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Seeing Europe with Famous Authors, Volume V (of X) by Various

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the tower, the lower portion of which remains to this day, and is called
the Bailiff's Dwelling (Burgamtmannswohnung). The exact relationship of
the Burggraf to the town on the one hand, and to the Empire on the
other, is somewhat obscure. Originally, it would appear, he was merely
an Imperial officer, administering Imperial estates, and looking after
Imperial interests. In later days he came to possess great power, but
this was due not to his position as castellan or castle governor as
such, but to the vast private property his position had enabled him to
amass and to keep.

As the scope and ambitions of the Burggrafs increased, and as the
smallness of their castle at Nuremberg, and the constant friction with
the townspeople, who were able to annoy them in many ways, became more
irksome, they gave up living at Nuremberg, and finally were content to
sell their rights and possessions there to the town. Beside the guard
door of the Burggrafs, which together with their castle passed by
purchase into the hands of the town (1427), there were various other
similar guard towers, such as the one which formerly occupied the
present site of the Luginsland, or the Hasenburg at the so-called
Himmels Thor, or a third which once stood near the Deep Well on the
second plateau of the Castle rock. But we do not know how many of these
there were, or where they stood, much less at what date they were built.
All we do know is that they, as well as the Burggrafs' possessions, were
purchased in succession by the town, into whose hands by degrees came
the whole property of the Castle rock. Above the ruins of the "little
fort" of the Burggrafs rises the first plateau of the Castle rock. It is
surrounded by a wall, strengthened on the south side by a square tower
against which leans the Walpurgiskapelle.

The path to the Kaiserburg leads under the wall of the plateau, and is
entirely commanded by it and by the quadrangular tower, the lower part
of which alone remains and is known by the name of Burgamtmannswohnung.
The path goes straight to this tower, and at the foot of it is the
entrance to the first plateau. Then along the edge of this plateau the
way winds southward, entirely commanded again by the wall of the second
plateau, at the foot of which there probably used to be a trench. Over
this a bridge led to the gate of the second plateau. The trench has been
long since filled in, but the huge round tower which guarded the gate
still remains and is the Vestner Thurm. The Vestner Thurm of Sinwel
Thurm (sinwel = round), or, as it is called in a charter of the year
1313, the "Middle Tower," is the only round tower of the Burg. It was
built in the days of early Gothic, with a sloping base, and of roughly
flattened stones with a smooth edge. It was partly restored and altered
in 1561, when it was made a few feet higher and its round roof was
added. It is worth paying the small gratuity required for ascending to
the top. The view obtained of the city below is magnificent. The Vestner
Thurm, like the whole Imperial castle, passed at length into the care of
the town, which kept its Tower watch here as early as the fourteenth

The well which supplied the second plateau with water, the "Deep Well,"
as it is called, stands in the center, surrounded by a wall. It is 335
feet deep, hewn out of the solid rock, and is said to have been wrought
by the hands of prisoners, and to have been the labor of thirty years.
So much we can easily believe as we lean over and count the six seconds
that elapse between the time when an object is dropt from the top to the
time when it strikes the water beneath. Passages lead from the water's
edge to the Rathaus, by which prisoners came formerly to draw water, and
to St. John's Churchyard and other points outside the town. The system
of underground passages here and in the Castle was an important part of
the defenses, affording as it did a means of communication with the
outer world and as a last extremity, in the case of a siege, a means of

Meanwhile, leaving the Deep Well and passing some insignificant modern
dwellings, and leaving beneath us on the left the Himmelsthor, let us
approach the summit of the rock and the buildings of the Kaiserburg
itself. As we advance to the gateway with the intention of ringing the
bell for the castellan, we notice on the left the Double Chapel,
attaching to the Heathen Tower, the lower part of which is encrusted
with what were once supposed to be Pagan images. The Tower protrudes
beyond the face of the third plateau, and its prominence may indicate
the width of a trench, now filled in, which was once dug outside the
enclosing wall of the summit of the rock. The whole of the south side of
this plateau is taken up by the "Palast" (the vast hall, two stories
high, which, tho it has been repeatedly rebuilt, may in its original
structure be traced back as far as the twelfth century), and the
"Kemnate" or dwelling-rooms which seem to have been without any means of
defense. This plateau, like the second, is supplied with a well. But the
first object that strikes the eye on entering the court-yard is the
ruined limetree, the branches of which once spread their broad and
verdant shelter over the whole extent of the quadrangle.

On leaving the Castle we find ourselves in the Burgstrasse, called in
the old days Unter der Veste, which was probably the High Street of the
old town. Off both sides of this street and of the Bergstrasse ran
narrow crooked little alleys lined with wooden houses of which time and
fire have left scarcely any trace. As you wander round the city tracing
the line of the old walls, you are struck by the general air of
splendor. Most of the houses are large and of a massive style of
architecture, adorned with fanciful gables and bearing the impress of
the period when every inhabitant was a merchant, and every merchant was
lodged like a king. The houses of the merchant princes, richly carved
both inside and out, tell of the wealth and splendor of Nuremberg in her
proudest days. But you will also come upon a hundred crooked little
streets and narrow alleys, which, tho entrancingly picturesque, tell of
yet other days and other conditions.

They tell of those early medieval days when the houses were almost all
of wood and roofed with straw-thatching or wooden tiles; when the
chimneys and bridges alike were built of wood. Only here and there a
stone house roofed with brick could then be seen. The streets were
narrow and crooked, and even in the fifteenth century mostly unpaved. In
wet weather they were filled with unfathomable mud, and even tho in the
lower part of the town trenches were dug to drain the streets, they
remained mere swamps and morasses. In dry weather the dust was even a
worse plague than the mud. Pig-styes stood in front of the houses; and
the streets were covered with heaps of filth and manure and with rotting
corpses of animals, over which the pigs wandered at will. Street police
in fact was practically non-existent. Medievalism is undoubtedly better
when survived.

[Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton &



A glance at the map will show us that Nuremberg, as we know it, is
divided into two almost equal divisions. They are called after the names
of the principal churches, the St. Lorenz, and the St. Sebald quarter.
The original wall included, it will be seen, only a small portion of the
northern or St. Sebald division. With the growth of the town an
extension of the walls and an increase of fortification followed as a
matter of course. It became necessary to carry the wall over the Pegnitz
in order to protect the Lorenzkirche and the suburb which was springing
up around it. The precise date of this extension of the fortifications
can not be fixt. The chronicles attribute it to the twelfth century, in
the reign of the first Hohenstaufen, Konrad III. No trace of a
twelfth-century wall remains; but the chroniclers may, for all that,
have been not very wide of the mark. The mud and wood which supplied the
material of the wall may have given place to stone in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries. However that may be, it will be remembered that
the lower part of the White Tower, which is the oldest fragment of
building we can certainly point to dates from the thirteenth century.
All other portions of the second wall clearly indicate the fourteenth
century, or later, as the time of their origin....

Beyond the White Tower the moat was long ago filled up, but the section
of it opposite the Unschlittplatz remained open for a longer period than
the rest, and was called the Klettengraben, because of the burdocks
which took root there. Hereabouts, on a part of the moat, the
Waizenbraeuhaus was built in 1671, which is now the famous Freiherrlich
von Tuchersche Brewery. Here, too, the Unschlitthaus was built at the
end of the fifteenth century as a granary. It has since been turned into
a school.

We have now reached one of the most charming and picturesque bits of
Nuremberg. Once more we have to cross the Pegnitz, whose banks are
overhung by quaint old houses. Their projecting roofs and high gables,
their varied chimneys and overhanging balconies from which trail rich
masses of creepers, make an entrancing foreground to the towers and the
arches of the Henkersteg. The wall was carried on arches over the
southern arm of the Pegnitz to the point of the Saumarkt (or
Troedelmarkt) island which here divides the river, and thence in like
manner over the northern arm. The latter portion of it alone survives
and comprises a large tower on the north bank called the Wasserthurm,
which was intended to break the force of the stream; a bridge supported
by two arches over the stream, which was the Henkersteg, the habitation
of the hangman, and on the island itself a smaller tower, which formed
the point of support for the original, southern pair of arches, which
joined the Unschlitthaus, but were so badly damaged in 1595 by the high
flood that they were demolished and replaced by a wooden, and later by
an iron bridge.

Somewhere in the second half of the fourteenth century, then, in the
reign of Karl IV., they began to build the outer enceinte, which, altho
destroyed at many places and broken through by modern gates and
entrances, is still fairly well preserved, and secures to Nuremberg the
reputation of presenting most faithfully of all the larger German towns
the characteristics of a medieval town. The fortifications seem to have
been thrown up somewhat carelessly at first, but dread of the Hussites
soon inspired the citizens to make themselves as secure as possible. In
times of war and rumors of war all the peasants within a radius of two
miles of the town were called upon to help in the construction of
barriers and ramparts. The whole circle of walls, towers, and ditches
was practically finished by 1452, when with pardonable pride Tucher
wrote, "In this year was completed the ditch round the town. It took
twenty-six years to build, and it will cost an enemy a good deal of
trouble to cross it." Part of the ditch had been made and perhaps
revetted as early as 1407, but it was not till twenty years later that
it began to be dug to the enormous breadth and depth which it boasts
to-day. The size of it was always a source of pride to Nurembergers, and
it was perhaps due to this reason that up till as recently as 1869 it
was left perfectly intact. On the average it is about 100 feet broad.

It was always intended to be a dry ditch, and, so far from there being
any arrangements for flooding it, precautions were taken to carry the
little Fischbach, which formerly entered the town near the modern
Sternthor, across the ditch in a trough. The construction of the ditch
was provided for by an order of the Council in 1427, to the effect that
all householders, whether male or female, must work at the ditch one day
in the year with their children of over twelve years of age, and with
all their servants, male or female. Those who were not able to work had
to pay a substitute. Subsequently this order was changed to the effect
that every one who could or would not work must pay ten pfennige. There
were no exemptions from this liturgy, whether in favor of councillor,
official, or lady. The order remained ten years in force, tho the
amount of the payment was gradually reduced....

At the time of the construction of these and the other lofty towers it
was still thought that the raising of batteries as much as possible
would increase their effect. In practise the plunging fire from
platforms at the height of some eighty feet above the level of the
parapets of the town wall can hardly have been capable of producing any
great effect, more especially if the besieging force succeeded in
establishing itself on the crest of the counterscarp of the ditches,
since from that point the swell of the bastions masked the towers. But
there was another use for these lofty towers. The fact is that the
Nuremberg engineers, at the time that they were built, had not yet
adopted a complete system of flank-works, and not having as yet applied
with all its consequences the axiom that that which defends should
itself be defended, they wanted to see and command their external
defenses from within the body of the place, as, a century before, the
baron could see from the top of his donjon whatever was going on round
the walls of his castle, and send up his support to any point of attack.
The great round towers of Nuremberg are more properly, in fact, detached
keeps than portions of a combined system, rather observatories than
effective defenses.

