In the south transept is the celebrated statue of St. Bartholomew, who was flayed alive, and who is represented as having undergone that operation and taking a walk, with his own skin thrown carelessly over one arm, after the manner of an overcoat which the weather has rendered oppressive to the wearer. But this statue can hardly fail to chain the spectator some moments to the spot, on account of the hideous accuracy with which every artery, muscle, and tendon appear to be represented. I had never thought before how a man might look when stripped of that excellent fitting garment, thecutis vera; but this statue gave me as correct an idea of it as I ever wish to obtain. It is said to have been executed by the great sculptor Phidias, and to be wonderfully correct in anatomical detail. The latter fact can hardly be doubted by any who look upon the marvellous skill which appears to have been exhausted upon every part of it. Shocking as it appeared, I found myself drawn, again and again, to look upon it; such is its effect as a wondrous work of art.
Now the guide leads to a crypt below the pavement. Weare to visit the chapel where rests the good St. Charles Borromeo, who died nearly three centuries ago. We go down nine or ten steps, pass through a passage lined with the richest marbles, a portal adorned with splendid columns, with their capitals and bases richly gilt, and stand in the sepulchral chapel of the saint. It is a small octagonal apartment, lighted by an opening from above, which is surrounded by a rail, so that the faithful may look down upon the sarcophagus below. The walls of this apartment are formed of eight massive silver bass-reliefs, representing remarkable events in the saint's life. Then in the angles are eight caryatides of massive silver, representing his virtues. The sarcophagus, which rests upon the altar, is a large bronze box mounted with silver. A douceur of five francs to the attendant priest, and he reverently crosses himself, and, bending at a crank, causes the bronze covers of the shrine to fold away, revealing to our view the dead body of the saint, in a splendid transparent coffin of pure rock crystal, bound with silver, and ornamented also with small silver statues, bearing the cipher of the royal donor, Philip IV. of Spain.
There lay the good bishop, who had preached humility all his life, arrayed in his episcopal garb, which was one blaze of precious stones. Diamonds of the purest water flashed back their colored light to the glare of the altar candles; rubies, like drops of blood, glowed in fiery splendor, and emeralds shone green as sea-waves in the sunlight. The saint held in his left hand a golden pastoral staff, fairly crusted with precious stones. A splendid cross of emeralds and diamonds is suspended above him within the shrine; it is the gift of Maria Theresa, and about the head is a magnificent golden crown, rich with the workmanship of that wonderful artificer, Benvenuto Cellini, the gift of the Elector of Bavaria. But there, amid all these flashing jewels, that which the rich habiliments failed to conceal, was the grinning skull, covered with the shrivelled skin black with age, the sunken eye-sockets, and all bearing the dread signet-stamp of Death; making it seem a hideous mockery to trick out these crumbling remains with senseless trappings, now so useless to the once mortal habitation of an immortal soul. We leave the saint to sleep in his costly mausoleum, his narrow, eight-sided chamber, and its riches, representing one hundred and sixty thousand pounds sterling, and follow our guide to view more of the wealth of the church.
Here we are in the sacristy, and the custodian shows us two huge statues of St. Charles and St. Ambrose of solid silver, and their sacerdotal robes thickly studded with jewels; magnificent silver busts, life-size, of other bishops; elegant gold candelabra; goblets and altar furniture of rare and exquisite workmanship; silver lamps, censers, chalices, &c., of those rare, delicate, and beautiful old patterns that were a charm to look upon; missals studded with precious stones; rich embroideries, rare altar-pieces, and one solid ornamental piece of silver-work, weighing over one hundred pounds. All these riches locked up, useless here, save as a sight to the wonder-seeking tourist; while poor, ragged worshippers of the church of Rome are prostrating themselves without, before the great altar, from which they rise and waylay him as he passes out, to beseech him—the heretic—for a few coppers, for the love of God, to keep them from starvation. I can well imagine what rich plunder old Cromwell's bluff Round-heads must have found in the Roman Catholic cathedrals of England, although I have more than once mentally anathematized their vandalism, which was shown in defacing and destroying some of the most beautiful specimens of art of the middle ages.
