The castled crag of Drachenfels,Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,Whose breast of waters broadly swellsBetween the banks which bear the vine,And hills all rich with blossomed trees,And fields which promise corn and wine,And scattered cities crowning these,Whose far white walls along them shine.
The castled crag of Drachenfels,
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossomed trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scattered cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine.
Thus floating onward as in a dream, we reached Cologne at five o'clock Saturday afternoon, and found at the Hôtel du Nord a very spacious and attractive hostelry, which made us well content to stay quietly for two or three days.
Cologne has got an ill name from Coleridge's ill-favored compliment, which implied that its streets had not alwaysthe fragrance of that Cologne water which it exports to all countries. But I think he has done it injustice for the sake of a witty epigram. If he has not, the place has much improved since his day, and if not yet quite a flower garden, is at least as clean and decent as most of the Continental cities. It has received a great impulse from the extension of railroads, of which it is a centre, being in the direct line of travel from England to the Rhine and Switzerland, and to the German watering-places, and indeed to every part of Central Europe. Hence it has grown rapidly, and become a large and prosperous city.
But to the traveller in search of sights, every object in Cologne "hides its diminished head" in presence of one, the cathedral, the most magnificent Gothic structure ever reared by human hands. Begun six hundred years ago, it is not finished yet. For four hundred years the work was suspended, and the huge crane that stood on one of its towers, as it hung in air, was a sad token of the great, but unfinished design. But lately the German Government, with that vigor which characterizes everything in the new empire, has undertaken its completion. Already it has expended two millions of dollars upon it, and holds out a hope that it may be finished during this generation. To convey any idea of this marvellous structure by a description, is impossible. It is a forest in stone. Looking through its long nave and aisles, one is more reminded of the avenues of New Haven elms, than of any work of man. We ascended by the stone steps to the roof, at least to the first roof, and then began to get some idea of the vastness of the whole. Passing into the interior at this height, we made the circuit of the gallery, from which men looked very small who were walking about on the pavement of the cathedral. The sacristan who had conducted us thus far, told us we had now ascended one hundred steps, and that, if we chose to mount a hundred more, we could get to the main roof—the highest present accessiblepoint—for the towers are not yet finished, which are further to be surmounted by lofty spires. When complete, the crosses which they lift into the air will be more than five hundred feet above the earth!
The Cathedral boasts great treasures and holy relics—such as the bones of the Magi, the three Kings of the East, who came to see the Saviour at his birth, which, whoso can believe, is welcome to his faith. But the one thing which allmustbelieve, since it stands before their eyes, is the magnificence of this temple of the Almighty. I am surprised to see the numbers of people who attend the services, and with an appearance of devotion, joining in the singing with heart and voice. The Cathedral is our constant resort, as it is close to our hotel, and we can go in at all hours, morning, noon, and night. There we love to sit especially at twilight, when the priests are chanting vespers, and listen to their songs, and think of the absent and the dead. We may wander far, and see many lofty structures reared to the Most High, but nowhere do we expect to bow our heads in a nobler temple, till we join with the worshippers before the Throne.
CHAPTER XIII.
BELGIUM AND HOLLAND.
Amsterdam, July 30th.
If any of my readers should follow our route upon the map, he will see that we take a somewhat zigzag course, flying off here and there to see whatever most attracts attention. The facilities of travel in Europe are so great, that one can at any time be transported in a few hours into a new country. The junior partner in this travelling company of two has lately been reading Motley's histories, and been filled with enthusiasm for the Netherlands, which fought so bravely against Spain, and nothing would do but to turn aside to see these Low Countries. So, instead of going east from Cologne into the heart of Germany, we turned west to make a short detour into Belgium and Holland. And indeed these countries deserve a visit, as they are quite unique in appearance and in character, and furnish a study by themselves. They lie in a corner of the Continent, looking out upon the North Sea, and seem to form a kind of eddy, unaffected by the great current of the political life of Europe. They do not belong to the number of the Great Powers, and do not have to pay for "glory" by large standing armies and perpetual wars.
Belgium—which we first enter in coming from the Rhine—is one of the smaller kingdoms still left on the map of Europe not yet swallowed up by the great devourers of nations; and which, if it has less glory, has more liberty and more real happiness than some of its more powerful neighbors. If it has not the form of a republic, yet it has all the libertywhich any reasonable man could desire. Its standing army is small—but forty or fifty thousand men; though in case of war, it could put a hundred thousand under arms. But this would be a mere mouthful for some of the great German armies. Its security, therefore, lies not in its ability to resist attack, but in the fact that from its very smallness it does not excite the envy or the fear or the covetousness of its neighbors, and that, between them all, it is very convenient to have this strip of neutral territory. During the late war between France and Germany it prospered greatly; the danger to business enterprises elsewhere led many to look upon this little country, as in the days of the Flood people might have looked upon some point of land that had not yet been reached by the waters that covered the earth, to which they could flee for safety. Hence the disasters of others gave a great impulse to its commercial affairs.
Antwerp, where we ended our first day's journey, is a city that has had a great history; that three hundred years ago was one of the first commercial cities of Europe, the Venice of the North, and received in its waters ships from all parts of the earth. It has had recently a partial revival of its former commercial greatness. The forest of masts now lying in the Scheldt tells of its renewed prosperity.
But strangers do not go to Antwerp to see fleets of ships, such as they might see at London or Liverpool, but to see that which is old and historic. Antwerp has one of the notable Cathedrals of the Continent, which impresses travellers most if they come directly from America. But coming from Cologne, it suffers by comparison, as it has nothing of the architectural magnificence, the heaven-soaring columns and arches, of the great Minster of Cologne. And then its condition is dilapidated and positively shabby. It is not finished, and there is no attempt to finish it. One of the towers is complete, but the other is only half way up, where it has been capped over, and so remained for centuries, andperhaps will remain forever. And its surroundings are of the meanest description. Instead of standing in an open square, with ample space around it to show its full proportions, it is hedged in by shops, which are backed up against its very walls. Thus the architectural effect is half destroyed. It is a shame that it should be left in such a state—that, while Prussia, a Protestant country, is spending millions to restore the Cathedral of Cologne, Belgium, a Catholic country, and a rich one too (with no war on hand to drain its resources), should not devote a little of its wealth to keeping in proper order and respect this venerable monument of the past.
And yet not all the littleness of its present surroundings can wholly rob the old Cathedral of its majesty. There it stands, as it has stood from generation to generation, and out from all this meanness and dirt it lifts its head towards heaven. Though only one tower is finished, that is very lofty (as any one will find who climbs the hundreds of stone steps to the top, from which the eye ranges over almost the whole of Belgium, a vast plain, dotted with cities and villages), and being wrought in open arches, it has the appearance of fretted work, so that Napoleon said "it looked as if made of Mechlin lace." And there, high in the air, hangs a chime of bells, that every quarter of an hour rings out some soft aërial melody. It has a strange effect, in walking across the Place St. Antoine, to hear this deliciousraindropping down as it were out of the clouds. We almost wonder that the market people can go about their business, while there is such heavenly music in the upper air.