The round towers, however, were not the sole defenses of the gates.
Outside each one of them was a kind of fence of pointed beams after the
manner of a chevaux-de-frise, while outside the ditch and close to the
bridge stood a barrier, by the side of which was a guard-house. Tho it
was not till 1598 that all the main gates were fitted with drawbridges,
the wooden bridges that served before that could doubtless easily be
destroyed in cases of emergency. Double-folding doors and portcullises
protected the gateways themselves. Once past there, the enemy was far
from being in the town, for the road led through extensive advanced
works, presenting, as in the case of the Laufer Thor outwork, a regular
"place d'armes." Further, the road was so engineered as not to lead in a
straight line from the outer main gates to the inner ones, but rather so
as to pursue a circuitous course. Thus the enemy in passing through from
the one to the other were exposed as long as possible to the shots and
projectiles of the defenders, who were stationed all round the walls and
towers flanking the advanced tambour. This arrangement may be traced
very clearly at the Frauen Thor to-day. The position of the round tower,
it will be observed, was an excellent one for commanding the road from
the outer to the inner gate.

At intervals of every 120 or 150 feet the interior wall is broken by
quadrilateral towers. Some eighty-three of these, including the gate
towers, can still be traced. What the number was originally we do not
know. It is the sort of subject on which chroniclers have no manner of
conscience. The Hartmann Schedel Chronicle, for instance, gives
Nuremberg 365 towers in all. The fact that there are 365 days in the
year is of course sufficient proof of this assertion! The towers, which
rise two or even three stories above the wall, communicated on both
sides with the covered way. They are now used as dwelling-houses. On
some of them there can still be seen, projecting near the roof, two
little machicoulis turrets, which served as guard-rooms for observing
the enemy, and also, by overhanging the base of the tower, enabled the
garrison to hurl down on their assailants at the foot of the wall a
hurricane of projectiles of every sort. Like the wall the towers are
built almost entirely of sandstone, but on the side facing the town they
are usually faced with brick. The shapes of the roofs vary from flat to
pointed, but the towers themselves are simple and almost austere in form
in comparison with those generally found in North Germany, where fantasy
runs riot in red brick. The Nuremberg towers were obviously intended in
the first place for use rather than for ornament.

At the end of our long perambulations of the walls it will be a grateful
relief to sit for a while at one of the "Restaurations" or restaurants
on the walls. There, beneath the shade of acacias in the daytime, or in
the evening by the white light of incandescent gas, you may sit and
watch the groups of men, women, and children all drinking from their
tall glasses of beer, and you may listen to the whirr and ting-tang of
the electric cars, where the challenge of sentinels or the cry of the
night-watchman was once the most frequent sound. Or, if you have grown
tired of the Horn- and the Schloss-zwinger, cross the ditch on the west
side of the town and make your way to the Rosenau, in the
Fuertherstrasse. The Rosenau is a garden of trees and roses not lacking
in chairs and tables, in bowers, benches, and a band. There, too, you
will see the good burgher with his family drinking beer, eating
sausages, and smoking contentedly.

[Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton &



Among the most treasured of Nuremberg's relics is the low-ceilinged,
gabled house near the Thiergaertnerthor, in which Albert Duerer lived and
died, in the street now called after his name. The works of art which he
presented to the town, or with which he adorned its churches, have
unfortunately, with but few exceptions, been sold to the stranger. It is
in Vienna and Munich, in Dresden and Berlin, in Florence, in Prague, or
the British Museum, that we find splendid collections of Duerer's works.
Not at Nuremberg. But here at any rate we can see the house in which he
toiled--no genius ever took more pains--and the surroundings which
imprest his mind and influenced his inspiration.

If, in the past, Nuremberg has been only too anxious to turn his works
into cash, to-day she guards Albert Duerer's house with a care and
reverence little short of religious. She has sold, in the days of her
poverty and foolishness, the master's pictures and drawings, which are
his own best monument; but she has set up a noble monument to his memory
(by Rauch, 1840) in the Duerer Platz, and his house is opened to the
public between the hours of 8 A.M. and 1 P.M., and 2 and 6 P.M. on week
days. The Albert-Duerer-Haus Society has done admirable work in restoring
and preserving the house in its original state with the aid of Professor
Wanderer's architectural and antiquarian skill. Reproductions of
Duerer's works are also kept here.

The most superficial acquaintance with Duerer's drawings will have
prepared us for the sight of his simple, unpretentious house and its
contents. In his "Birth of the Virgin" he gives us a picture of the
German home of his day, where there were few superfluous knick-knacks,
but everything which served for daily use was well and strongly made and
of good design. Ceilings, windows, doors and door-handles, chests,
locks, candlesticks, banisters, waterpots, the very cooking utensils,
all betray the fine taste and skilled labor, the personal interest of
the man who made them. So in Duerer's house, as it is preserved to-day,
we can still see and admire the careful simplicity of domestic
furniture, which distinguishes that in the "Birth of the Virgin." The
carved coffers, the solid tables, the spacious window-seats, the
well-fitting cabinets let into the walls, the carefully wrought
metal-work we see there are not luxurious; their merit is quite other
than that. In workmanship as in design, how utterly do they put to shame
the contents of the ordinary "luxuriously furnished apartments" of the
present day!

And what manner of man was he who lived in this house that nestles
beneath the ancient castle? In the first place a singularly loveable
man, a man of sweet and gentle spirit, whose life was one of high ideals
and noble endeavor. In the second place an artist who, both for his
achievements and for his influence on art, stands in the very front rank
of artists, and of German artists is "facile princeps." At whatever
point we may study Duerer and his works we are never conscious of
disappointment. As painter, as author, as engraver, or simple citizen,
the more we know of him the more we are morally and intellectually
satisfied. Fortunately, through his letters and writings, his journals
and autobiographical memoirs we know a good deal about his personal
history and education.

Duerer's grandfather came of a farmer race in the village of Eytas in
Hungary. The grandfather turned goldsmith, and his eldest son, Albrecht
Duerer the elder, came to Nuremberg in 1455 and settled in the
Burgstrasse (No. 27). He became one of the leading goldsmiths of the
town; married and had eighteen children, of whom only three, boys, grew
up. Albrecht, or as we call him Albert Duerer, was the eldest of these.
He was born May 21, 1471, in his father's house, and Anthoni Koberger,
the printer and bookseller, the Stein of those days, stood godfather to
him. The maintenance of so large a family involved the father, skilful
artist as he was, in unremitting toil.

His father, who was delighted with Albert's industry, took him from
school as soon as he had learned to read and write and apprenticed him
to a goldsmith. "But my taste drew me toward painting rather than toward
goldsmithry. I explained this to my father, but he was not satisfied,
for he regretted the time I had lost." Benvenuto Cellini has told us how
his father, in like fashion, was eager that he should practise the
"accurst art" of music. Duerer's father, however, soon gave in and in
1486 apprenticed the boy to Michael Wolgemut. That extraordinary
beautiful, and, for a boy of that age, marvelously executed portrait of
himself at the age of thirteen (now at Vienna) must have shown the
father something of the power that lay undeveloped in his son. So "it
was arranged that I should serve him for three years. During that time
God gave me great industry so that I learned many things; but I had to
suffer much at the hands of the other apprentices."

When in 1490 his apprenticeship was completed Duerer set out on his
Wanderjahre, to learn what he could of men and things, and, more
especially, of his own trade. Martin Schongauer was dead, but under that
master's brothers Duerer studied and helped to support himself by his art
at Colmar and at Basle. Various wood-blocks executed by him at the
latter place are preserved there. Whether he also visited Venice now or
not is a moot point. Here or elsewhere, at any rate, he came under the
influence of the Bellini, of Mantegna, and more particularly of Jacopo
dei Barbari--the painter and engraver to whom he owed the incentive to
study the proportions of the human body--a study which henceforth became
the most absorbing interest of his life.

"I was four years absent from Nuremberg," he records, "and then my
father recalled me. After my return Hans Frey came to an understanding
with my father. He gave me his daughter Agnes and with her 200 florins,
and we were married." Duerer, who writes so lovingly of his parents,
never mentions his wife with any affection; a fact which to some extent
confirms her reputation as a Xantippe. She, too, in her way, it is
suggested, practised the art of cross-hatching. Pirkheimer, writing
after the artist's death, says that by her avariciousness and quarreling
nature she brought him to the grave before his day. She was probably a
woman of a practical and prosaic turn, to whom the dreamy, poetic,
imaginative nature of the artist-student, her husband, was intolerably
irritating. Yet as we look at his portraits of himself--and no man
except Rembrandt has painted himself so often--it is difficult to
understand how any one could have been angry with Albert Duerer. Never
did the face of man bear a more sweet, benign, and trustful expression.
In those portraits we see something of the beauty, of the strength, of
the weakness of the man so beloved in his generation. His fondness for
fine clothes and his legitimate pride in his personal beauty reveal
themselves in the rich vestments he wears and the wealth of silken
curls, so carefully waved, so wondrously painted, falling proudly over
his free neck.

[Footnote A: From "The Story of Nuremberg." Published by E.P. Dutton &





Art has done everything for Munich. It lies on a large flat plain
sixteen hundred feet above the sea and continually exposed to the cold
winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but
a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners; since that time
its population and limits have been doubled and magnificent edifices in
every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in
this respect to any capital in Europe.[B] Every art that wealth or taste
could devise seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad, spacious
streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and colleges
erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established which draw
artists from all parts of the world. All this was principally brought
about by the taste of the present king, Ludwig I., who began twenty or
thirty years ago, when he was crown-prince, to collect the best German
artists around him and form plans for the execution of his grand
design. He can boast of having done more for the arts than any other
living monarch; and if he had accomplished it all without oppressing his
people, he would deserve an immortality of fame....

We went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly
belonging to Eugene Beauharnais, who was brother-in-law to the present
King of Bavaria, in the palace of his son, the Duke of Leuchtenberg. The
first hall contains works principally by French artists, among which are
two by Gerard--a beautiful portrait of Josephine, and the blind
Belisarius carrying his dead companion. The boy's head lies on the old
man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem
to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable
features of the unfortunate emperor. In the middle of the room are six
pieces of statuary, among which Canova's world-renowned group of the
Graces at once attracts the eye. There is also a kneeling Magdalen,
lovely in her wo, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of
Schadow representing a shepherd-boy tenderly binding his sash around a
lamb which he has accidentaly wounded with his arrow.

