Berlin has its public gardens, and its popular music and dances, as
well as any other German city; but they who do not care to visit these
will find pleasure in walking as far as the Kreutzberg, a little
eminence, a novelty here, at a little distance from the city, on which
is erected a Gothic cross or monument of metal, in memory of those who
died in the war; and figures of the chief leaders in it occupy niches,
and the names of all the great battles in which the Prussians were
engaged, are exhibited on the different sides. Charlottenburg, a few
miles from Berlin, is also not only a charming palace in extensive and
pleasant gardens, but of great interest from the reposing statue of
the amiable Queen Louise, by Rauch, which is in a little temple in the
garden.
But Potsdam is the great paradise of this neighbourhood, as we may be
allowed to call it, for though nearly twenty English miles distant, a
railway conveys you there in forty minutes. Here the scene is indeed
changed! Here, instead of sand and monotony, you have hills, water,
woods, every thing which is attractive in nature. What a splendid
situation were this for a capital! The city on the plain, backed by
these beautiful hills, with every possible variety of site for villas
and pleasure gardens. What woods and hills, and the beautiful river
Havell spreading itself broad and winding, like a succession of fine
lakes! Why was not Berlin placed where Potsdam is? Possibly the Havell,
broad as it looks, may not be so navigable as the Sprey, and there may
lie the secret, or what a capital would it be here!
[Illustration: SANS SOUCI, GERMANY.]
Frederick the Great, however, duly appreciated the beauty of this
neighbourhood. Here he delighted to retire. Steam has now converted
Potsdam into a suburb of Berlin, and pours on all holidays its
thousands into it, without which Potsdam were a retirement and a
solitude still, for grass grows in its streets. But who cares for
Potsdam itself, as it lies in its hollow, with its great old palace,
and great old public buildings and barracks, and avenues of great
trees, except that its old church contains the tomb of Frederick the
Great, on which Napoleon heaped the incense of his praise, and from
which he stole the old warrior’s sword. But the hills on the Havell,
and the views of the Havell from them, the rich meadows, the wild
forest scenes--these are what justify Frederick’s fondness for this
spot, and who can enough enjoy them? That Frederick enjoyed them, the
palaces which he has scattered through them with an extraordinary
prodigality, sufficiently testify: the Palace in Potsdam, the Palace
of Sans Souci, the Marble Palace, the New Palaces. That the present
race enjoy them, various lovely villas, as the Charlottenhof, Grünecke,
and others shew. That the last king enjoyed them, the Pfauen-Insel is
a charming proof. If any one wishes to find the lost fairy-land, he
must steer his course along the Havell, through a wilderness of pine
woods to the Pfauen-Insel, and there he will acknowledge that he
has discovered it. Around amid hills shaggy with forests the Havell
pours its deep and dark waters like an inland sea. The world is shut
out by the bosky shores and deep pine woods of unknown regions, and
in the embracing floods lies the most delicious region which a poet’s
fancy could conjure up, or which nature and art, in mutual labour,
can construct from the ordinary materials of the earth. Shores of
softest green, most ravishing lawns, flowers of superbest dyes and in
gorgeous masses, trees of stateliest growth and gracefullest beauty
of pendant boughs, invite you ever to scenes where you may wander for
hours, and every few moments encounter some new surprise. Here feudal
towers rise above the flood, with heraldic banners flapping over the
battlements; here stately barge and light shallop lie anchored in some
lonely creek; here slope sunny uplands under scattered oaks, where the
shepherd watches his flock. Here you come upon a noble conservatory,
beautiful with the palms and dates and glorious blossoms of tropical
regions, and aromatic with their odours. If you would have any illusion
to persuade you, beyond the charms of nature and of summer, that you
are in a region of enchantment, you have it. You hear the roar of the
lion, the cry of the jackal, and the scream of birds unknown in these
climates. You imagine that some scene in Tasso or Ariosto is about to
be repeated, and find actually wild beasts of all sorts in different
dens and cages in various parts of the island. Such were the amusements
of a king here, after he had helped to bind the great wild beast of
the age on the rocks of St. Helena; and a more enchanting scene for a
day’s excursion he could not have left for the pleasure of his subjects.