But the glory of the Cathedral of Antwerp is within—not in the church itself, but in the great paintings which it enshrines. The interior is cold and naked, owing to the entire absence of color to give it warmth. The walls are glaring white. We even saw themwhitewashingthe columns and arches. Could any means be found more effectual for belittlingthe impression of one of the great churches of the Middle Ages? If taste were the only thing to be considered in this world, I could wish Belgium might be annexed, for awhile at least, to Germany, that that Government might take this venerable Cathedral in hand, and, by clearing away the rubbish around it, and proper toning of the walls within, restore it to its former majesty and beauty.
But no surroundings, however poor and cold, can destroy the immortal paintings with which it is illumined and glorified. Until I saw these, I could not feel much enthusiasm for the works of Rubens, although those who worship the old masters would consider it rank heresy to say so. Many of his pictures seem to me artistic monstrosities, they are on such a colossal scale. The men are all giants, and the women all amazons, and even his holy children, his seraphs and cupids, are fat Dutch babies. It seems as if his object, in every painting of the human figure, were to display his knowledge of anatomy; and the bodies are often twisted and contorted as if to show the enormous development of muscle in the giant limbs. This is very well if one is painting a Hercules or a gladiator. But to paint common men and women in this colossal style is not pleasing. The series of pictures in the Louvre, in which Marie de Medicis is introduced in all sorts of dramatic attitudes, never stirred my admiration, as I have said more than once, when standing before those huge canvases, although one for whose opinions in such matters I had infinite respect, used to reply archly, that I "could hardly claim to be an authority in painting." I admit it; but that is my opinion nevertheless, which I adhere to with all the proverbial tenacity of the "free and independent American citizen."
But ah, I do repent me now, as I come into the presence of paintings whose treatment, like their subject, is divine. There are two such in the Cathedral of Antwerp—the Elevation of the Cross, and the Descent from the Cross. Thelatter is generally regarded as the masterpiece of Rubens; but they are worthy of each other.
In the Elevation of the Cross our Saviour has been nailed to the fatal tree, which the Roman soldiers are raising to plant it in the earth. The form is that of a living man. The hands and feet are streaming with blood, and the body droops as it hangs with all its weight on the nails. But the look is one of life, and not of death. The countenance has an expression of suffering, yet not of mere physical pain; the agony is more than human; as the eyes are turned upward, there is more than mortal majesty in the look—there is divinity as well as humanity—it is the dying God. Long we sat before this picture, to take in the wondrous scene which it presents. He must be wanting in artistic taste, or religious feeling, who can look upon it without the deepest emotion.
In the Descent from the Cross the struggle is over: there is Death in every feature, in the face, pale and bloodless, in the limbs that hang motionless, in the whole body as it sinks into the arms of the faithful attendants. If Rubens had never painted but these two pictures, he would deserve to be ranked as one of the world's great masters. I am content to look on these, and let more enthusiastic worshippers admire the rest.
Leaving the tall spire of Antwerp in the distance, the swift fire-horse skims like a swallow over the plains of Belgium, and soon we are in Holland. One disadvantage of these small States (to compensate for the positive good of independence, and of greater commercial freedom) is, that every time we cross a frontier we have to undergo a new inspection by the custom-house authorities. To be sure, it does not amount to much. The train is detained half an hour, the trunks are all taken into a large room, and placed on counters; the passengers come along with the keys in their hands, and open them; the officials give an inquiring look, sometimes turn over one or two layers of clothing, andsee that it is all right; the trunks are locked up, the porters replace them in the baggage-car, and the train starts on again. We are amused at the farce, the only annoyance of which is the delay. Within two days after we left Cologne, we had crossed two frontiers, and had our baggage examined twice: first, in going into Belgium, and, second, in coming into Holland; we had heard three languages—nay, four—German on the Rhine; then French at Antwerp (how good it seemed to hear the familiar accents once more!); and the Flemish, which is a dialect unlike either; and now we have this horrible Dutch (which is "neither fish, flesh, nor good red herring," but a sort of jaw-breaking gutturals, that seem not to be spoken with lips or tongue, but to be coughed up from some unfathomable depth in the Dutch breast); and we have had three kinds of money—marks and francs, and florins or guilders—submitting to a shave every time we change from one into the other. Such are the petty vexations of travel. But never mind, let us take them good-naturedly, leaping over them gayly, as we do over this dike—and here we are in Holland.
Switzerland and Holland! Was there ever a greater contrast than between the two countries? What a change for us in these three weeks, to be up in the clouds, and now down, actuallybelowthe level of the sea; for Holland is properly, and in its normal state,under water, only the water is drained off, and is kept off by constant watchfulness. The whole land has been obtained by robbery—robbery from the ocean, which is its rightful possessor, and is kept out of his dominions by a system of earthworks, such as never were drawn around any fortification. Holland may be described in one word as an enormous Dutch platter, flat and even hollow in the middle, and turned up at the edges. Standing in the centre, you can see therimin the long lines of circumvallation which meet the eye as it sweeps round the horizon. This immenseplatitudeis intersected by innumerable canals,which cross and recross it in every direction; and as if to drive away the evil spirits from the country, enormous windmills, like huge birds, keep a constant flapping in the air. To relieve the dull monotony, these plains are covered with cattle, which with their masses of black and white and red on the green pastures, give a pretty bit of color to the landscape. The raising of cattle is one of the chief industries of Holland. They are exported in great numbers from Rotterdam to London, so that "the roast beef of old England" is often Dutch beef, after all. With her plains thus bedecked with countless herds, all sleek and well fed, the whole land has an aspect of comfort and abundance; it looks to be, as it is, a land of peace and plenty, of fat cattle and fat men. As moreover it has not much to do in the way of making war, except on the other side of the globe, it has no need of a large standing army; and the military element is not so unpleasantly conspicuous as in France and Germany.
Rotterdam is a place of great commercial importance. It has a large trade with the Dutch Possessions in the East Indies, and with other parts of the world. But as it has less of historical interest, we pass it by, to spend a day at the Hague, which is the residence of the Court, and of course the seat of rank and fashion in the little kingdom. It is a pretty place, with open squares and parks, long avenues of stately trees, and many beautiful residences. We received a good impression of it in these respects on the evening of our arrival, as we took a carriage and drove to Scheveningen, two or three miles distant on the sea-shore, which is the great resort of Dutch fashion. It was Long Branch over again. There were the same hotels, with long wide piazzas looking out upon the sea; a beautiful beach sloping down to the water, covered with bathing-houses, and a hundred merry groups scattered here and there; young people engaged in mild flirtations, which were quite harmless, since old dowagers sat looking on with watchful eyes. Altogether it wasa very pretty scene, such as it does one good to see, as it shows that all life and happiness are not gone out of this weary world.
As we drove back to the Hague, we met the royal carriage with the Queen, who was taking her evening drive—a lady with a good motherly face, who is greatly esteemed, not only in Holland, but in England, for her intelligence and her many virtues. She is a woman of literary tastes, and is fond of literary society. I infer that she is a friend of our countryman, Mr. Motley, who has done so much to illustrate the history of Holland, from seeing his portrait the next day at her Palace in the Wood—which was the more remarkable as hanging on the wall of one of the principal apartmentsalone, no other portrait being beside it, and few indeed anywhere, except of members of the royal family.