We have since seen in the St. Michael's Church the monument to Eugene
Beauharnais from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. The noble, manly figure of
the son of Josephine is represented in the Roman mantle, with his helmet
and sword lying on the ground by him. On one side sits History writing
on a tablet; on the other stand the two brother-angels Death and
Immortality. They lean lovingly together, with arms around each other,
but the sweet countenance of Death has a cast of sorrow as he stands
with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks.
Immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upward with a
smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. It is a
beautiful idea, and Thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with

The inside of the square formed by the arcades and the New Residence is
filled with noble old trees which in summer make a leafy roof over the
pleasant walks. In the middle stands a grotto ornamented with rough
pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect
hall of Neptune. Passing through the northern arcade, one comes into the
magnificent park called the English Garden, which extends more than four
miles along the bank of the Isar, several branches of whose milky
current wander through it and form one or two pretty cascades. It is a
beautiful alteration of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and
garden-like luxuriance of English scenery. Winding walks lead along the
Isar or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of half
a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its farther end, comes in
sight through the trees.

The New Residence is not only one of the wonders of Munich, but of the
world. Altho commenced in 1826 and carried on constantly since that time
by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet
finished; if art were not inexhaustible, it would be difficult to
imagine what more could be added. The north side of the Max Joseph Platz
is taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine
years in building, under the direction of the architect Klenze. The
exterior is copied after the Palazzo Pitti, in Florence. The building is
of light-brown sandstone, and combines an elegance, and even splendor,
with the most chaste and classic style. The northern front, which faces
the royal garden, is now nearly finished. It has the enormous length of
eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten Ionic columns.
Instead of supporting a triangular facade, each pillar stands separate
and bears a marble statue from the chisel of Schwanthaler.

The interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the
outside. It is open every afternoon, in the absence of the king, for the
inspection of visitors. We went early to the waiting-hall, where several
travelers were already assembled, and at four o'clock were admitted into
the newer part of the palace, containing the throne-hall, ball-room,
etc. On entering the first hall, designed for the lackeys and royal
servants, we were all obliged to thrust our feet into cloth slippers to
walk over the polished mosaic floor. The walls are of scagliola marble
and the ceilings ornamented brilliantly in fresco. The second hall, also
for servants, gives tokens of increasing splendors in the richer
decorations of the walls and the more elaborate mosaic of the floor. We
next entered the audience chamber, in which the court-marshal receives
the guests. The ceiling is of arabesque sculpture profusely painted and

Finally we entered the Hall of the Throne. Here the encaustic decoration
so plentifully employed in the other rooms is dropt, and an effect even
more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and gold. Picture a
long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side twelve columns
of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand colossal
statues of gold. At the other end is the throne of gold and crimson,
with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. The twelve statues in the hall
are called the "Wittelsbach Ancestors" and represent renowned members of
the house of Wittelsbach from which the present family of Bavaria is
descended. They were cast in bronze by Stiglmaier after the models of
Schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of gold; so
that they resemble solid golden statues. The value of the precious metal
on each one is about three thousand dollars, as they are nine feet in
height. We visited yesterday morning the Glyptothek, the finest
collection of ancient sculpture except that in the British Museum I have
yet seen, and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed north of the Alps. The
building, which was finished by Klenze in 1830, has an Ionic portico of
white marble, with a group of allegorical figures representing Sculpture
and the kindred arts. On each side of the portico there are three niches
in the front, containing on one side Pericles, Phidias and Vulcan; on
the other, Hadrian, Prometheus and Daedalus. The whole building forms a
hollow square and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in
all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the
art, and arranged according to time; so that, beginning with the clumsy
productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different
stages of Grecian art, afterward that of Rome, and finally ends with the
works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen and
Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more
could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of
green or purple scagliola and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised
ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration,
and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole which renders
the variety delightful.

From the Egyptian Hall we enter one containing the oldest remains of
Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to mold the marble to
their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Aegina marbles, from the
temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Aegina. They formerly
stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the
body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The
parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form
almost the only existing specimens of the Aeginetan school. Passing
through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large Hall of Bacchus, in which
the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr lying asleep on
a goatskin which he has thrown over a rock is believed to be the work of
Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every
limb is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which led
me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude country

In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works
that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is,
without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus,
the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment
in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring
supplication in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree.
His beautiful young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly
shaft; there is an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the
position of his body. It should be left untouched. No head could be
added which would equal that one pictures to himself while gazing upon

The Pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five
hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures
selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king,
which amounts to nine thousand. Above the cornice on the southern side
stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters by
Schwanthaler. As we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a
servant in the Bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the
giant proportions of the building that until I stood beside him and
could mark the contrast I did not notice his enormous frame. I saw then
that he must be near eight feet high and stout in proportion. He
reminded me of the great "Baver of Trient," in Vienna. The Pinacothek
contains the most complete collection of works by old German artists
anywhere to be found. There are in the Hall of the Spanish Masters half
a dozen of Murillo's inimitable beggar-groups.

It was a relief, after looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of
the old German school, to view these fresh, natural countenances. One
little black-eyed boy has just cut a slice out of a melon, and turns
with a full mouth to his companion, who is busy eating a bunch of
grapes. The simple, contented expression on the faces of the beggars is
admirable. I thought I detected in a beautiful child with dark curly
locks the original of his celebrated infant St. John. I was much
interested in two small juvenile works of Raphael and his own portrait.
The latter was taken, most probably, after he became known as a painter.
The calm, serious smile which we see on his portrait as a boy had
vanished, and the thin features and sunken eye told of intense mental

[Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

[Footnote B: This was written about 1848. The population of Munich is
now (1914), 595,000. Munich is rated as third in importance among German



In ancient times--that is to say, upward of three centuries ago--the
city of Augsburg was probably the most populous and consequential in the
kingdom of Bavaria. It was the principal residence of the noblesse, and
the great mart of commerce. Dukes, barons, nobles of every rank and
degree, became domiciled here. A thousand blue and white flags streamed
from the tops of castellated mansions, and fluttered along the then
almost impregnable ramparts. It was also not less remarkable for the
number and splendor of its religious establishments. Here was a
cathedral, containing twenty-four chapels; and an abbey or monastery (of
Saints Ulric and Afra) which had no rival in Bavaria for the size of its
structure and the wealth of its possessions. This latter contained a
Library, both of MSS. and printed books, of which the recent work of
Braun has luckily preserved a record; and which, but for such record,
would have been unknown to after ages. The treasures of this library are
now entirely dispersed; and Munich, the capital of Bavaria, is the grand
repository of them. Augsburg, in the first instance, was enriched by the
dilapidations of numerous monasteries; especially upon the suppression
of the order of the Jesuits. The paintings, books, and relics, of every
description, of such monasteries as were in the immediate vicinity of
this city, were taken away to adorn the town hall, churches, capitals
and libraries. Of this collection (of which no inconsiderable portion,
both for number and intrinsic value, came from the neighboring monastery
of Eichstadt), there has of course been a pruning; and many flowers have
been transplanted to Munich.

The principal church, at the end of the Maximilian Street, is that which
once formed the chief ornament of the famous Abbey of Sts. Ulric and
Afra. I should think that there is no portion of the present building
older than the fourteenth century; while it is evident that the upper
part of the tower is of the middle of the sixteenth. It has a nearly
globular or mosque-shaped termination--so common in the greater number
of the Bavarian churches. It is frequented by congregations both of the
Catholic and Protestant persuasion; and it was highly gratifying to see,
as I saw, human beings assembled under the same roof, equally occupied
in their different forms of adoration, in doing homage to their common

Augsburg was once distinguished for great learning and piety, as well as
for political consequence; and she boasts of a very splendid
martyrological roll. At the present day, all is comparatively dull and
quiet; but you can not fail to be struck with the magnificence of many
of the houses, and the air of importance hence given to the streets;
while the paintings upon the outer walls add much to the splendid effect
of the whole. The population of Augsburg is supposed to amount to about
thirty thousand. In the time of Maximilian and Charles V. it was, I make
no doubt, twice as numerous.[B]

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Taur,"
published in 1821.]

[Footnote B: Augsburg has now (1914) a population of 102,000. Woolen and
cotton goods and machinery are its manufactured products.]



It was dark when we entered Ratisbon, and, having been recommended to
the Hotel of the Agneau Blanc, we drove thither, and alighted--close to
the very banks of the Danube--and heard the roar of its rapid stream,
turning several mills, close, as it were, to our very ears. The master
of the hotel, whose name is Cramer, and who talked French very readily,
received us with peculiar courtesy; and, on demanding the best situated
room in the house, we were conducted on the second floor, to a chamber
which had been occupied, only two or three days before, by the Emperor
of Austria himself, on his way to Aix-la-Chapelle. The next morning was
a morning of wonder to us. Our sitting-room, which was a very lantern,
from the number of windows, gave us a view of the rushing stream of the
Danube, of a portion of the bridge over it, of some beautifully
undulating and vine-covered hills, in the distance, on the opposite
side--and, lower down the stream, of the town walls and water-mills, of
which latter we had heard the stunning sounds on our arrival. The whole
had a singularly novel and pleasing appearance.

The Town Hall was large and imposing; but the Cathedral, surrounded by
booths--it being fair-time--was, of course, the great object of my
attention. In short, I saw enough within an hour to convince me that I
was visiting a large, curious, and well-peopled town; replete with
antiquities, and including several of the time of the Romans, to whom it
was necessarily a very important station. Ratisbon is said to contain a
population of about 20,000 souls.[B]

The cathedral can boast of little antiquity. It is almost a building of
yesterday; yet it is large, richly ornamented on the outside, especially
on the west, between the towers--and is considered one of the noblest
structures of the kind in Bavaria. The interior wants that decisive
effect which simplicity produces. It is too much broken into parts, and
covered with monuments of a very heterogeneous description. Near it I
traced the cloisters of an old convent or monastery of some kind, now
demolished, which could not be less than five hundred years old. The
streets of Ratisbon are generally picturesque, as well from their
undulating forms, as from the antiquity of a great number of the
houses. The modern parts of the town are handsome, and there is a
pleasant intermixture of trees and grass plats in some of these more
recent portions. There are some pleasing public walks, after the English
fashion; and a public garden, where a colossal sphinx, erected by the
late philosopher Gleichen, has a very imposing appearance. Here is also
an obelisk erected to the memory of Gleichen himself, the founder of
these gardens; and a monument to the memory of Kepler, the astronomer;
which latter was luckily spared in the assault of this town by the
French in 1809.