The old Church of St. Ambrosio is an interesting edifice to visit, with its curious relics, tombs, altars, and inscriptions. The principal altar here is remarkable for its richness; its sides are completely enclosed in a strong iron-bound and padlocked sheathing, which, however, the silver key unlocked, and we found the front to be sheathed in solid gold, elegantly enamelled and ornamented, the back and sides being of solid silver; all about the border, corners, and edges were set every species of precious stones, cameos, and rich jewels. The rubies, amethysts, topazes, &c., were in the rough, uncut; butthe goldsmith's work, carving and chasing, was elaborate, and the dirty friar who exhibited the sight, with small candles, about the size of pen-holders, stuck between his fingers, took much pride in pointing out the beauties of the work, and holding his little candles so that their light might be the more effectual to display them. The back was all covered with representations of the principal events in the life of St. Ambrose, separated from each other by enamelled borders.
We next went to the refectory of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and saw Leonardo da Vinci's celebrated painting of the Last Supper, the picture that we are all familiar with from childhood, from having seen it in Bibles, story-books, and engravings. In fact, it isthepicture of the Last Supper always referred to when the representation is spoken of. I could not go into raptures over this half-defaced fresco, which has had a door cut through one portion of it, has sustained the damage incidental to the refectory, being used as a cavalry stable, and has twice been nearly all painted over by bad artists since the great painter left it; and he, in his preparation of the wall for the painting, used a process which proved a failure, causing it to fade and flake off. Although this is the great original, from which so many copies are taken,—and it is something to have seen the original,—we think we have seen more than one copy far more striking, and more beautiful in its finish.
A ramble through Victor Emmanuel's palace gave us an opportunity of seeing some fine pictures, the great state ball-room, elegantly-frescoed ceilings, and the rich furniture and tapestry, that one ere long begins to find are in some degree, when no historical association is connected with them, so much alike in all palaces. The celebrated La Scala Theatre was closed for the season during our visit to Milan; but the custodians have an eye to business. They keep the lower row of gas-lights burning, turned low, and for a consideration turn on the gas, and light up the vast interior sufficiently for visitors to get something of an idea of it.
Notwithstanding its vast size, the excellence of its internal arrangements for seeing and hearing is remarkable. Standing upon the stage, we delivered a Shakespearian extract to an extremely select but discriminating audience, whose applause was liberally, and, need we add, deservedly bestowed. I know not how it may be when the house is filled with an audience, but it appeared to us that its acoustic properties were remarkable, for a "stage whisper" could be distinctly heard at the extreme rear of the centre of the first row of boxes, while the echo of the voice seemed to return to the speaker on the stage, as from a sounding-board above his head, with marvellous distinctness. This house will hold an audience of thirty-six hundred persons. The distance from the centre box to the curtain is ninety-six feet; width of the stage, fifty-four feet; and depth of the stage behind the curtain, one hundred and fifty feet—room enough for the most ambitious scenic display. The form of the house is the usual semicircle, there being forty-one boxes in each row. Many of those in the first row have small withdrawing-rooms. One—the Duke Somebody's—has a supper room, in which his highness and friends partake of apetit souperbetween the acts, there being cooking conveniences for the preparation of the same below.
The brevity of our visit to Milan causes the day that was devoted to the wonderful library, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts, rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of paintings, where the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Raphael, Da Vinci, and Rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we had even attempted these two interesting galleries—places which, to any one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less than an aggravation to be hurried through.
By rail from Milan we came to a place about a mile from Como, where omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy Italian town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival, and which we were rightglad to have paddle out into the lake from the vile odors that surrounded us. But once out upon the blue waters, and free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! The dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating shore, with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. As we sailed along, beautiful villas were seen on the shore, their fronts with marble pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with huge carved balusters, ran down to the very water's edge, where awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting—just such scenes as you see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality.
At a point where Lake Como divides into two arms, one extending to Como and the other to Lecco, we passed Bellaggio, one of the most beautiful spots ever seen. It is on a high promontory at this point, commanding extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. The promontory is covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people.
There is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely lake, with the beautiful villas upon its shores, the vine-clad hills, with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious, dreamy atmosphere. A charming lake is Como, but with many objects, "'tis distance lends enchantment to the view."
A boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused for its arrival. Its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of Massaniello-looking fellow, who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. Soon after we saw the holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was next to godliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy, and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water, while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in circumference about his person—an odor of sanctity requiring the possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it. I once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious blending of the mediæval and modern together in his costume and occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that I could not resist a laugh, much to his amazement. But fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in engravings, and whom you naturally associate with Gothic cathedrals, cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some ecclesiastical occupation—fancy seeing a monk in this well-known costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with great nonchalance as he watched the train!
We landed at Colico, at the end of the lake—a filthy place, where dirt was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. We attempted a meal at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appetites, the dirt and odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful attempt. A diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to Chiavenna at eight o'clock P.M. Here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head waiter spoke English, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms for the night. Chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of Milan scattered about it. One old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel.
We now prepared for a journey from here over another Alpine pass, the Splügen. This pass was constructed by the Austrians, in 1821, in order to preserve for themselves a good passage over to Lombardy. We engaged our post carriage asusual, with a fairwrittencontract with the driver,—necessary when agreeing with an Italian, to preventmistakes,—and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards, mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way upwards. Passing the custom-house in the little village of Campo Dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are again upon the beautifully engineered road of an Alpine pass, and at one point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees, although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy and apparently slight.
As we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful Madesimo Waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down from far above us to the valley below. Each turn gave us a different view. It was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we finally passed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career.
Leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock directly overhanging the ravine,—a portion of the rock over which the stream falls,—where, leaning over the iron railing,—grasped, we confess, with a firm clutch,—we looked down to the frothy foam of the waterfall, seven hundred feet below. It was a fine point of view—an exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place, and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and measure with the eye the great distance of its leap.
After leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous, portion of the pass. This is the Cardinell Gorge. Not only are the zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect travellers and the road itself. The galleries are wonderful pieces of workmanship. One of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. They are lighted by openings at the sides. We have fine views of the lofty mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches; and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. We stand fifty-eight hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. The air is cold, and overcoats are comfortable. On we go, and at length shiver in the glacier's breath at the boundary line between Switzerland and Italy—the summit of the pass six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the sea.
Once more we are in sight of the familiar snow-clads and ice-fields; the glaciers are in sight in every direction; there are the mountain peaks, the names all terminating with "horn." Our old friend, the Schneehorn, shoots his peak ten thousand feet into the air, and the Surettahorn lifts its mass of ice nine thousand three hundred feet high into the clear sunlight, and we are again amid the grand Alpine scenery I have so often described. Now we begin our descent, zigzag, as usual, through wild mountain scenery, till at last we whirl through a long gallery, and, with a salute of whip-snappings, enter the village of Splügen; through this, and out again into another grand Alpine landscape, taking in a view of the peaks of the Zapporthorn and Einshorn, each over nine thousand feet high, and away off in the distance, the chalets of a Swiss village, perched in among the mountains. Down we go, at full trot, through the beautiful Roffla Ravine, picturesque in the twilight, with its rocky walls, and its rattling cascades of the River Rhine dashing over the rocky bed. There is one place where there is barely roomfor the Rhine and the road to pass through the rocky gateway of the pass. The scenery is wild, but at the same time there were trees, with luxuriant foliage, that were pleasant to the eye; beautiful larches, black spruces, and other trees of that kind, softened the rough aspect of the mountains.
We were not sorry to draw rein at dusk at the village of Andeer, where we had only a tolerable lodging, and a very bad breakfast; after which we were once more on the road, and soon reached the valley of six streams, which glide down the mountains, on either side, to the green valley below, with its pretty farm-houses and green pastures. Soon after leaving this, we enter upon the celebrated Via Mala.
This narrow pass seems like a great cleft, cut by a giant's knife, into a huge loaf; the pathway through it, until 1822, was only four feet wide. The carriage-road and the river now seem as if squeezed into the gap, that might at any moment snap together and crush them. Huge perpendicular rocky walls rise to the height of fifteen hundred feet on either side; the River Rhine runs through the gorge three hundred feet below the road, which crosses and recrosses it three or four times by means of bridges; the great walls of rock, in some places, seem almost to meet above, and shut out the full light of day, the space is so narrow; for the river forces its way through a cleft, only fifteen feet wide between the rock, and at one place there is a gallery, two hundred feet long, cut through the solid rock. Although the river is three hundred feet below the road, yet the cleft between the mountain is so narrow that spring freshets will raise it a hundred feet or more. A woman, who, at the highest bridge, drops stones down to the tide below, for tourists to count ten before they strike the water, points out a mark upon one of the bridges, noting a remarkable rise of the river in 1834, when it came up nearly two hundred and fifty feet, to the arch of this bridge, and then solicits a few sous for her services.