This "Wood," where this summer palace stands, is one of the features of the Hague. It is called the Queen's Wood, and is quite worthy of its royal name, being a forest chiefly of beech-trees, through which long avenues open a retreat into the densest silence and shade. It is a great resort for the people of the Hague, and thither we drove after we came in from Scheveningen. An open space was brilliantly lighted up, and the military band was playing, and a crowd of people were sitting in the open air, or under the trees, sipping their coffee or ices, and listening to the music, which rang through the forest aisles. It would be difficult to find, in a place of the size of the Hague, a more brilliant company.
But it was not fashion that we were looking for, but historical places and associations. So the next morning we took a carriage and a guide and drove out to Delft, to see the spot where William the Silent, the great Prince of Orange, on whose life it seemed the fate of the Netherlands hung, was assassinated; and the church where he was buried, and where, after three hundred years, his spirit still rules from its urn.
Returning to the city, we sought out—as more interestingthan Royal Palaces or the Picture Gallery, though we did justice to both—the houses of the great commoners, John and Cornelius De Witt, who, after lives of extraordinary devotion to the public good, were torn to pieces by an infuriated populace; and of Barneveld, who, after saving Holland by his wisdom and virtue, was executed on some technical and frivolous charge. We saw the very spot where he died, and the window out of which Maurice (the son of the great William) looked on at this judicial murder—the only stain on his long possession of the chief executive power.
Leaving the Hague with its tragic and its heroic memories, we take our last view of Holland in Amsterdam. Was there ever such a queer old place? It is like the earth of old—"standing out of the water and in the water." It is intersected with canals, which are filled with boats, loading and unloading. The whole city is built on piles, which sometimes sink into the mud, causing the superincumbent structures to incline forward like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. In fact, the houses appear to be drunk, and not to be able to stand on their pins. They lean towards each other across the narrow streets, till they almost touch, and indeed seem like old topers, that cannot stand up straight, but can only just hold on by the lamp-post, and are nodding to each other over the way. I should think that in some places a long Dutchman's pipe could be held out of one window, and be smoked by a man on the other side of the street.
But in spite of all that, in these old tumble-down houses, under these red-tiled roofs, there dwells a brave, honest, free people; a people that are slaves to no master; that fear God, and know no other fear; and that have earned their right to a place in this world by hard blows on the field of battle, and on every field of human industry—on land and on sea—and that are to-day one of the freest and happiest people on the round earth.
How we wished last evening that we had some of ourAmerican friends with us, as we rode about this old city—along by the canals, over the bridges, down to the harbor, and then for miles along the great embankment that keeps out the sea. There are the ships coming and going to all parts of the earth—the constant and manifold proofs that Holland is still a great commercial country.
And to-day we wished for those friends again, as we rode to Broek, the quaintest and queerest little old place that ever was seen—that looks like a baby-house made of Dutch tiles. It is said to be the cleanest place in the world, in which respect it is like those Shaker houses, where every tin pan is scoured daily, and every floor is as white as broom and mop can make it. We rode back past miles of fertile meadows, all wrung from the sea, where cattle were cropping the rich grass on what was once the bottom of the deep; and thus on every hand were the signs of Dutch thrift and abundance.
And so we take our leave of Holland with a most friendly feeling. We are glad to have seen a country where there is so much liberty, so much independence, and such universal industry and comfort. To be sure, an American would find life here ratherslow; it would seem to him as if he were being drawn in a low and heavy boat with one horse through a stagnant canal; buttheydon't feel so, and so they are happy. Blessings on their honest hearts! Blessings on the stout old country, on the lusty burghers, and buxom women, with faces round as the harvest moon! Now that we are going away, the whole land seems to relax into a broad smile; the very cattle look happy, as they recline in the fat meadows and chew the cud of measureless content; the storks seem sorry to have us go, and sail around on lazy wing, as if to give us a parting salutation; and even the windmills begin to creak on their hinges, and with their long arms wave us a kind farewell.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE NEW GERMANY AND ITS CAPITAL.
Berlin, August 5th.
The greatest political event of the last ten years in Europe—perhaps the greatest since the battle of Waterloo—is the sudden rise and rapid development of the German Empire. When Napoleon was overthrown in 1815, and the allies marched to Paris, the sovereignty of Europe, and the peace of the world, was supposed to be entrusted to the Five Great Powers, and of these five the least in importance was Prussia. Both Russia and Austria considered themselves giants beside her; England had furnished the conqueror of Waterloo, and the troops which bore the brunt of that terrible day, and the money that had carried on a twenty years' war against Napoleon; and even France, terribly exhausted as she was, drained of her best blood, yet, as she had stood so long against all Europe combined, might have considered herself still a match for any one of her enemiesalone, and certainly for the weakest of them all, Prussia. Yet to-day this, which was the weakest of kingdoms, has grown to be the greatest power in Europe—a power which has crushed Austria, which has crushed France, which Russia treats with infinite respect, and which would despise the interference of England in Continental affairs.
This acquisition of power, though recent in its manifestation, has been of slow growth. The greatness of Prussia may be said to have been born of its very humiliation. It was after its utter overthrow at the battle of Jena, in 1806, when Napoleon marched to Berlin, levied enormous subsidies, andappropriated such portions of the kingdom as he pleased, that the rulers of Prussia saw that the reconstruction of their State must begin from the very bottom, and went to work to educate the people and reorganize the army. The result of this severe discipline and long military training was seen when, sixty years after Jena, Prussia in a six weeks' campaign laid Austria at her feet, and was only kept from taking Vienna by the immediate conclusion of peace. Four years later came the French war, when King William avenged the insults to his royal mother by Napoleon the First—whose brutality, it is said, broke the proud spirit of the beautiful Queen Louise, and sent her to an early grave—in the terrible humiliation he administered to Napoleon the Third.
But such triumphs were not wrought by military organization alone, but by other means for developing the life and vigor of the German race, especially by a system of universal education, which is the admiration of the world. The Germans conquered the French, not merely because they were better soldiers, but because they were more intelligent men, who knew how to read and write, and who could act more efficiently because they acted intelligently.
With her common schools and her perfect military organization, Prussia has combined great political sagacity, by which the fortunes of other States have been united with her own. Such stupendous achievements as were seen in the French war, were not wrought by Prussia alone, but by all Germany. It was in foresight and anticipation of just such a contingency that Bismarck had long before entered into an alliance with the lesser German States, by which, in the event of war, they were all to act together; and thus, when the Prussian army entered the field, it was supported by powerful allies from Saxony and Würtemberg and Bavaria.
And so when the war was over, out of the old Confederation arose anEmpire, and the King of Prussia was invited to take upon himself the more august title of Emperor of Germany—atitle which recalls the line of the Cæsars; and thus has risen up, in the very heart of the Continent—like an island thrown up by a volcano in the midst of the sea—a power which is to-day the most formidable in Europe.
As Protestants, we cannot but feel a degree of satisfaction that this controlling power should be centred in a Protestant State, rather than in France or Austria; although I should be sorry to think that our Protestant principles oblige us to approve every high-handed measure undertaken against the Catholics. We in America believe in perfect liberty in religious matters, and are scrupulous to give to others the same freedom that we demand for ourselves. Of course the relations of things are somewhat changed in a country where the Church is allied with the State, and the ministers of religion are supported by the Government. But, without entering into the question which so agitates Germany at the present moment, our natural sympathies, both as Protestants and as Americans, must always be on the side of the fullest religious liberty.