But these are, comparatively, every-day objects. A much more interesting
source of observation, to my mind, were the very few existing relics of
the once celebrated monastery of St. Emmeram--and a great portion of the
remains of another old monastery, called St. James--which latter may
indeed be designated the College of the Jacobites; as the few members
who inhabit it were the followers of the house and fortunes of the
Pretender, James Stuart. The Monastery or Abbey of St. Emmeram was one
of the most celebrated throughout Europe; and I suspect that its
library, both of MSS. and printed books, was among the principal causes
of its celebrity. Of all interesting objects of architectural antiquity
in Ratisbon, none struck me so forcibly--and, indeed, none is in itself
so curious and singular--as the Monastery of St. James. The front of
that portion of it, connected with the church, should seem to be of an
extremely remote antiquity. It is the ornaments, or style of
architecture, which give it this character of antiquity. The ornaments,
which are on each side of the doorway, or porch, are quite

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour,"
published in 1821.]

[Footnote B: Ratisbon has now (1914) a population of 53,000. Its
manufactured products consist chiefly of pottery and lead pencils.]





The train spins along across great plains gilded by the setting sun;
soon night comes, and with it, sleep. At stations remote from one
another, German voices shout German names; I do not recognize them by
the sound, and look for them in vain upon the map. Magnificent great
station buildings are shown up by gaslight in the midst of surrounding
darkness, then disappear. We pass Hanover and Minden; the train keeps on
its way; and morning dawns.

On either side stretched a peat-moss, upon which the mist was producing
a singular mirage. We seemed to be upon a causeway traversing an immense
lake whose waves crept up gently, dying in transparent folds along the
edge of the embankment. Here and there a group of trees or a cottage,
emerging like an island, completed the illusion, for such it was. A
sheet of bluish mist, floating a little above the ground and curling up
along its upper surface under the rays of the sun, caused this aqueous
phantasmagoria, resembling the Fata Morgana of Sicily. In vain did my
geographical knowledge protest, disconcerted, against this inland sea,
which no map of Prussia indicates; my eyes would not give it up, and
later in the day, when the sun, rising higher, had dried up this
imaginary lake, they required the presence of a boat to make them admit
that any body of water could be real.

Suddenly upon the left were massed the trees of a great park; Tritons
and Nereids appeared, dabbling in the basin of a fountain; there was a
dome and a circle of columns rising above extensive buildings; and this
was Potsdam....

A few moments later we were in Berlin, and a fiacre set me down at the
hotel. One of the keenest pleasures of a traveler is that first drive
through a hitherto unknown city, destroying or confirming his
preconceived idea of it. All that is peculiar and characteristic seizes
upon the yet virgin eye, whose perceptive power is never more clear.

My idea of Berlin had been drawn in great measure from Hoffman's
fantastic stories. In spite of myself, a Berlin, strange and grotesque,
peopled with Aulic councillors, sandmen, Kreislers, archivist Lindursts,
and student Anselms, had reared itself within my brain, amid a fog of
tobacco-smoke; and there before me was a city regularly built, stately,
with wide streets, extensive public grounds, and imposing edifices of a
style half-English, half-German, and modern to the last degree.

As we drove along I glanced down into those cellars, with steps so
polished, so slippery, so well-soaped, that one might slide in as into
the den of an ant-lion--to see if I might not discover Hoffman himself
seated on a tun, his feet crossed upon the bowl of his gigantic pipe,
and surrounded by a tangle of grotesque chimeras, as he is represented
in the vignette of the French translation of his stories; and, to tell
the truth, there was nothing of the kind in these subterranean shops
whose proprietors were just opening their doors! The cats, of benignant
aspect, rolled no phosphorescent eyeballs, like the cat Murr in the
story, and they seemed quite incapable of writing their memoirs, or of
deciphering a score of Richard Wagner's.

These handsome stately houses, which are like palaces, with their
columns and pediments and architraves, are built of brick for the most
part, for stone seems rare in Berlin; but the brick is covered with
cement or tinted stucco, to simulate hewn stone; deceitful seams
indicate imaginary layers, and the illusion would be complete, were it
not that in spots the winter frosts have detached the cement, revealing
the red shades of the baked clay. The necessity of painting the whole
facade, in order to mask the nature of the material, gives the effect of
enormous architectural decorations seen in open air. The salient parts,
moldings, cornices, entablatures, consoles, are of wood, bronze, or
cast-iron, to which suitable forms have been given; when you do not look
too closely the effect is satisfactory. Truth is the only thing lacking
in all this splendor.

The palatial buildings which border Regent's Park in London present also
these porticoes, and these columns with brick cores and plaster-fluting,
which, by aid of a coating of oil paint, are expected to pass for stone
or marble. Why not build in brick frankly, since its water-coloring and
capacity for ingeniously varied arrangement furnish so many resources?
Even in Berlin I have seen charming houses of this kind which had the
advantage of being truthful. A fictitious material always inspires a
certain uneasiness.

The hotel is very well located, and I propose to sketch the view seen
from its steps. It will give a fair idea of the general character of the
city. The foreground is a quay bordering the Spree. A few boats with
slender masts are sleeping on the brown water. Vessels upon a canal or a
river, in the heart of a city, have always a charming effect. Along the
opposite quay stretches a line of houses; a few of them are ancient, and
bear the stamp thereof; the king's palace makes the corner. A cupola
upon an octagonal tower rises proudly above the other roofs, the square
sides of the tower adding grace to the curve of the dome.

A bridge spans the river, reminding me, with its white marble groups, of
the Ponte San Angelo at Rome. These groups--eight in number, if my
memory does not deceive me--are each composed of two figures; one
allegorical, winged, representing the country, or glory; the other, a
young man, guided through many trials to victory or immortality. These
groups, in purely classic taste, are not wanting in merit, and show in
some parts good study of the nude; their pedestals are ornamented with
medallions, whereon the Prussian eagle, half-real, half-heraldic, makes
a fine appearance. Considered as a decoration, the whole is, in my
opinion, somewhat too rich for the simplicity of the bridge, which opens
midway to allow the passage of vessels.

Farther on, through the trees of a public garden of some kind, appears
the old Museum, a great structure in the Greek style, with Doric columns
relieved against a painted background. At the corners of the roof,
bronze horses held by grooms are outlined upon the sky. Behind this
building, and looking sideways, you perceive the triangular pediment of
the new Museum.

On crossing the bridge, the dark facade of the palace comes in view,
with its balustraded terrace; the carvings around the main entrance are
in that old, exaggerated German rococo which I have seen before and have
admired in the palace in Dresden. This kind of barbaric taste has
something charming about it, and entertains the eye, satiated with chefs
d'oeuvre. It has invention, fancy, originality; and tho I may be
censured for the opinion, I confess I prefer this exuberance to the
coldness of the Greek style imitated with more erudition than success in
our modern public buildings. At each side stand great bronze horses
pawing the ground, and held by naked grooms.

I visited the apartments of the palace; they are rich and elegant, but
present nothing interesting to the artist save their ancient recessed
ceilings filled with curious figures and arabesques. In the concert-hall
there is a musicians' gallery in grotesque carving, silvered; its effect
is really charming. Silver is not used enough in decorations; it is a
relief from the classic gold, and forms admirable combinations with
colors. The chapel, whose dome rises above the rest of the building, is
well planned and well lighted, comfortable, reasonably decorated.

Let us cross the square and take a look at the Museum, admiring, as we
pass, an immense porphyry vase standing on cubes of the same material,
in front of the steps which lead up to the portico. This portico is
painted in fresco by various hands, under the direction of the
celebrated Peter Cornelius. The paintings form a broad frieze, folding
itself back at each end upon the side wall of the portico, and
interrupted in the middle to give access to the Museum. The portion on
the left contains a whole poem of mythologic cosmogony, treated with
that philosophy and that erudition which the Germans carry into
compositions of this kind; the right, purely anthropologie, represents
the birth, development, and evolution of humanity.

If I were to describe in detail these two immense frescoes, you would
certainly be charmed with the ingenious invention, the profound
knowledge, and the excellent judgment of the artist. The mysteries of
the early creation are penetrated, and everything is faultlessly
scientific. Also, if I should show you them in the form of those fine
German engravings, the lines heightened by delicate shadows, the
execution as accurate as that of Albrecht Duerer, the tone light and
harmonious, you would admire the ordering of the composition, balanced
with so much art, the groups skilfully united one to another, the
ingenious episodes, the wise selection of the attributes, the
significance of each separate thing; you might even find grandeur of
style, an air of magisterial dignity, fine effects of drapery, proud
attitudes, well-marked types, muscular audacities a la Michel Angelo,
and a certain Germanic savagery of fine flavor. You would be struck with
this free handling of great subjects, this vast conceptive power, this
carrying out of an idea, which French painters so often lack; and you
would think of Cornelius almost as highly as the Germans do. But in the
presence of the work itself, the impression is completely different.

I am well aware that fresco-painting, even in the hands of the Italian
masters, skilful as they were in the technical details of their art, has
not the charm of oil. The eye must become habituated to this rude,
lustreless coloring, before we can discern its beauties. Many people who
never say so--for nothing is more rare than the courage to avow a
feeling or an opinion--find the frescoes of the Vatican and the Sistine
frightful; but the great names of Michel Angelo and Raphael impose
silence upon them; they murmur vague formulas of enthusiasm, and go off
to rhapsodize--this time with sincerity--over some Magdalen of Guido, or
some Madonna of Carlo Dolce. I make large allowance, therefore, for this
unattractive aspect which belongs to fresco-painting; but in this case,
the execution is by far too repulsive. The mind may be content, but the
eye suffers. Painting, which is altogether a plastic art, can express
its ideal only through forms and colors. To think is not enough;
something must be done....












(The man on the sidewalk at the left is the Emperor Francis Joseph)]

[Illustration: SALZBURG, AUSTRIA]

I shall not now give an inventory of the Museum in Berlin, which is rich
in pictures and statues; to do this would require more space than is at
my command. We find represented here, more or less favorably, all the
great masters, the pride of royal galleries. But the most remarkable
thing in this collection is the very numerous and very complete
collection of the primitive painters of all countries and all schools,
from the Byzantine down to those which immediately precede the
Renaissance. The old German school, so little known in France, and on
many accounts so curious, is to be studied to better advantage here than
anywhere else. A rotunda contains tapestries after designs by Raphael,
of which the original cartoons are now in Hampton Court.

The staircase of the new Museum is decorated with those remarkable
frescoes by Kaulbach, which the art of engraving and the Universal
Exposition have made so well known in France. We all remember the
cartoon entitled "The Dispersion of Races," and all Paris has admired,
in Goupil's window that poetic "Defeat of the Huns," where the strife
begun between the living warriors is carried on amidst the disembodied
souls that hover above that battlefield strewn with the dead. "The
Destruction of Jerusalem" is a fine composition, tho somewhat too
theatrical. It resembles a "close of the fifth act" much more than
beseems the serious character of fresco painting. In the panel which
represents Hellenic civilization, Homer is the central figure; this
composition pleased me least of all. Other paintings as yet unfinished
present the climacteric epochs of humanity. The last of these will be
almost contemporary, for when a German begins to paint, universal
history comes under review; the great Italian painters did not need so
much in achieving their master-pieces. But each civilization has its
peculiar tendencies, and this encyclopedic painting is a characteristic
of the present time. It would seem that, before flinging itself into its
new career, the world has felt the necessity of making a synthesis of
its past....