This wild, dark, and gloomy gorge, with its huge overhanging curtains of solid rock, the pathway clinging to its sides, the roaring torrent under foot, arched bridges crossing its chasms, and tunnels piercing its granite barricades, is literally a pathway wrenched through the mountain's everlasting wall. It cannot fail to make a profound impression by its gloomy grandeur and wild beauty, especially at one point, where the eye can sweep away through the gorge, as if looking through a vast rocky tube, and rest upon green, sunny slopes, and pleasant, smiling scenery beyond.
We reach the pleasant village of Thusis, where the river Nolla flows into the Rhine; and there is, from the bridge that spans it, a beautiful view of the valley in a ring of mountains and an old castle, the oldest in Switzerland, perched on a crag, high above the river. Here, at the Hotel Adler, rest and an excellent lunch were both obtained, after which the whip cracked good by, and we rattled on, through villages, and now and then over arched bridges, and past picturesque water-wheels, or little Roman Catholic churches, till at last we come to one great bridge of a single arch, crossing the Rhine near Reicehnau—a bridge eighty feet above the river, and two hundred and thirty-seven feet long. We pass the pretty village of Ems, and next reach Coire, where our carriage journey ends, the driver is paid, and we enjoy the novelty of half an hour's ride by rail to Ragatz.
Here, while enjoying a rest at sunset, we had from the hotel balcony a glorious view of a long line of mountains, and a huge, flat wall of rock, upon which the setting sun strikes after streaming between two great mountains, and makes it look like a huge sheet of light bronze—one of those novel had indescribable effects that you see only in the Alps.
The great wonder here, and, in fact, one of the greatest wonders of Switzerland, is the Tamina Gorge and Pfaffers Baths, which next morning we rode to see. A drive of two miles, through a wild, romantic gorge,—the road, a part of the distance, hewn out of the solid ledge, and the river tearing along over its jagged bed of rocks below,—brought us to the hotel of the bath establishment (or, rather, it is the hotel andbath establishment combined), excellently kept and managed, and planted here between two great walls of rock on either side, six hundred feet high. The water is conveyed down to it from the hot springs in the gorge, about a quarter of a mile above, in pipes. Leaving the hotel, we ascend on foot up through this wonderful crack in the mountains. It is a cleft, ranging in width from twenty to forty feet, the pathway a plank walk, five feet wide, affixed by staples to one side of the solid rock.
These walls of rock rise to the height of four or five hundred feet above the path, and, at some points, actually meet together overhead, while the narrow strip, or aperture, for most of the way, lets in light only sufficient to render visible a huge, black, awful chasm, the sides shiny, and dripping with moisture, and a torrent roaring, fifty feet beneath our path, waking a hundred strange echoes. This wild and wondrous passage is "into the bowels of the land" a distance of eighteen hundred and twenty feet; and sometimes the passage brings us to where the action of the waters has hollowed out a huge, rocky dome, and the foaming river whirls round in a great, black pool, as if gathering strength for a fresh rush from its rocky prison.
As we gradually approach the upper end of this wild gorge, and leave these weird chambers behind, we come to a point where clouds of steam are issuing from a cavern—a cave within a cavern—apparently the very pit of Acheron itself. Into this steaming grotto we penetrate. It is a vaulted cave, ninety feet in length; a great natural steam-bath. Our visages were damp with perspiration, which started from every pore, as we stood at the brink of the hot spring, which was clear as crystal, scentless, and at a temperature of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. One does not wish to remain in this cavern any length of time, unless fully prepared for a vapor bath; consequently, we were soon outside, in the outer cavern or gorge again. The pipes conveying the waters from the springs to the bath-house and hotel run along the side of the rocky wall, next the plank pathway. We retrace our steps back through this wondrousgorge, with its tall, rocky walls hundreds of feet above our heads, and its foaming torrent leaping beneath us; pass again beneath the granite dome, pass little weird grottos, and, through the narrow cleft; look away up to the strip of sky, shining like a band of blue satin ribbon over the gap, and finally emerge once more upon the open road, where our carriage is waiting. We returned over the romantic road that brought us to this great wonder of the Alpine region.