Besides the Church question there are other grave problems raised by the present state of Germany:—such as, whether the Empire is likely to endure, or to be broken to pieces by the jealousy of the smaller States of the preponderance of Prussia? and whether peace will continue, or there will be a general war? But these are rather large questions to be dispatched in a few pages. They are questions that willkeep, and may be discussed a year hence as well as to-day,and better—since we may then regard them by the light of accomplishedevents; whereas now we should have to indulge too much inprophecies. I prefer therefore, instead of undertaking to give lessons of political wisdom, to entertain my readers with a brief description of Berlin.
This can never be the most beautiful of European cities, even if it should come in time to be the largest, for its situation is very unfavorable; it lies too low. It seems strangethat this spot should ever have been chosen for the site of a great city. It has no advantages of position whatever, except that it is on the little river Spree. But having chosen this flatprairie, they have made the most of it. It has been laid out in large spaces, with long, wide streets. At first, it must have been, like Washington, a city of magnificent distances, but in the course of a hundred years these distances have been filled up with buildings, many of them of fine architecture, so that gradually the city has taken on a stately appearance. Since I was here in 1858, it has enlarged on every side; new streets and squares have added to the size and the magnificence of the capital; and the military element is more conspicuous than ever; "the man on horseback" is seen everywhere. Nor is this strange, for in that time the country has had two great wars, and the German armies, returning triumphant from hard campaigns, have filed in endless procession, with banners torn with shot and shell, through the Unter den Linden, past the statue of the great Frederick, out of the Brandenburg gate to the Thiergarten, where now a lofty column (like that in the Place Vendôme at Paris), surmounted by a flaming statue of Victory, commemorates the triumph of the German arms.
Of course we did our duty heroically in the way of seeing sights—such as the King's Castle and the Museum. But I confess I felt more interest in seeing the great University, which has been the home of so many eminent scholars, and is the chief seat of learning on the Continent, than in seeing the Palace; and in riding by the plain house in a quiet street, where Bismarck lives, than in seeing all the mansions of the Royal Princes, with soldiers keeping guard before the gates.
The most interesting place in the neighborhood of Berlin, of course, is Potsdam, with its historical associations, especially with its memories of Frederick the Great. The day we spent there was full of interest. An hour was given to the New Palace—that is, one thatwasnew a hundred yearsago, but which at present is kept more for show than for use, though one wing is occupied by the Crown Prince. Externally it has no architectural beauty whatever, nothing to render it imposing butsize; but the interior shows many stately apartments. One of these, called the Grotto, is quite unique, the walls being crusted with shells and all manner of stones, so that, entering here, one might feel that he had found some cave of the ocean, dripping with coolness, and, when lighted up, reflecting from all its precious stones a thousand splendors. It was here that the Emperor entertained the King of Sweden at a royal banquet a few weeks ago. But palaces are pretty much all the same; we wander through endless apartments, rich with gilding and ornament, till we are weary of all this grandeur, and are glad when we light on some quiet nook, like the modest little palace—if palace it may be called—Charlottenhof, where Alexander von Humboldt lived and wrote his works. I found more interest in seeing the desk on which he wrote his Kosmos, and the narrow bed on which the great man slept (he did not need much of a bed, since he slept only four hours), than in all the grand state apartments of ordinary kings.
But Frederick the Great was not an ordinary king, and the palace in whichhelived is invested with the interest of an extraordinary personality. Walking a mile through a park of noble trees, we come toSans Souci(a pretty name,Without Care). This is much smaller than the New Palace, but it is more home-like—it was built by Frederick the Great for his own residence, and here he spent the last years of his life. Every room is connected with him. In this he gave audience to foreign ministers; at this desk he wrote. This is the room occupied by Voltaire, whom Frederick, worshipping his genius, had invited to Potsdam, but who soon got tired of his royal patron (as the other perhaps got tired ofhim), and ended the romantic friendship by running away. And here is the room in which the great king breathed hislast. He died sitting in his chair, which still bears the stains of his blood, for his physicians had bled him. At that moment, they tell us, a little mantel clock, which Frederick always wound up with his own hand, stopped, and there it stands now, with its fingers pointing to the very hour and minute when he died. That was ninety years ago, and yet almost every day of every year since strangers have entered that room, to see where this king, this leader of armies, met a greater Conqueror than he, and bowed his royal head to the inevitable Destroyer.
But that was not the last king who died in this palace. When we were here in 1858, the present Emperor was not on the throne, but his elder brother, whose private apartments we then saw; and now we were shown them again, with only this added: "In this room the old king died; in that very bed he breathed his last." All remains just as he left it; his military cap, with his gloves folded beside it; and here is a cast of his face taken after his death. So do they preserve his memory, while the living form returns no more.
From the palace of the late king we drove to that of the present Emperor. Babelsberg is still more interesting than Sans Souci, as it is associated with living personages, who occupy the most exalted stations. It is the home of the Emperor himself when at Potsdam. It is not so large as the New Palace, but, like Sans Souci, seems designed more for comfort than for grandeur. It was built by King William himself, according to his own taste, and has in it all the appointments of an elegant home. The site is beautiful. It stands on elevated ground (it seems a commanding eminence compared with the flat country around Berlin), and looks out on a prospect in which a noble park, and green slopes, descending to lovely bits of water, unite to form what may be called an English landscape—like that from Richmond on the Hill, or some scene in the Lake District of England. The house is worthy of such surroundings. We were fortunatein being there when the Family were absent. The Empress was expected home in a day or two; they were preparing the rooms for her return; and the Emperor was to follow the next week, when of course the house would be closed to visitors. But now we were admitted, and shown through, not only the State apartments, but the private rooms. Such an inspection of thehomeof a royal family gives one some idea of their domestic life; we seem to see the interior of the household. In this case the impression was most charming. While there was very little that was for show, there was everything that was tasteful and refined and elegant. It was pleasant to hear the attendant who showed us the rooms speak in terms of such admiration, and even affection, of the Emperor, as "a very kind man." One who is thus beloved by his dependents, by every member of his household, cannot but have some excellent traits of character. We were shown the drawing-room and the library, and the private study of the Emperor, the chair in which he sits, the desk at which he writes, and the table around which he gathers his ministers—Bismarck and Moltke, etc. We were shown also what a New England housekeeper would call the "living rooms," where he dined and where he slept. The ladies of our party declared that the bed did not answer at all to their ideas of royal luxury, or even comfort, the sturdy old Emperor having only a single mattress under him, and that a pretty hard one. Perhaps however he despises luxury, and prefers to harden himself, like Napoleon, or the Emperor Nicholas, who slept on a camp bedstead. He is certainly very plain in his habits and simple in his tastes. Descending the staircase, the attendant took from a corner and put in our hand the Emperor's cane. It was a rough stick, such as any dandy in New York would have despised, but the old man had cut it himself many years ago, and now he always has it in his hand when he walks abroad. And there through the window we look down into the poultry yard, where the Empress, wewere told, feeds her chickens with her own hand every morning. I was glad to hear this of the grand old lady. It shows a kind heart, and how, after all, for the greatest as well as the humblest of mankind, the simplest pleasures are the sweetest. I dare say she takes more pleasure in feeding her chickens than in presiding at the tedious court ceremonies. Such little touches give a most pleasant impression of the simple home-life of the Royal House of Prussia.