This staircase, which is of colossal size, is ornamented with casts from
the finest antiques. Copies of the metopes of the Pantheon and friezes
from the temple of Theseus are set into its walls, and upon one of the
landings stands the Pandrosion, with all the strong and tranquil beauty
of its Caryatides. The effect of the whole is very grand. At the present
day there is no longer any visible difference between the people of one
country and of another. The uniform domino of civilization is worn
everywhere, and no difference in color, no special cut of the garment,
notifies you that you are away from home. The men and women whom I met
in the street escape description; the flaneurs of the Unter den Linden
are exactly like the flaneurs of the Boulevard des Italiens. This
avenue, bordered by splendid houses, is planted, as its name indicates,
with lindens; trees "whose leaf is shaped like a heart," as Heinrich
Heine remarks--a peculiarity which makes Unter den Linden dear to
lovers, and eminently suited for sentimental interviews. At its entrance
stands the equestrian statue of Frederick the Great. Like the
Champs-Elysees in Paris, this avenue terminates at a triumphal arch,
surmounted by a chariot with four bronze horses. Passing under the arch,
we come out into a park in some degrees resembling the Bois de Boulogne.

Along the edge of this park, which is shadowed by great trees having all
the intensity of northern verdure, and freshened by a little winding
stream, open flower-crowded gardens, in whose depths you can discern
summer retreats, which are neither chalets, nor cottages, nor villas,
but Pompeiian houses with their tetrastylic porticos and panels of
antique red. The Greek taste is held in high esteem in Berlin. On the
other hand, they seem to disdain the style of the Renaissance, so much
in vogue in Paris; I saw no edifice of this kind in Berlin.

Night came; and after paying a hasty visit to the zoological garden,
where all the animals were asleep, except a dozen long-tailed paroquets
and cockatoos, who were screaming from their perches, pluming
themselves, and raising their crests, I returned to my hotel to strap
my trunk and betake myself to the Hamburg railway station, as the train
would leave at ten, a circumstance which prevented me from going, as I
had intended, to the opera to hear Cherubini's "Deux Journees," and to
see Louise Taglioni dance the Sevillana....

For the traveler there are but two ways: the instantaneous proof, or the
prolonged study. Time failed me for the latter. Deign to accept this
simple and rapid impression.

[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By permission of, and by
arrangement with, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.
Since Gautier wrote, Berlin has greatly increased in population and in
general importance. What is known as "Greater Berlin" now embraces about
3,250,000 souls. Many of the quaint two-story houses, which formerly
were characteristic of the city, have given way to palatial houses and
business blocks. Berlin is a thoroughly modern commercial city. It ranks
among European cities immediately after London and Paris.]



Then we drove to Charlottenburg to see the Mausoleum. I know not when I
have been more deeply affected than there; and yet, not so much by the
sweet, lifelike statue of the queen as by that of the king, her husband,
executed by the same hand.[B] Such an expression of long-desired rest,
after suffering the toil, is shed over the face--so sweet, so heavenly!
There, where he has prayed year after year--hoping, yearning,
longing--there, at last, he rests, life's long anguish over! My heart
melted as I looked at these two, so long divided--he so long a mourner,
she so long mourned--now calmly resting side by side in a sleep so

We went through the palace. We saw the present king's writing desk and
table in his study, just as he left them. His writing establishment is
about as plain as yours. Men who really mean to do anything do not use
fancy tools. His bedroom, also, is in a style of severe simplicity.
There were several engravings fastened against the wall; and in the
anteroom a bust and medallion of the Empress Eugenie--a thing which I
should not exactly have expected in a born king's palace; but beauty is
sacred, and kings can not call it parvenu. Then we went into the queen's
bed-room, finished in green, and then through the rooms of Queen Louisa.
Those marks of her presence, which you saw during the old king's
lifetime, are now removed; we saw no traces of her dresses, gloves, or
books. In one room, draped in white muslin over pink, we were informed
the Empress of Russia was born.

In going out to Charlottenburg, we rode through the Thiergarten, the
Tuileries of Berlin. In one of the most quiet and sequestered spots is
the monument erected by the people of Berlin to their old king. The
pedestal is Carrara marble, sculptured with beautiful scenes called
garden pleasures--children in all manner of outdoor sports, and parents
fondly looking on. It is graceful, and peculiarly appropriate to those
grounds where parents and children are constantly congregating. The
whole is surmounted by a statue of the king, in white marble--the finest
representation of him I have ever seen. Thoughtful, yet benign, the old
king seems like a good father keeping a grave and affectionate watch
over the pleasures of his children in their garden frolics. There was
something about these moss-grown gardens that seemed so rural and
pastoral, that I at once preferred them to all I had seen in Europe.
Choice flowers are planted in knots, here and there, in sheltered nooks,
as if they had grown by accident: and an air of sweet, natural wildness
is left amid the most careful cultivation. The people seemed to be
enjoying themselves less demonstratively and with less vivacity than in
France, but with a calm inwardness. Each nation has its own way of being
happy, and the style of life in each bears a certain relation of
appropriateness to character. The trim, dressy, animated air of the
Tuileries suits admirably with the mobile, sprightly vivacity of society
there. Both, in their way, are beautiful; but this seems less formal,
and more according to nature.

[Footnote A: From "Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands."]

[Footnote B: King Frederick William III. and Queen Louise are here
referred to. Since Mrs. Stowe's visit (1854) the Emperor William I. and
the Empress Augusta have been buried in this mausoleum.]



I have now been nearly two days in wide-famed Leipsic, and the more I
see of it, the better I like it. It is a pleasant, friendly town, old
enough to be interesting and new enough to be comfortable. There is much
active business-life, through which it is fast increasing in size and
beauty. Its publishing establishments are the largest in the world, and
its annual fairs attended by people from all parts of Europe. This is
much for a city to accomplish situated alone in the middle of a great
plain, with no natural charms of scenery or treasures of art to attract
strangers. The energy and enterprise of its merchants have accomplished
all this, and it now stands in importance among the first cities of

On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the
Augustus Platz--a broad green lawn on which front the university and
several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades
encircles the city on the site of its old fortifications. Following
their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with
flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian
Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private
cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once
directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it a glorious choral
swelled by a hundred voices came through the open windows like a tribute
to the genius of the great master.

Having found my friend, we went together to the Sternwarte, or
observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and
in particular the battlefield. The castellan who is stationed there is
well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the
hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles
which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle
around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond
was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here.
Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Bluecher, from
Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three
hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and
ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days
raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly
conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The
small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead.

It is difficult to conceive of such slaughter while looking at the quiet
and tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is to
be hoped that the world will never see such another.

There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee and enjoy a
few hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets. One can walk for
miles along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows or the
banks of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a
short distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house,
hangs the sign, "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic "literati" have
built a stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here
dwelt Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Everywhere through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.

I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over
the plain to the city, and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks
entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to
the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The
stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French to cut off
pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till
the Poles had all passed over as the river, tho narrow, is quite deep
and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait, and
the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to plunge
into the stream to join the French army, which had begun retreat toward
Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way through a garden
near, and escaped on horseback into the water. He became entangled among
the fugitives, and sank. By walking a little distance along the road
toward Frankfort we could see the spot where his body was taken out of
the river; it is now marked by a square stone covered with the names of
his countrymen who have visited it. We returned through the narrow
arched way by which Napoleon fled when the battle was lost.

Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerbach's Cellar, which, it is
said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust from which Goethe
derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and
one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched
passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretense for
entering. The streets are full of book-stores, and one-half the business
of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and
binding. The publishers have a handsome exchange of their own, and
during the fairs the amount of business transacted is enormous.

At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have christened
it! Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are scarcely
surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural beauty of
its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green
meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping
around like an amphitheater and the craggy peaks of the highlands
looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance give it a
rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas embowered in
trees gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there is no bustle of
business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic which mark most
cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet enjoyment.

The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic over the eighty
miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the
Neustadt, passing the Japanese palace and the equestrian statue of
Augustus the Strong. The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much
injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we were obliged to
go some distance up the river-bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next
morning my first search was for the picture-gallery. We set off at
random, and after passing the church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of
solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with
Frederick the Great, came to an open square one side of which was
occupied by an old brown, red-roofed building which I at once recognized
from pictures as the object of our search.

I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it
with real regret; for during the two visits Raphael's heavenly picture
of the Madonna and Child had so grown into my love and admiration that
it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many mere
which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest
degree the love for the beautiful, that I left them with sadness and the
thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the inspired
eye and godlike brow of the Jesus-child as if I were still standing
before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the Madonna still
looks upon me. Yet, tho this picture is a miracle of art, the first
glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat faded during the
three hundred years that have rolled away since the hand of Raphael
worked on the canvas, and the glass with which it is covered for better
preservation injures the effect. After I had gazed on it a while, every
thought of this vanished.

The figure of the Virgin seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult
to think the clouds were not in motion. An aerial lightness clothes her
form, and it is perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the
clouds. Two divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the
sacred Child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of
angels. The mild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chain
one like a spell. There is something more than mortal in its
expression--something in the infant face which indicates a power
mightier than the proudest manhood. There is no glory around the head,
but the spirit which shines from those features marks its divinity. In
the sweet face of the mother there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed
with its tenderness, as if she knew the world into which the Savior was
born and foresaw the path in which he was to tread. It is a picture
which one can scarce look upon without tears.

There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio which are said to
be among his best works--one of them, his celebrated Magdalen. There is
also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the Virgin with the shepherds in the
manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the Child. The
surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully exprest. In one of the
halls there is a picture of Van der Werff in which the touching story of
Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young Ishmael
is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in childish
unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the corner of
his mother's mantle around him and smiles at the tears of his lost

Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two portraits of
Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You almost think the
artist has in sport crept behind the frame and wishes to make you
believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of half the
gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are twelve
large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures.

The plain south of Dresden was the scene of the hard-fought battle
between Napoleon and the allied armies in 1813. On the heights above the
little village of Raecknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the
battle. We took a footpath through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees
in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is
simple--a square block of granite surmounted by a helmet and sword, with
the inscription, "The hero Moreau fell here by the side of Alexander,
August 17, 1813," I gathered as a memorial a few leaves of the oak which
shades it.