Amongst the numerous royal palaces we must say a good word for the New
Palace, as it is called, although it has been often and much abused. If
not in the purest taste, it still possesses a certain grandeur in its
enormous extent, and prodigality of colonnades, porticoes, and statues
connected with it. It lies low, in the meadow below Potsdam, but has
a fine solitude of woods and quaint gardens about it. It is itself a
good and cheerful house, and contains many paintings of much merit and
beauty. It has also a theatre, in which have recently been represented,
before the court, some of the dramatic pieces of Tieck. If this palace
were inhabited by the king, with a full and gay court, it would, with
the necessary life and bustle about it, produce far from a despicable
impression.
Then there is, in the wood near, that little temple containing the
second and most beautiful reposing figure of the late Queen by Rauch.
We had heard this effigy much praised for its beauty; but the beauty
is that of mind and heart. Representatives of far higher physical
beauty we have often seen. The somewhat high cheek bones, the shape of
the nose, and the general contour indeed of the countenance, depart
from the pure ideal of personal beauty, but a still higher beauty
distinguishes this charming statue. It is that perfect sweetness of
disposition; that spirit baptized in heavenly affection; that wife-like
devotion; that high and dauntless, and holy patriotism, dwelling in a
meek and lowly nature, which made this excellent queen adored by the
people when alive, and which glorify her image here in the cold stone.
Not far from this palace is Charlottenhof, the beautiful little villa
in the Herculaneum style built by the present king, when Crown-Prince,
for himself. It is fitted up with a simplicity befitting a private
gentleman, but with a classical purity of taste which makes all
beautiful. But Sans Souci is the great attraction of the neighbourhood.
It is a mere villa perched on a hill just above Potsdam, and surrounded
by the most lovely views over the meadows and wild woody banks of
the Havell. The hill on which it stands is crowned with gardens in
successive terraces. As you approach through the fine meadows and
beneath a noble avenue of trees, broad flights of steps, ascending from
terrace to terrace up to the house, and the lower part of the house
half concealed from view by the swell of the hill, give a very singular
appearance to the whole. It seems as if the house was surrounded by a
piazza, and that those flights of steps ascended to the top, instead
of to the bottom of the building. As we ascended these long flights
of steps, successive terraces of the garden shewed themselves right
and left, with their vines and fig-trees loaded with fruit, and with
quantities of golden gourds, each perfectly round, large enough to fill
a wheelbarrow, lying about; and flowers, in richest autumnal hues,
glowed around. Arrived on the summit, nothing can be conceived more
delicious. The fine views over the lovely country; the gardens all
below you; the space before the palace full of beds of gayest flowers,
and orange trees standing everywhere in blossom, diffusing through
the whole air their delicious aroma. Trees of splendid growth added
their beauty to the spot; the mill of the sturdy old miller shewing
itself amongst them; and from a circular colonnade, on the other side
of the house, a brownish, wildish, burnt-up sort of a country, with
wind-mills, and an artificial ruin of a Grecian temple on a woody hill
opposite, constructed with better effect than such things generally
are, presented a fit landscape for an old painter.
Every part of this place abounds with recollections of the victorious
old Fritz. At each end of the garden, in a green plot, are the graves
of his horse and dogs, eleven in number, he having ordered himself to
be laid there to complete the dozen; an order not complied with. In
the house remain many memorials of him; ’mongst them the clock, which
stopped exactly as he died, and his library, in which his own works are
conspicuous. One volume of his poems stood open at this curious passage:
Mais, quels sont ces cries d’ Alegresse!
Quels Chants! Quelles acclamations!
Les Français plein de son yvresse
Semble vainqueur des Nations.
Il l’ est; et voilà qui s’ avance
La Pompe du jeune Louis:
L’Anglais a perdu sa Balance,
L’Autricien, son insolence,
Et la Balave encore surpris
En grondant bénit La Clemence
De ce Héros, dont l’ indulgence----
The wall of the room occupied here by Voltaire is painted all over
monkeys and parrots. They tell you that Frederick, being desirous
to have a portrait of the ugly old Frenchman, to which he would not
consent, the king employed a painter to observe him by stealth from the
next room whenever the door was opened, which Voltaire becoming aware
of, clapped a screen before his table; and Frederick to mortify him,
caused the whole of the walls of his room, the first opportunity, to be
thus adorned with monkeys and parrots, as indicative of his person and
loquacity. Poor Frederick paid dearly in his lifetime, in annoyance,
for his propensity to French philosophy; and his country paid still
more so for it after his death.