Our last visit was to the tomb of Frederick the Great, who is buried in the Garrison Church. There is nothing about it imposing to the imagination, as in the tomb of Napoleon at Paris. It is only a little vault, which a woman opens with a key, and lights a tallow candle, and you lay your hand on the metallic coffin of the great King. There he lies—that fiery spirit that made war for the love of war, that attacked Austria, and seized Silesia, more for the sake of the excitement of the thing, and, as he confessed, "to make people talk about him," than because he had the slightest pretence to that Austrian province; who, though he wanted to be a soldier, yet in his first battle ran away as fast as his horse could carry him, and hid himself in a barn; but who afterwards recovered control of himself, and became the greatest captain of his time. He it was who carried through the Seven Years' War, not only against Austria, but against Europe, and who held Silesia against them all. "The Continent in arms," says Macaulay, "could not tear it from that iron grasp." But now the warrior is at rest; that figure, long so well known, no more rides at the head of armies. In this bronze coffin lies all that remains of Frederick the Great:
"He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle,No sound shall awake him to glory again."
"He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle,
No sound shall awake him to glory again."
Speaking of tombs—as of late my thoughts "have had much discourse with death"—the most beautiful which I have ever seen anywhere is that of Queen Louise, the motherof the present Emperor, in the Mausoleum at Charlottenburg. The statue of the Queen is by the famous German sculptor, Rauch. When I first saw it years ago, it left such an impression that I could not leave Berlin without seeing it again and we drove out of the city several miles for the purpose. It is in the grounds attached to one of the royal palaces but we did not care to see any more palaces, if only we could look again on that pure white marble form. At the end of a long avenue of trees is the Mausoleum—a small building devoted only to royal sepulture—and there, in a subdued light, stretched upon her tomb, lies the beautiful Queen. Her personal loveliness is a matter of tradition; it is preserved in innumerable portraits, which show that she was one of the most beautiful women of her time. That beauty is preserved in the reclining statue. The head rests on a marble pillow, and is turned a little to one side, so as to show the perfect symmetry of the Grecian outlines. It is a sweet, sad face (for she had sorrows that broke her queenly heart); but now her trials are ended, and how calmly and peacefully she sleeps! The form is drooping, as if she slumbered on her bed; she seems almost to breathe; hush, the marble lips are going to speak! Was there ever such an expression of perfect repose? It makes one "half in love with blissful death." It brought freshly to mind the lines of Shelley in Queen Mab:
How wonderful is Death!Death and his brother Sleep!One, pale as yonder waning moon,With lips of lurid blue;The other, rosy as the mornWhen throned on ocean's wave,It blushes o'er the world:Yet both so passing wonderful!
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep!
One, pale as yonder waning moon,
With lips of lurid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn
When throned on ocean's wave,
It blushes o'er the world:
Yet both so passing wonderful!
By the side of the statue of the Queen reposes, on another tomb, that of her husband—a noble figure in his militarycloak, with his hands folded on his breast. The King survived the Queen thirty years. She died in her youth, in 1810; he lived till 1840; but his heart was in her tomb, and it is fitting that now they sleep together.
On the principle of rhetoric, that a description should end with that which leaves the deepest impression, I end my letter here, with the softened light of that Mausoleum falling on that breathing marble; for in all my memories of Berlin, no one thing—neither palace, nor museum, nor the statue of Frederick the Great, nor the Column of Victory—has left in me so deep a feeling as the silent form of that beautiful Queen. Queen Louise is a marked figure in German history, being invested with touching interest by her beauty and her sorrow, and early death. I like to think of such a woman as the mother of a royal race, now actors on the stage. It cannot but be that the memory of her beauty, associated with her patriotism, her courage, and her devotion, should long remain an inheritance of that royal line, and their most precious inspiration. May the young princes, growing up to be future kings and emperors, as they gather round her tomb, tenderly cherish her memory and imitate her virtues!
CHAPTER XV.
AUSTRIA—OLD AND NEW.
Vienna, August 12th.
We are taking such a wide sweep through Central Europe, travelling from city to city, and country to country, that my materials accumulate much faster than I can use them. There are three cities which I should be glad to describe in detail—Hamburg, Dresden, and Prague. Hamburg, to which we came from Amsterdam, perhaps appears more beautiful from the contrast, and remains in our memory as the fairest city of the North. Dresden, the capital of Saxony, is also a beautiful city, and attracts a great number of English and American residents by its excellent opportunities of education, and from its treasures of art, in which it is richer than any other city in Germany. Our stay there was made most pleasant by an American family whom we had known on the other side of the Atlantic, who gave us a cordial welcome, and under whose roof we felt how sweet is the atmosphere of an American home. The same friends, when we left, accompanied us on our way into the Saxon Switzerland, conducting us to the height of the Bastei, a huge cliff, which from the very top of a mountain overhangs the Elbe, which winds its silver current through the valley below, while on the other side of the river the fortress-crowned rock of Konigstein lifts up its head, like Edinburgh Castle, to keep ward and watch over the beautiful kingdom of Saxony.
And there is dear old Prague, rusty and musty, that in some quarters has such a tumble down air that it seems as if it were to be given up to Jews, who were going to convertit into a huge Rag Fair for the sale of old clothes, and yet that in other quarters has new streets and new squares, and looks as if it had caught a little of the spirit of the modern time. But the interest of Prague to a stranger must be chiefly historical—for what it has been rather than for what it is. These associations are so many and so rich, that to one familiar with them, the old churches and bridges, and towers and castles, are full of stirring memories. As we rode across the bridge, from which St. John of Nepomuc was thrown into the river, five hundred years ago, because he would not betray to a wicked king the secret which the queen had confided to him in the confessional, up to the Cathedral where a gorgeous shrine of silver keeps his dust, and perpetuates his memory, the lines of Longfellow were continually running in my mind:
I have read in some old marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.
I have read in some old marvellous tale,Some legend strange and vague,That a midnight host of spectres paleBeleaguered the walls of Prague.
I have read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,With the wan moon overhead,There stood, as in an awful dream,The army of the dead.
Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.
It needs but little imagination on the spot to call up indeed an "army of the dead." Standing on this old bridge, one could almost hear, above the rushing Moldau, the drums of Zisca calling the Hussites to arms on the neighboring heights, a battle sound answered in a later century by the cannon of Frederick the Great. Above us is the vast pile of the Hradschin, the abode of departed royalties, where but a few weeks ago poor old Ferdinand, the ex-Emperor of Austria, breathed his last. He was almost an imbecile, who sat for many years on the throne as a mere figurehead of the State, and who was perfectly harmless, since he had little more to dowith the Government than if he had been a log of wood; but who, when the great events of 1848 threatened the overthrow of the Empire, was hurried out of the way to make room for younger blood, and his nephew, Francis Joseph, came to the throne. He lived to be eighty-two years old, yet so utterly insignificant was he that almost the only thing he ever said that people remember, was a remark that at one time made the laugh of Vienna. Once in a country place he tasted of some dumplings, a wretched compound of garlic and all sorts of vile stuff, but which pleased the royal taste, and which on his return to Vienna he ordered for the royal table, greatly to the disgust of his attendants, to whom he replied, "I am Kaiser, and I will have my dumplings!" This got out, and caused infinite merriment. Poor old man! I hope he had his dumplings to the last. He was a weak, simple creature; but he is gone, and has been buried with royal honors, and sleeps with the Imperial house of Austria in the crypt of the Church of the Capuchins in Vienna.