By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to
the royal library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among
them, the most complete collection of historical works in existence.
Each hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large
room is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of
rare and curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the
seventh and eighth centuries, a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan
Bajazet, the handwriting of Luther and Melanchthon, a manuscript volume
with pen-and-ink sketches by Albert Duerer, and the earliest works after
the invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by
Faust and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican
manuscripts written on the aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish
volumes of the Middle Ages.

We were fortunate in seeing the Gruene Gewoelbe, or Green Gallery, a
collection of jewels and costly articles unsurpassed in Europe. The
first hall into which we were ushered contained works in bronze. They
were all small, and chosen with regard to their artistical value. Some
by John of Bologna were exceedingly fine, as was also a group in iron
cut out of a single block, perhaps the only successful attempt in this
branch. The next room contained statues, and vases covered with reliefs
in ivory. The most remarkable work was the fall of Lucifer and his
angels, containing ninety-two figures in all, carved out of a single
piece of ivory sixteen inches high. It was the work of an Italian monk,
and cost him many years of hard labor. There were two tables of
mosaic-work that would not be out of place in the fabled halls of the
Eastern genii, so much did they exceed my former ideas of human skill.
The tops were of jasper, and each had a border of fruit and flowers in
which every color was represented by some precious stone, all with the
utmost delicacy and truth to nature. It is impossible to conceive the
splendid effect it produced. Besides some fine pictures on gold by
Raphael Mengs, there was a Madonna, the largest specimen of
enamel-painting in existence.

However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an
introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in
splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows
of goblets, vases, etc., of polished jasper, agate, and lapis lazuli.
Splendid mosaic tables stood around with caskets of the most exquisite
silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of
them weighing six hundred pounds, were placed at the foot of the
columns. We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers,
made of gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the
"Spanish Dwarf," nearly as large as a pullet's egg, globes and vases cut
entirely out of the mountain-crystal, magnificent Nuremberg watches and
clocks, and a great number of figures made ingeniously of rough pearls
and diamonds.

The officer showed me a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently
nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing it came apart and
disclosed the yolk of gold. This again opened, and a golden chicken was
seen; by touching a spring a little diamond crown came from the inside,
and, the crown being again taken apart, out dropt a valuable diamond
ring. The seventh hall contains the coronation-robes of Augustus II. of
Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood. A cherry-stone is
shown in a glass case which has one hundred and twenty-five facets, all
perfectly finished, carved upon it.

The next room we entered sent back a glare of splendor that perfectly
dazzled us; it was all gold, diamond, ruby, and sapphire. Every case
sent out such a glow and glitter that it seemed like a cage of
imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it was met by a blaze of
broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and every gem was a
fortune--whole cases of swords with hilts and scabbards of solid gold
studded with gems, the great two-handed coronation sword of the German
emperors, daggers covered with brilliants and rubies, diamond buttons,
chains, and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and emerald, and
the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind.

We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and
four inches broad. One of the most remarkable works is the throne and
court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated
goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two
figures, all of enameled gold and each one most perfectly and
elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for
fifty-eight thousand thalers,[B] which was not a high sum, considering
that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven

It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these
halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must be many millions
of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is
incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil they are
interesting, but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy
have been wasted in producing things which are useless to the world and
only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if men
could be diverted by such playthings from more dangerous games, it would
be all the better.

[Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]

[Footnote B: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about seventy cents. Author's
note--The thaler went out of use in Germany in 1906.]



Of all the German principalities, there is none that makes us feel so
much as Weimar the advantages of a small state, of which the sovereign
is a man of strong understanding, and who is capable of endeavoring to
please all orders of his subjects, without losing anything in their
obedience. Such a state is as a private society, where all the members
are connected together by intimate relations. The Duchess Louisa of Saxe
Weimar is the true model of a woman destined by nature to the most
illustrious rank; without pretension, as without weakness, she inspires
in the same degree confidence and respect; and the heroism of the
chivalrous ages has entered her soul without taking from it any thing of
her sex's softness. The military talents of the duke are universally
respected, and his lively and reflective conversation continually brings
to our recollection that he was formed by the great Frederic. It is by
his own and his mother's reputation that the most distinguished men of
learning have been attracted to Weimar, and by them Germany, for the
first time, has possest a literary metropolis; but, as this metropolis
was at the same time only an inconsiderable town, its ascendency was
merely that of superior illumination; for fashion, which imposes
uniformity in all things, could not emanate from so narrow a circle.

Herder was just dead when I arrived at Weimar; but Wieland, Goethe, and
Schiller were still there. Their writings are the perfect resemblances
of their character and conversation. This very rare concordance is a
proof of sincerity; when the first object in writing is to produce an
effect upon others, a man never displays himself to them, such as he is
in reality; but when he writes to satisfy an internal inspiration which
has obtained possession of the soul, he discovers by his works, even
without intending it, the very slightest shades of his manner of
thinking and acting.

The residence in country towns has always appeared to me very irksome.
The understanding of the men is narrowed, the heart of the women frozen
there; people live so much in each other's presence that one is opprest
by one's equals; it is no longer this distant opinion, the reverberation
of which animates you from afar like the report of glory; it is a minute
inspection of all the actions of your life, an observation of every
detail, which prevents the general character from being comprehended;
and the more you have of independence and elevation of mind, the less
able you are to breathe amidst so many little impediments.

This painful constraint did not exist at Weimar; it was rather a large
palace than a little town; a select circle of society, which made its
interest consist in the discussion of all the novelties of art and
science: women, the amiable scholars of some superior men, were
constantly speaking of the new literary works, as of the most important
public events. They enjoyed the whole universe by reading and study;
they freed themselves by the enlargement of the mind from the restraint
of circumstances; they forgot the private anecdotes of each individual,
in habitually reflecting together on those great questions which
influence the destiny common to all alike. And in this society there
were none of those provincial wonders, who so easily mistake contempt
for grace, and affectation for elegance.

[Footnote A: From "Germany."]



We were now within about twenty English miles of Ulm. Nothing particular
occurred, either by way of anecdote or of scenery, till within almost
the immediate approach or descent to that city--the last in the Suabian
territories, and which is separated from Bavaria by the River Danube. I
caught the first glance of that celebrated river (here of comparatively
trifling width) with no ordinary emotions of delight. It recalled to my
memory the battle of Blenheim, or of Hochstedt; for you know that it was
across this very river, and scarcely a score of miles from Ulm, that the
victorious Marlborough chased the flying French and Bavarians--at the
battle just mentioned. At the same moment, almost, I could not fail to
contrast this glorious issue with the miserable surrender of the town
before me--then filled by a large and well-disciplined army, and
commanded by that nonpareil of generals, J.G. Mack!--into the power of
Bonaparte almost without pulling a trigger on either side--the place
itself being considered, at the time, one of the strongest towns in
Europe. These things, I say, rushed upon my memory, when, on the
immediate descent into Ulm, I caught the first view of the tower of the
minster which quickly put Marlborough, and Mack, and Bonaparte out of my

I had never, since quitting the beach at Brighton, beheld such an
English-like looking cathedral--as a whole; and particularly the tower.
It is broad, bold, and lofty; but, like all edifices, seen from a
neighboring and perhaps loftier height, it loses, at first view, very
much of the loftiness of its character. However, I looked with
admiration, and longed to approach it. This object was accomplished in
twenty minutes. We entered Ulm about two o'clock: drove to an excellent
inn (the White Stag--which I strongly recommend to all travelers), and
ordered our dinner to be got ready by five; which, as the house was
within a stone's cast of the cathedral, gave us every opportunity of
visiting it beforehand. The day continued most beautiful: and we sallied
forth in high spirits, to gaze at and to admire every object of
antiquity which should present itself.

The Cathedral of Ulm is doubtless among the most respectable of those on
the Continent. It is large and wide, and of a massive and imposing style
of architecture. The buttresses are bold, and very much after the
English fashion. The tower is the chief exterior beauty. Before we
mounted it, we begged the guide, who attended us, to conduct us all over
the interior. This interior is very noble, and even superior, as a piece
of architecture, to that of Strasburg. I should think it even longer and
wider--for the truth is, that the tower of Strasburg Cathedral is as
much too tall, as that of Ulm Cathedral is too short, for its nave and
choir. Not very long ago, they had covered the interior by a whitewash;
and thus the mellow tint of probably about five centuries--in a spot
where there are few immediately surrounding houses--and in a town of
which the manufactories and population are comparatively small--the
latter about 14,000--thus, I say, the mellow tint of these five
centuries (for I suppose the cathedral to have been finished about the
year 1320) has been cruelly changed for the staring and chilling effects
of whiting.[B]

The choir is interesting in a high degree. At the extremity of it is an
altar--indicative of the Lutheran form of worship being carried on
within the church--upon which are oil paintings upon wood, emblazoned
with gilt backgrounds--of the time of Hans Burgmair, and of others at
the revival of the art of painting in Germany. These pictures turn upon
hinges, so as to shut up, or be thrown open; and are in the highest
state of preservation. Their subjects are entirely Scriptural; and
perhaps old John Holbein, the father of the famous Hans Holbein, might
have had a share in some of them. Perhaps they may come down to the time
of Lucas Cranach. Wherever, or by whomsoever executed, this series of
paintings, upon the high altar of the Cathedral of Ulm, can not be
viewed without considerable satisfaction. They were the first choice
specimens of early art which I had seen on this side of the Rhine; and
I, of course, contemplated them with the hungry eye of an antiquary.

After a careful survey of the interior, the whole of which had quite the
air of English cleanliness and order, we prepared to mount the famous
tower. Our valet, Rohfritsch, led the way; counting the steps as he
mounted, and finding them to be about 378 in number. He was succeeded by
the guide. Mr. Lewis and myself followed in a more leisurely manner;
peeping through the interstices which presented themselves in the open
fretwork of the ornaments, and finding, as we continued to ascend, that
the inhabitants and dwelling houses of Ulm diminished gradually in size.
At length we gained the summit, which is surrounded by a parapet wall of
some three or four feet in height. We paused a minute, to recover our
breath, and to look at the prospect which surrounded us. The town, at
our feet, looked like the metropolis of Laputa. Yet the high ground, by
which we had descended into the town--and upon which Bonaparte's army
was formerly encamped--seemed to be more lofty than the spot whereon we
stood. On the opposite side flowed the Danube; not broad, nor, as I
learned, very deep; but rapid and in a serpentine direction.

Upon the whole, the Cathedral of Ulm is a noble ecclesiastical edifice;
uniting simplicity and purity with massiveness of composition. Few
cathedrals are more uniform in the style of their architecture. It seems
to be, to borrow technical language, all of a piece. Near it, forming
the foreground of the Munich print, are a chapel and a house surrounded
by trees. The Chapel is very small, and, as I learned, not used for
religious purposes. The house (so Professor Veesenmeyer informed me) is
supposed to have been the residence and offices of business of John
Zeiner, the well-known printer, who commenced his typographical labors
about the year 1740, and who uniformly printed at Ulm; while his brother
Gunther as uniformly exercised his art in the city whence I am now
addressing you. They were both natives of Reutlingen, a town of some
note between Tuebingen and Ulm.

