewhere in
Hertfordshire, but had only learned to articulate his own name,
Peter, and the name of King George, both which I heard him pronounce
very distinctly. But the woman of the house where he now is--for the
man happened not to be home--told me he understood everything that
was said to him concerning the common affairs of life, and I saw
that he readily understood several things she said to him while I
was present. Among other things she desired him to sing 'Nancy
Dawson,' which he accordingly did, and another tune that she named.
He was never mischievous, but had that gentleness of manners which I
hold to be characteristic of our nature, at least till we become
carnivorous, and hunters, or warriors. He feeds at present as the
farmer and his wife do; but, as I was told by an old woman who
remembered to have seen him when he first came to Hertfordshire,
which she computed to be about fifty-five years before, he then fed
much on leaves, particularly of cabbage, which she saw him eat raw.
He was then, as she thought, about fifteen years of age, walked
upright, but could climb trees like a squirrel. At present he not
only eats flesh, but has acquired a taste for beer, and even for
spirits, of which he inclines to drink more than he can get.
"The old farmer with whom he lived before he came to his present
situation informed me that Peter had that taste before he came to
him. He has also become very fond of fire, but has not acquired a
liking for money; for though he takes it he does not keep it, but
gives it to his landlord or landlady, which I suppose is a lesson
they have taught him. He retains so much of his natural instinct
that he has a fore-feeling of bad weather, growling, and howling,
and showing great disorder before it comes on."
Another philosopher, who made him a visit, obtained the following
luminous information:--
"Who is your father?"
"King George."
"What is your name?"
"Pe-ter."
"What is _that_?" (pointing to a dog.)
"Bow-wow."
"What are you?"
"Wild man."
"Where were you found?"
"Hanover."
"Who found you?"
"King George."
About the year 1746 he ran away, and, entering Scotland, was
arrested as an English spy. His captors endeavored to force from him
some terrible disclosure, but could obtain nothing, not even an
answer, and it was something of a puzzle to them to determine
exactly what they had captured.
They at last resolved to inflict punishment upon him for his
obstinacy, but were deterred by a lady who recognized him and
disclosed his history.
In his latter years he made himself useful to the farmer with whom
he lived, but he required constant watchfulness, else he would make
grave blunders. An amusing anecdote is told of his manner of working
when left to himself.
He was required, during the absence of his guardian, to fill a cart
with compost, which he did; but, having filled the cart in the usual
way, and finding himself out of employment, he directly shovelled
the compost out again, and when the farmer returned the cart was
empty.
But poor Peter, with all his dulness, possessed some remarkable
characteristics. He was very strong of arm, and wonderfully swift of
foot, and his senses were acute. His musical gifts were most
marvellous. He would reproduce, in his humming way, the notes of a
tune that he had heard but once,--a thing that might have baffled an
amateur.
He also had a lively sense of the beautiful and the sublime. He
would stand at night gazing on the stars as though transfixed by the
splendors blazing above. His whole being was thrilled with joy on
the approach of spring. He would sing all the day as the atmosphere
became warm and balmy, and would often prolong his melodies far into
the beautiful nights.
He died aged about seventy years.