But all these memories of Prague, personal or historical, recent or remote, I must leave, to come at once to the Austrian capital, one of the most interesting cities of Europe. Vienna is a far more picturesque city than Berlin. It is many times older. It was a great city in the Middle Ages, when Berlin had no existence. The Cathedral of St. Stephen was erected hundreds of years before the Elector of Brandenburg chose the site of a town on the Spree, or Peter the Great began to build St. Petersburg on the banks of the Neva. Vienna has played a great part in European history. It long stood as a barrier against Moslem invasion. Less than two hundred years ago it was besieged by the Turks, and nothing but its heroic resistance, aided by the Poles, under John Sobieski, prevented the irruption of Asiatic barbarians into Central Europe. From the tower of St. Stephen's anxious watchers have often marked the tide of battle, as it ebbed and flowed around the ancient capital, from thetime when the plain of the Marchfeld was covered with the tents of the Moslems, to that when the armies of Napoleon, matched against those of Austria, fought the terrible battles of Aspern, Essling, and Wagram.
But if Vienna is an old city, it is also a new one. In revisiting Germany, I am constantly struck with the contrast between what I see now, and what I saw in 1858. Then Vienna was a pleasant, old-fashioned city, not too large for comfort, strongly fortified, like most of the cities of the Middle Ages, with high walls and a deep moat encompassing it on all sides. Now all has disappeared—the moat has been filled up, and the walls have been razed to the ground, and where they stood is a circle of broad streets called the Ring-strasse, like the Boulevards of Paris. The city thus let loose has burst out on all sides, and great avenues and squares, and parks and gardens, have sprung into existence on every hand. The result is a far more magnificent capital than the Vienna which I knew seventeen years ago.
Nor are the changes less in the country than in the capital. There have been wars and revolutions, which have shaken the Empire so that its very existence was in danger, but out of which it has come stronger than ever. Austria is the most remarkable example in Europe ofthe good effects of a thorough beating. Twice, since I was here before, she has had a terrible humiliation—in 1859 and in 1866—at Solferino and at Sadowa.
In 1858 Austria was slowly recovering from the terrible shock of ten years before, the Revolutionary Year of 1848. In '49 was the war in Hungary, when Kossuth with his fiery eloquence roused the Magyars to arms, and they fought with such vigor and success, that they threatened to march on Vienna, and the independence of Hungary might have been secured but for the intervention of Russia. Gorgei surrendered to a Russian army. Then came a series of bloody executions. The Hungarian leaders who fell into the handsof the Austrians, found no pity. The illustrious Count Louis Batthyani was sent to the scaffold. Kossuth escaped only by fleeing into Turkey. Gen. Bem turned Mussulman, saying that "his only religion was love of liberty and hatred of tyranny," and served as a Pacha at the head of a Turkish army. It is a curious illustration of the change that a few years have wrought, that Count Andrassy, who was concerned with Batthyani in the same rebellion, and was also sentenced to death, but escaped, is now the Prime Minister of Austria. But then vengeance ruled the hour. The bravest Hungarian generals were shot—chiefly, it was said at the time, by the Imperious will of the Archduchess Sophia, the mother of Francis Joseph. There is no hatred like a woman's, and she could not forego the savage delight of revenge on those who had dared to attack the power of Austria. Proud daughter of the Cæsars! she was yet to taste the bitterness of a like cruelty, when her own son, Maximilian, bared his breast to a file of Mexican soldiers, and found no mercy. I thought of this to-day, as I saw in the burial-place of the Imperial family, near the coffin of that haughty and unforgiving woman, the coffin of her son, whose poor body lies there pierced with a dozen balls.
But for the time Austria was victorious, and in the flush of the reaction which was felt throughout Europe, began to revive the old Imperial absolutism, the stern repression of liberty of speech and of the press, the system of passports and of spies, of jealous watchfulness by the police, and of full submission to the Church of Rome.
Such was the state of things in 1858; and such it might have remained if the possessors of power had not been rudely awakened from their dreams. How well I remember the sense of triumph and power of that year. The empire of Austria had been fully restored, including not only its present territory, but the fairest portion of Italy—Lombardy and Venice. To complete the joy of the Imperial house, anheir had just been born to the throne. I was present in the cathedral of Milan when a solemn Te Deum was performed in thanksgiving for that crowning gift. Maximilian was then Viceroy in Lombardy. I see him now as, with his young bride Carlotta, he walked slowly up that majestic aisle, surrounded by a brilliant staff of officers, to give thanks to Almighty God for an event which seemed to promise the continuance of the royal house of Austria, and of its Imperial power to future generations. Alas for human foresight! In less than one year the armies of France had crossed the Alps, a great battle had been fought at Solferino, and Lombardy was forever lost to Austria, and a Te Deum was performed in the cathedral of Milan for a very different occasion, but with still more enthusiastic rejoicing.
But that was not the end of bitterness. Austria was not yet sufficiently humiliated. She still clung to her old arbitrary system, and was to be thoroughly converted only by another administration of discipline. She had still another lesson to learn, and that was to come from another source, a power still nearer home. Though driven out of a part of Italy, Austria was still the great power in Germany. She was the most important member of the Germanic Confederation, as she had a vote in the Diet at Frankfort proportioned to her population, although two-thirds of her people were not Germans. The Hungarians and the Bohemians are of other races, and speak other languages. But by the dexterous use of this power, with the alliance of Bavaria and other smaller States, Austria was able always to control the policy and wield the influence of Germany. Prussia was continually outvoted, and her political influence reduced to nothing—a state of things which became the more unendurable the more she grew in strength, and became conscious of her power. At length her statesmen saw that the only hope of Prussia to gain her rightful place and power in the councils of Europe, wasto drive Austria out of Germany—tocompel her to withdraw entirely from the Confederation. It was a bold design. Of course it meant war; but for this Prussia had been long preparing. Suddenly, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, came the war of 1866. Scarcely was it announced before a mighty army marched into Bohemia, and the battle of Sadowa, the greatest in Europe since Waterloo, ended the campaign. In six weeks all was over. The proud house of Austria was humbled in the dust. Her great army, that was to capture Berlin, was crushed in one terrible day, and the Prussians were on the march for Vienna, when their further advance was stopped by the conclusion of peace.