[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour,"
published in 1821.]

[Footnote B: Ulm has now (1914) a population of 56,000.]



For an invalid, Aix-la-Chapelle is a mineral fountain--warm, cold,
irony, and sulfurous; for the tourist, it is a place for redouts and
concerts; for the pilgrim, the place of relics, where the gown of the
Virgin Mary, the blood of Jesus, the cloth which enveloped the head of
John the Baptist after his decapitation, are exhibited every seven
years; for the antiquarian, it is a noble abbey of "filles a abbesse,"
connected with the male convent, which was built by Saint Gregory, son
of Nicephore, Emperor of the East; for the hunter, it is the ancient
valley of the wild boars; for the merchant, it is a "fabrique" of cloth,
needles, and pins; and for him who is no merchant, manufacturer, hunter,
antiquary, pilgrim, tourist, or invalid, it is the city of Charlemagne.

Charlemagne was born at Aix-la-Chapelle, and died there. He was born in
the old place, of which there now only remains the tower, and he was
buried in the church that he founded in 796, two years after the death
of his wife Fastrada. Leo the Third consecrated it in 804, and tradition
says that two bishops of Tongres, who were buried at Maestricht, arose
from their graves, in order to complete, at that ceremony, 365 bishops
and archbishops--representing the days of the year. This historical and
legendary church, from which the town has taken its name, has undergone,
during the last thousand years, many transformations. No sooner had I
entered Aix than I went to the chapel.... The effect of the great
"portail" is not striking; the facade displays the different styles of
architecture--Roman, Gothic, and modern--without order, and
consequently, without grandeur; but if, on the contrary, we arrive at
the chapel by Chevet, the result is otherwise. The high "abside" of the
fourteenth century, in all its boldness and beauty, the rich workmanship
of its balustrades, the variety of its "gargouilles," the somber hue of
the stones, and the large transparent windows--strike the beholder with

Here, nevertheless, the aspect of the church--imposing tho it is--will
be found far from uniform. Between the "abside" and the "portail," in a
kind of cavity, the dome of Otho III., built over the tomb of
Charlemagne in the tenth century, is hid from view. After a few moments'
contemplation, a singular awe comes over us when gazing at this
extraordinary edifice--an edifice which, like the great work that
Charlemagne began, remains unfinished; and which, like his empire that
spoke all languages, is composed of architecture that represents all
styles. To the reflective, there is a strange analogy between that
wonderful man and this great building.

After having passed the arched roof of the portico, and left behind me
the antique bronze doors surmounted with lions' heads, a white rotundo
of two stories, in which all the "fantasies" of architecture are
displayed, attracted my attention. At casting my eyes upon the ground,
I perceived a large block of black marble, with the following
inscription in brass letters:--

"Carolo Magno."

Nothing is more contemptible than to see, exposed to view, the bastard
graces that surround this great Carlovingian name; angels resembling
distorted Cupids, palm-branches like colored feathers, garlands of
flowers, and knots of ribbons, are placed under the dome of Otho III.,
and upon the tomb of Charlemagne.

The only thing here that evinces respect to the shade of that great man
is an immense lamp, twelve feet in diameter, with forty-eight burners;
which was presented, in the twelfth century, by Barbarossa. It is of
brass, gilt with gold, has the form of a crown, and is suspended from
the ceiling above the marble stone by an iron chain about seventy feet
in length.

It is evident that some other monument had been erected to Charlemagne.
There is nothing to convince us that this marble, bordered with brass,
is of antiquity. As to the letters, "Carolo Magno," they are not of a
late date than 1730.

Charlemagne is no longer under this stone. In 1166 Frederick
Barbarossa--whose gift, magnificent tho it was, does by no means
compensate for this sacrilege--caused the remains of that great emperor
to be untombed. The Church claimed the imperial skeleton, and,
separating the bones, made each a holy relic. In the adjoining
sacristy, a vicar shows the people--for three francs seventy-five
centimes--the fixt price--"the arm of Charlemagne"--that arm which held
for a time the reins of the world. Venerable relic! which has the
following inscription, written by some scribe of the twelfth century:

"Arm of the Sainted Charles the Great."

After that I saw the skull of Charlemagne, that cranium which may be
said to have been the mold of Europe, and which a beadle had the
effrontery to strike with his finger.

All were kept in a wooden armory, with a few angels, similar to those I
have just mentioned, on the top. Such is the tomb of the man whose
memory has outlived ten ages, and who, by his greatness, has shed the
rays of immortality around his name. "Sainted, Great," belong to
him--two of the most august epithets which this earth could bestow upon
a human being.

There is one thing astonishing--that is, the largeness of the skull and
arm. Charlemagne was, in fact, colossal with respect to size of body as
well as extraordinary mental endowments. The son of Pepin-le-Bref was in
body, as in mind, gigantic; of great corporeal strength, and of
astounding intellect.

An inspection of this armory has a strange effect upon the antiquary.
Besides the skull and arm, it contains the heart of Charlemagne; the
cross which the emperor had round his neck in his tomb; a handsome
ostensorium, of the Renaissance, given by Charles the Fifth, and
spoiled, in the last century, by tasteless ornaments; fourteen richly
sculptured gold plates, which once ornamented the arm-chair of the
emperor; an ostensorium, given by Philippe the Second; the cord which
bound our Savior; the sponge that was used upon the cross; the girdle of
the Holy Virgin, and that of the Redeemer.

In the midst of innumerable ornaments, heaped up in the armory like
mountains of gold and precious stones, are two shrines of singular
beauty. One, the oldest, which is seldom opened, contains the remaining
bones of Charlemagne, and the other, of the twelfth century, which
Frederick Barbarossa gave to the church, holds the relics, which are
exhibited every seven years. A single exhibition of this shrine, in
1696, attracted 42,000 pilgrims, and drew, in ten days 80,000 florins.
This shrine has only one key, which is in two pieces; the one is in the
possession of the chapter, the other in that of the magistrates of the
town. Sometimes it is opened on extraordinary occasions, such as on the
visit of a monarch....

The tomb, before it became the sarcophagus of Charlemagne, was, it is
said, that of Augustus. After mounting a narrow staircase, my guide
conducted me to a gallery which is called the Hochmuenster. In this place
is the arm-chair of Charlemagne. It is low, exceedingly wide, with a
round back; is formed of four pieces of white marble, without ornaments
or sculpture, and has for a seat an oak board, covered with a cushion of
red velvet. There are six steps up to it, two of which are of granite,
the others of marble. On this chair sat--a crown upon his head, a globe
in one hand, a scepter in the other, a sword by his side, the imperial
mantle over his shoulders, the cross of Christ round his neck, and his
feet in the sarcophagus of Augustus--Carolus Magnus in his tomb, in
which attitude he remained for three hundred and fifty-two years--from
852 to 1166, when Frederick Barbarossa, coveting the chair for his
coronation, entered the tomb. Barbarossa was an illustrious prince and a
valiant soldier; and it must, therefore, have been a moment singularly
strange when this crowned man stood before the crowned corpse of
Charlemagne--the one in all the majesty of empire, the other in all the
majesty of death. The soldier overcame the shades of greatness; the
living became the despoliator of inanimate worth. The chapel claimed the
skeleton, and Barbarossa the marble chair, which afterward became the
throne where thirty-six emperors were crowned. Ferdinand the First was
the last; Charles the Fifth preceded him.

In 1804, when Bonaparte became known as Napoleon, he visited
Aix-la-Chapelle. Josephine, who accompanied him, had the caprice to sit
down on this chair; but Napoleon, out of respect for Charlemagne, took
off his hat, and remained for some time standing, and in silence. The
following fact is somewhat remarkable, and struck me forcibly. In 814
Charlemagne died; a thousand years afterward, most probably about the
same hour, Napoleon fell.

In that fatal year, 1814, the allied sovereigns visited the tomb of the
great "Carolus." Alexander of Russia, like Napoleon, took off his hat
and uniform; Frederick William of Prussia kept on his "casquette de
petite tenue;" Francis retained his surtout and round bonnet. The King
of Prussia stood upon the marble steps, receiving information from the
provost of the chapter respecting the coronation of the emperors of
Germany; the two emperors remained silent. Napoleon, Josephine,
Alexander, Frederick William, and Francis, are now no more.

A few minutes afterward I was on my way to the Hotel-de-Ville, the
supposed birthplace of Charlemagne, which, like the chapel, is an
edifice made of five or six others. In the middle of the court there is
a fountain of great antiquity, with a bronze statue of Charlemagne. To
the left and right are two others--both surmounted with eagles, their
heads half turned toward the grave and tranquil emperor.

The evening was approaching. I had passed the whole of the day among
these grand and austere "souvenirs;" and, therefore, deemed it essential
to take a walk in the open fields, to breathe the fresh air, and to
watch the rays of the declining sun. I wandered along some dilapidated
walls, entered a field, then some beautiful alleys, in one of which I
seated myself. Aix-la-Chapelle lay extended before me, partly hid by the
shades of evening, which were falling around. By degrees the fogs gained
the roofs of the houses, and shrouded the town steeples; then nothing
was seen but two huge masses--the Hotel-de-Ville and the chapel. All the
emotions, all the thoughts and visions which flitted across my mind
during the day, now crowded upon me. The first of the two dark objects
was to me only the birthplace of a child; the second was the
resting-place of greatness. At intervals, in the midst of my reverie, I
imagined that I saw the shade of this giant, whom we call Charlemagne,
developing itself between this great cradle and still greater tomb.

[Footnote A: From "The Rhine." Translated by D.M. Aird.]



The Hans, or Hanseatic League, is very ancient, some would derive the
word from hand, because they of the society plight their faith by that
action; others derive it from Hansa, which in the Gothic tongue is
council; others would have it come from Hander see, which signifies near
or upon the sea, and this passeth for the best etymology, because their
towns are all seated so, or upon some navigable river near the sea. The
extent of the old Hans was from the Nerve in Livonia to the Rhine, and
contained sixty-two great mercantile towns, which were divided into four
precincts. The chiefest of the first precinct was Luebeck, where the
archives of their ancient records and their prime chancery is still, and
this town is within that verge; Cullen is chief of the second precinct,
Brunswick of the third, and Dantzic of the fourth. The kings of Poland
and Sweden have sued to be their protector, but they refused them,
because they were not princes of the empire.

They put off also the King of Denmark with a compliment, nor would they
admit the King of Spain when he was most potent in the Netherlands, tho
afterward, when it was too late, they desired the help of the ragged
staff; nor of the Duke of Anjou, notwithstanding that the world thought
he should have married our queen, who interceded for him, and so it was
probable that thereby they might recover their privileges in England. So
I do not find that they ever had any protector but the great Master of
Prussia; and their want of a protector did do them some prejudice in
that famous difference they had with our Queen.

The old Hans had extraordinary immunities given them by our Henry the
Third, because they assisted him in his wars with so many ships, and as
they pretend, the king was not only to pay them for the service of the
said ships but for the vessels themselves if they miscarried. Now it
happened that at their return to Germany, from serving Henry the Third,
there was a great fleet of them cast away, for which, according to
covenant, they demanded reparation. Our king in lieu of money, among
other facts of grace, gave them a privilege to pay but one per cent.,
which continued until Queen Mary's reign, and she by advice of King
Philip, her husband, as it was conceived, enhanced the one to twenty per

The Hans not only complained but clamored loudly for breach of their
ancient privileges confirmed unto them, time out of mind, by thirteen
successive kings of England, which they pretended to have purchased with
their money. King Philip undertook to accommodate the business, but
Queen Mary dying a little after, and he retiring, there could be nothing
done. Complaint being made to Queen Elizabeth, she answered that as she
would not innovate anything, so she would maintain them still in the
same condition she found them. Hereupon their navigation and traffic
ceased a while, wherefore the English tried what they could do
themselves, and they thrived so well that they took the whole trade into
their own hands, and so divided themselves (tho they be now but one), to
staplers and merchant-adventurers, the one residing constant in one
place, where they kept their magazine of wool, the other stirring and
adventuring to divers places abroad with cloth and other manufacturies,
which made the Hans endeavor to draw upon them all the malignancy they
could from all nations.

Moreover, the Hans towns being a body politic incorporated in the
empire, complained thereof to the emperor, who sent over persons of
great quality to mediate an accommodation, but they could effect
nothing. Then the queen caused a proclamation to be published that the
easterlings or merchants of the Hans should be entreated and used as all
other strangers were, within her dominations, without any mark of
difference in point of commerce. This nettled them more, thereupon they
bent their forces more eagerly, and in a diet at Ratisbon they procured
that the English merchants who had associated themselves into
fraternities in Emden and other places should be declared monopolists;
and so there was a committal edict published against them that they
should be exterminated and banished out of all parts of the empire; and
this was done by the activity of one Sudennan, a great civilian.

There was there for the queen, Gilpin, as nimble a man as Suderman, and
he had the Chancellor of Emden to second and countenance him, but they
could not stop the said edict wherein the Society of English
Merchant-Adventurers was pronounced to be a monopoly; yet Gilpin played
his game so well, that he wrought underhand, that the said imperial ban
should not be published till after the dissolution of the diet, and that
in the interim the Emperor should send ambassadors to England to advise
the queen of such a ban against her merchants. But this wrought so
little impression upon the queen that the said ban grew rather
ridiculous than formidable, for the town of Emden harbored our merchants
notwithstanding and afterward Stade, but they not being able to protect
them so well from the imperial ban, they settled in the town of Hamburg.
After this the queen commanded another proclamation to be divulged that
the easterlings or Hanseatic merchants should be allowed to trade in
England upon the same conditions and payment of duties as her own
subjects, provided that the English merchants might have interchangeable
privilege to reside and trade peaceably in Stade or Hamburg or anywhere
else within the precincts of Hans. This incensed them more, thereupon
they resolved to cut off Stade and Hamburg from being members of the
Hans or of the empire; but they suspended this decision till they saw
what success the great Spanish fleet should have, which was then
preparing in the year eighty-eight, for they had not long before had
recourse to the King of Spain and made him their own, and he had done
them some material good offices; wherefore to this day the Spanish
Consul is taxed of improvidence and imprudence, that there was no use
made of the Hans towns in that expedition.

The queen finding that they of the Hans would not be contented with that
equality she had offered betwixt them and her own subjects, put out a
proclamation that they should carry neither corn, victuals, arms,
timber, masts, cables, minerals, nor any other materials, or men to
Spain or Portugal. And after, the queen growing more redoubtable and
famous, by the overthrow of the fleet of eighty-eight, the easterlings
fell to despair of doing any good. Add hereunto another disaster that
befell them, the taking of sixty sails of their ships about the mouth of
Tagus in Portugal by the Queen's ships that were laden with "ropas de
contrabando," viz., goods prohibited by her former proclamation into the
dominions of Spain. And as these ships were upon point of being
discharged, she had intelligence of a great assembly at Luebeck, which
had met of purpose to consult of means to be revenged of her thereupon
she stayed and seized upon the said sixty ships, only two were freed to
bring news what became of the rest. Hereupon the Pope sent an ambassador
to her, who spoke in a high tone, but he was answered in a higher.

Ever since our merchants have beaten a peaceful and free uninterrupted
trade into this town and elsewhere within and without the Sound, with
their manufactures of wool, and found the way also to the White Sea to
Archangel and Moscow. Insomuch that the premises being well considered,
it was a happy thing for England that that clashing fell out betwixt her
and the Hans, for it may be said to have been the chief ground of that
shipping and merchandising, which she is now come to, and wherewith she
hath flourished ever since. But one thing is observable, that as that
imperial or committal ban, pronounced in the Diet at Ratisbon against
our merchants and manufactures of wool, incited them more to industry.
So our proclamation upon Alderman Cockein's project of transporting no
white cloths but dyed, and in their full manufacture, did cause both
Dutch and Germans to turn necessity to a virtue, and made them far more
ingenious to find ways, not only to dye but to make cloth, which hath
much impaired our markets ever since. For there hath not been the third
part of our cloth sold since, either here or in Holland.

[Footnote A: From "Familiar Letters." "Montaigne and 'Howell's
Letters'," says Thackeray, in one of the "Roundabout Papers," "are my
bedside books." Howell wrote this letter in Hamburg in October, 1632.]



To describe a night journey by rail is a difficult matter; you go like
an arrow whistling through a cloud; it is traveling in the abstract. You
cross provinces, kingdoms even, unawares. From time to time during the
night, I saw through the window the comet, rushing down upon the earth,
with lowered head and hair streaming far behind; suddenly glares of
gaslight dazzled my eyes, sanded with the goldust of sleep; or the pale
bluish radiance of the moon gave an air of fairy-land to scenes
doubtless poor enough by day. Conscientiously, this is all I can say
from personal observation; and it would not be particularly amusing if I
should transcribe from the railway guide the names of all the stations
between Berlin and Hamburg.

It is 7 a.m., and here we are in the good Hanse town of Hamburg; the
city is not yet awake, or at most is rubbing its eyes and yawning. While
they are preparing my breakfast, I sally forth at random, as my custom
is, without guide or cicerone, in pursuit of the unknown.

The hotel, at which I have been set down, is situated on the quay of the
Alster, a basin as large as the Lac d'Enghien, which it still further
resembles in being peopled with tame swans. On three sides, the Alster
basin is bordered with hotels and handsome modern houses. An embankment
planted with trees and commanded by a wind-mill in profile forms the
fourth; beyond extends a great lagoon. From the most frequented of these
quays, a cafe painted green and built on piles, makes out into the
water, like that cafe of the Golden Horn where I have smoked so many
chibouques; watching the sea-birds fly. At the sight of this quay, this
basin, these houses, I experienced an inexplicable sensation: I seemed
to know them already. Confused recollections of them arose in my memory;
could I have been in Hamburg without being aware of it? Assuredly all
these objects are not new to me, and yet I am seeing them for the first
time. Have I preserved the impression made by some picture, some

While I was seeking philosophic explanations for this memory of the
unknown, the idea of Heinrich Heine suddenly presented itself, and all
became clear. The great poet had often spoken to me of Hamburg, in those
plastic words he so well knew how to use--words that were equivalent to
realities. In his "Reisebilder," he describes the scene--cafe basin,
swans, and townsfolk upon the quays--Heaven knows what portraits he
makes of them! He returns to it again in his poem, "Germania," and there
is so much life to the picture, such distinctness, such relief, that
sight itself teaches you nothing more.

I made the circuit of the basin, graciously accompanied by a snow-white
swan, handsome enough to make one think it might be Jupiter in disguise,
seeking some Hamburg Leda, and, the better to carry out the deception,
snapping at the bread-crumbs offered him by the traveler. On the farther
side of the basin, at the right, is a sort of garden or public
promenade, having an artificial hillock, like that in the labyrinth in
the "Jardin des Plantes." Having gone thus far, I turned and retraced my

Every city has its fashionable quarter--new, expensive, handsome--of
which the citizens are proud, and through which the guide leads you with
much complacency. The streets are broad and regular, and cut one another
at right angles; there are sidewalks of granite, brick, or bitumen;
there are lamp-posts in every direction. The houses are like palaces;
their classically modern architecture, their irreproachable paint, their
varnished doors and well-scoured brasses, fill with joy the city fathers
and every lover of progress. The city is neat, orderly, salubrious, full
of light and air, and resembles Paris or London. There is the Exchange!
It is superb--as fine as the Bourse in Paris! I grant it; and, besides,
you can smoke there, which is a point of superiority.

Farther on you observe the Palace of Justice, the bank, etc., built in
the style you know well, adored by Philistines of every land. Doubtless
that house must have cost enormously; it contains all possible luxury
and comfort. You feel that the mollusk of such a shell can be nothing
less than a millionaire. Permit me, however, to love better the old
house with its overhanging stories, its roof of irregular tiles, and
all its little characteristic details, telling of former generations. To
be interesting, a city must have the air of having lived, and, in a
sense, of having received from man a soul. What makes these magnificent
streets built yesterday so cold and so tiresome, is that they are not
yet impregnated with human vitality.

Leaving the new quarter, I penetrated by degrees into the chaos of the
old streets, and soon I had before my eyes a characteristic, picturesque
Hamburg; a genuine old city with a medieval stamp which would delight
Bonington, Isabey or William Wyld. I walked slowly, stopping at every
street-corner that I might lose no detail of the picture; and rarely has
any promenade amused me so well.

Houses, whose gables are denticulated or else curved in volutes, throw
out successive overhanging stories, each composed of a row of windows,
or, more properly, of one window divided into sections by carved
uprights. Beneath each house are excavated cellars, subterranean
recesses, which the steps leading to the front door bestride like a
drawbridge. Wood, brick, stone and slate, mingled in a way to content
the eye of a colorist, cover what little space the windows leave on the
outside of the house. All this is surmounted by a roof of red or violet
tiles, or tarred plank, interrupted by openings to give light to the
attics, and having an abrupt pitch. These steep roofs look well against

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