This was a fearful overthrow for Austria. But good comes out of evil. It was the day of deliverance for Hungary and for Italy. Man's extremity is God's opportunity, and the king's extremity is liberty's opportunity. Up to this hour Francis Joseph had obstinately refused to grant to Hungary that separate government to which she had a right by the ancient constitution of the kingdom, but which she had till then vainly demanded. But at length the eyes of the young emperor were opened, and on the evening of that day which saw the annihilation of his military power, it is said, he sent for Deak, the leader of the Hungarians, and asked "If he shouldthenconcede all that they had asked, if they would rally to his support so as to save him?" "Sire," said the stern Hungarian leader, "it is too late!" Nothing remained for the proud Hapsburg but to throw himself on the mercy of the conqueror, and obtain such terms as he could. Venice was signed away at a stroke. In his despair he telegraphed to Paris, giving that beautiful province to Napoleon, to secure the support of France in his extremity, who immediately turned it over to Victor Emmanuel, thus completing the unity of Italy.
The results in Germany were not less important. As the fruit of this short, but decisive campaign, Austria, besidespaying a large indemnity for the expenses of the war, finally withdrew wholly from the German Confederation, leaving Prussia master of the field, which proceeded at once to form a new Confederation with itself at the head.
After such repeated overthrows and humiliations, one would suppose that Austria was utterly ruined, and that the proud young emperor would die of shame. But, "sweet are the uses of adversity." Humiliation is sometimes good for nations as for individuals, and never was it more so than now. The impartial historian will record that these defeats were Austria's salvation. The loss of Italy, however mortifying to her pride, was only taking away a source of constant trouble and discontent, and leaving to the rest of the empire a much more perfect unity than it had before.
So with the independence of Hungary; while it was an apparent loss, it was a real gain. The Magyars at last obtained what they had so long been seeking—a separate administration, and Francis Joseph, Emperor of Austria, was crowned at Pesth, King of Hungary. By this act of wise conciliation five millions of the bravest people in Europe were converted from disaffected, if not disloyal, subjects, into contented and warmly attached supporters of the House of Austria, the most devoted as they are the most warlike defenders of the throne and the Empire.
Another result of this war was the emancipation of the Emperor himself from the Pope. Till then, Austria had been one of the most extreme Catholic powers in Europe. Not Spain itself had been a more servile adherent of Rome. The Concordat gave all ecclesiastical appointments to the Pope. But the thunder of the guns of Sadowa destroyed a great many illusions—among them that of a ghostly power at Rome, which had to be conciliated as the price of temporal prosperity as well as of eternal salvation. This illusion is now gone; the Concordat has been repealed, and Austria has a voice in the appointment of her own bishops. The latePrime Minister, Count Beust, was a Protestant. In her treatment of different religious faiths, Austria is so liberal as to give great sorrow to the Holy Father, who regards it as almost a kingdom that has apostatized from the faith.
The same liberality exists in other things. There is none of the petty tyranny which in former days vexed the souls of foreigners, by its strict surveillance and espionage. Now no man in a cocked hat demands your passport as you enter the city, nor asks how long you intend to stay; no agent of the police hangs about your table at a public café to overhear your private conversation, and learn if you are a political emissary, a conspirator in disguise; no officer in the street taps you on your shoulder to warn you not to speak so loud, or to be more careful of what you say. You are as free to come and go as in America, while the restrictions of the Custom House are far less annoying and vexatious than in the United States. All this is the blessed fruit of Austria's humiliation.
It should be said to the praise of the Emperor, that he has taken his discipline exceedingly well. He has not pouted or sulked, like an angry schoolboy, or refused to have anything to do with the powers which have inflicted upon him such grievous humiliations. He has the good sense to recognize the political necessities of States as superior to the feelings of individuals. Kings, like other men, must bow to the inevitable. Accordingly he makes the best of the case. He did not refuse to meet Napoleon after the battle of Solferino, but held an interview of some hours at Villafranca, in which, without long preliminaries, they agreed on an immediate peace. He afterwards visited his brother Emperor in Paris at the time of the Great Exposition in 1867. Within the last year he has paid a visit to Victor Emmanuel at Venice, and been received with the utmost enthusiasm by the Italian people. They can afford to welcome him now that he is no longer their master. Since they have not to see in him adespotic ruler, they hail him as the nation's guest, and as he sails up the Grand Canal, receive him with loud cheers and waving of banners. And he has received more than once the visits of the Emperor William, who came to Vienna at the time of the Exposition two years since, and who has met him at a watering-place this summer, of which the papers gave full accounts, dwelling on their hearty cordiality, as shown in their repeated hand-shakings and embracings. It may be said that these are little things, but they are not little things, for such personal courtesies have a great deal to do with the peace of nations.
In another respect, the discipline of adversity has been most useful to Austria. By hard blows it has knocked the military spirit out of her, and led her to "turn her thoughts on peace." Of course the military element is still very strong. Vienna is full of soldiers. Every morning we hear the drum beat under our windows, and files of soldiers go marching through the streets. Huge barracks are in every part of the city, and a general parade would show a force of many thousands of men. The standing army of Austria is one of the largest in Europe. But in spite of all this parade and show, the militaryspiritis much less rampant than before. Nobody wants to go to war with any of the Great Powers. They have had enough of war for the present.
Austria has learned that there is another kind of greatness for nations than that gained in fighting battles, viz., cultivating the arts of peace. Hence it is that within the last nine years, while there have been no victories abroad, there have been great victories at home. There has been an enormous development of the internal resources of the country. Railroads have been extended all over the Empire; commerce has been quickened to a new life. Great steamers passing up and down the Danube, exchange the products of the East and the West, of Europe and Asia. Enterprises of all kinds have been encouraged. The result was shown in the Expositionof two years ago, when there was collected in this city such a display of the products of all lands, as the world had never seen. Those who had been at all the Great Exhibitions said that it far surpassed those of London and Paris. All the luxurious fabrics of the East, and all the most delicate and the most costly products of the West, the fruit of manifold inventions and discoveries—with all that had been achieved in the useful arts, the arts whose success constitutes civilization—were there spread before the dazzled eye. Such a Victory of Peace could not have been achieved without the previous lesson of Defeat in War.
Still further learning wisdom from her conquerors, Austria has entered upon a general system of education, modelled upon that of Prussia, which in the course of another generation will transform the heterogeneous populations spread over the vast provinces, extending from Italy and Germany to Turkey, which make up the thirty-four millions of the Austrian Empire.
Thus in many ways Austria has abandoned her traditional conservative policy, and entered on the road of progress. She may now be fairly reckoned among the liberal nations of Europe. The Roman Catholic religion is still the recognized religion of the State, but the Pope has lost that control which he had a few years ago; Vienna is much more independent of Rome, and Protestants have quite as much liberty ofopinion, and I think more liberty ofworship, than in Republican France.
Of course there is still much in the order of things which is not according to our American ideas. Austria is an ancient monarchy, and all civil and even social relations are framed on the monarchical system. Everything revolves around the Emperor, as the centre of the whole. We visit palace after palace, and are told that all are for the Emperor. Even his stables are one of the sights of Vienna, where hundreds of blooded horses are for the use of the Imperial household.There are carriages, too many to be counted, covered with gold, for four, six, or eight horses. One of these is two hundred years old, with panels decorated with paintings by Rubens. It seems, indeed, as if in these old monarchies the sovereign applied to himself, with an arrogance approaching to blasphemy, the language which belongs to God alone—that "of him, and through him, and to him, are all things."
Personally I can well believe that the Emperor is a very amiable as well as highly intelligent man, and that he seeks the good of his people. He has been trained in the school of adversity, and has learned that empires may not last forever and that dynasties may be overthrown. History is full of warnings against royal pride and ambition. Who can stand by the coffin of poor Maria Louisa, as it lies in the crypt of the Church of the Capuchins, without thinking of the strange fate of that descendant of Maria Theresa, married to the Great Napoleon? In the Royal Treasury here, they show the cradle, wrought in the rarest woods, inlaid with pearl and gold, and lined with silk, that was made for the infant son of Napoleon, the little King of Rome. What dreams of ambition hovered about that royal cradle! How strange seemed the contrast when we visited the Palace at Schonbrunn, and entered the room which Napoleon occupied when he besieged Vienna, and saw the very bed in which he slept, and were told that in that same bed the young Napoleon afterwards breathed his last! So perished the dream of ambition. The young child for whom Napoleon had divorced Josephine and married Maria Louisa, who was to perpetuate the proud Imperial line, died far from France, while his father had already ended his days on the rock of St. Helena!
But personally no one can help a kindly feeling towards the Emperor, and towards the young Empress also, as he hears of her virtues and her charities.
Nor can one help liking the Viennese and the Austrians. They are very courteous and very polite—rather more so, ifthe truth must be told, than their German neighbors. Perhaps great prosperity has been bad for the Prussians, as adversity has been good for the Austrians. At any rate the former have the reputation in Europe of being somewhat brusque in their manners. Perhaps they also need a lesson in humiliation, which may come in due time. But the Austrians are proverbially a polite people. They are more like the French. They are gay and fond of pleasure, but they have that instinctive courtesy, which gives such a charm to social intercourse.
And so we go away from Vienna with a kindly feeling for the dear old city—only hoping it may not be spoiled by too many improvements—and with best wishes for both Kaiser and people. They have had a hard time, but it has done them good. By such harsh instruments, by a discipline very bitter indeed, but necessary, has the life of this old empire been renewed. Thus aroused from its lethargy, it has shaken off the past, and entered on a course of peaceful progress with the foremost nations of Europe. Those who talk of the "effete despotisms" of the Old World, would be amazed at the signs of vitality in this old butnotdecaying empire. Austria is to-day one of the most prosperous countries in Europe. There is fresh blood at her heart, and fresh life coursing through her aged limbs. And though no man or kingdom can be said to be master of the future, it has as fair a chance of long existence as any other power on the continent. The form of government may be changed; there may be internal revolutions; Bohemia may obtain a separate government like Hungary; but whatever may come, there will always be a great and powerful State in Eastern Europe, on the waters of the Danube.
We observed to-day that they were repairing St Stephen's, and were glad to think that that old cathedral, which has stood for so many ages, and whose stone pavement has been worn by the feet of many generations, may stand for a thousand years to come. May that tower, which has looked downon so many battle-fields, as the tide of war has ebbed and flowed around the walls of Vienna, hereafter behold from its height no more scenes of carnage like that of Wagram, but only see gathered around its base one of the most beautiful of European capitals—the heart of a great and prosperous Empire.
CHAPTER XVI.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.—OUT-DOOR LIFE OF THE GERMAN PEOPLE.
Vienna, August 13th.
No description of Germany—no picture of German life and manners—can be complete which does not give some account of the out-door recreations of the people; for this is a large part of their existence; it is a feature of their national character, and an important element in their national life. To know a people well, one must see them not only in business, but in their lighter hours. One may travel through Germany from the Baltic to the Adriatic, and see all the palaces and museums and picture galleries, and yet be wholly ignorant of the people. But if he has the good fortune to know a single German family of the better class, into which he may be received, not as a stranger, but as a guest and a friend—where he can see the interior of a Germanhome, and mark the strong affection of parents and children, of brothers and sisters—he will get a better idea of the real character of the people, than by months of living in hotels. Next to the sacred interior of the home, thepublic gardenis the place where the German appears with least formality and disguise, and in his natural character.
Since I came to Europe, I have been in no mood to seek amusement. Indeed if I had followed my own impulse, it would have been to shun every public resort, to live a very solitary life, going only to the most retired places, and seeking only absolute seclusion and repose. But that is not good for us in moments of sorrow. The mind is apt to becomemorbid and gloomy. This is not the lesson which those who have gone before would have us learn. On the contrary, they desire to have us happy, and bid us with their dying breath seek new activity, new scenes, and new mental occupation, to bind us to life.
Besides, I have had not only myself to consider, but a young life beside me. In addition to that, we have now a third member of our party. At Hamburg we were joined by my nephew, a lieutenant in the Navy, who is attached to the Flagship Franklin, now cruising in the Baltic, and who obtained leave of absence for a month to join his sister, and is travelling with us in Germany. He is a fine young officer full of life, and enters into everything with the greatest zest. So, beguiled by these two young spirits, I have been led to see more than I otherwise should of the open-air life and recreations of these simple-hearted Germans; and I will briefly describe what I have seen, as the basis of one or two reflections.
To begin with Hamburg. This is one of the most beautiful cities in Germany. One part is indeed old and dingy, in which the narrow streets are overhung with houses of a former century, now gone to decay. But as we go back from the river, we mount higher, and come into an entirely different town, with wide streets, lined with large and imposing buildings. This part of the city was swept by a great fire a few years ago, and has been very handsomely rebuilt. But the peculiar beauty of Hamburg is formed by a small stream, the Alster, which runs through the city, and empties into the Elbe, and which is dammed up so as to form what is called by courtesy a lake, and what is certainly a very pretty sheet of water. Around this are grouped the largest hotels, and some of the finest buildings of the city, and this is the centre of its joyous life, especially at the close of the day. When evening comes on, all Hamburg flocks to the "Alster-dam." Our hotel was on this lake, and from our windows we hadevery evening the most animated scene. The water was covered with boats, among which the swans glided about without fear. The quays were lighted up brilliantly, and the cafés swarmed with people, all enjoying the cool evening air. Both sexes and all ages were abroad to share in the general gayety of the hour.
Some rigid moralists might look upon this with stern eyes, as if it were a scene of sinful enjoyment, as if men had no right thus to be happy in this wicked world. But I confess I looked upon it with very different feelings. The enjoyment was of the most simple and innocent kind. Families were all together, father and mother, brothers and sisters, while little children ran about at play. I have rarely looked on a prettier scene, and although I had no part nor lot in it, although I was a stranger there, and walked among these crowds alone, still it did my heart good to see that there was so much happiness in this sad and weary world.
From Hamburg we came to Berlin, where the same features were reproduced on a larger scale. As we drove through the streets at ten o'clock at night we passed a large public garden, brilliantly lighted up, and thronged with people, from which came the sound of music, and were told that it was one of the most fashionable resorts of the capital; and so the next evening—after a day at Potsdam, where we were wearied with sight-seeing—we took our rest here. Imagine a vast enclosure lighted up with hundreds of gas-jets, and thronged with thousands of people, withthreebands of music to relieve each other. There were hundreds of little tables, each with its group around it, all chatting with the utmost animation.