From Ragatz we took trainen routefor Schaffhausen, via Sargans and Wallenstadt, passing the beautiful Serenbach Waterfall, and along the shore of the Lake of Wallenstadt, or Wallenstadt See,—as they call it here,—and which we had flitting and momentary glances of, through the openings at the sides of the nine tunnels which the railroad train thundered through. But the landscape views all along this portion of the route of lake, mountains, waterfalls, valleys, and villages, formed one continuous charming picture.
Our hotel,—the Schweizerhof,—at the Falls of Schaffhausen, is admirably situated for a view of these falls, which, however, will disappoint the American who has seen Niagara, and hears it stated (which I think is incorrect) that these are the finest falls in Europe. The actual fall of water is not above sixty feet, and appears at first to be even less than this, and it looks more like a series of huge rapids than a waterfall; indeed, reminding one of the rapids above Niagara, though the descent is, of course, more abrupt. Right in the centre of the falls, dividing them into three parts, are two small but high islands of crag, accessible only by boats, and said to be very safely and easily reached by the boatmen in attendance at the shore, who were ready to take us to the middle island and to the old chateau on the opposite side, which is the best point of view, for the usual fee.
We entered the boat, which was soon in the midst of the stream, and began a series of regular approaches to the rock, propelled by the muscular arms of the boatmen; but in the midst of these boiling surges, lashing about us in every direction, and spattering us with their angry spray, as the rowerstook advantage of certain eddies and currents, the appearance of the surroundings was decidedly dangerous, and it was with a long-drawn breath of relief that we heard the keel of the boat grate on the pebbles at the little landing at the foot of the central island. This was a tall mass of rock, and we climbed from point to point, by a not very difficult ascent, till we reached the summit, some fifty feet above the boiling flood—a very favorable point of view, from whence the clouds of silvery spray and the war of waters could be seen, and also a very fine view of the rapids and river above, which is about three hundred and fifty feet wide at this point. One of these rocks has a complete natural arch, ten or fifteen feet high, worn through it by the furious waters which leap, lash, and tumble about at the base of our rocky citadel.
Descending, we took to the boat again, and started for the opposite landing. Taking advantage of the current, the boatmen pushed out into the swiftest part of it, and were swept with frightful velocity, in half a dozen seconds of time, over a space which, to accomplish on our approach, required nearly fifteen minutes. A few dexterous whirls, some steady pulling, and we were landed at the foot of the ascent to the Castle of Laufen, picturesquely situated on a wooded height above us, and a fine point of view. We ascended the path, and enjoyed the prospect from the balcony of the castle, and then looked at it through the stained glass windows of a summer-house on the grounds, and finally descended to a wooden gallery which is built out directly over the foaming abyss, and so near the rushing water that you may plunge your hand into the seething mass of waves. India-rubber overcoats are a necessity for this excursion, which are provided by the owners of the place, and included in the fee of admission.
The sensation of being in the midst of a great waterfall, and yet safe, is about as correct a one, I should judge, as can be had, when you stand at the end of this protecting gallery in the shower of spray, the great body of water rushing towards the point as if to overwhelm you, while you nowand then receive a liberal dash of a huge wave, and the thunder of the waters and rush of the torrent drown all other sounds, and render conversation impracticable. We enjoyed this defying of the torrent, the foam, rush and war of the waters, and the brilliant little rainbows which the sunlight formed in the clouds of spray, and then descended to the landing, to be rowed back to the opposite shore.
This boat-passage to the central rock is said to be perfectly safe, but it certainly has not that appearance, and it is one that a person at all inclined to be timid would not care to repeat. It has just that hint of the dangerous which gives the excursion a zest which a little peril seldom fails to produce. Timid though you may be, you cannot help feeling exhilarated by the roaring of the waters and the quick dash of the spray all around you; and the exultant emotion which you experience when you jump on shore, and witness, from a safe stand-point, the "perils you have passed," fully compensates for the moment of suspense, when it seemed as though one misstroke of the boatmen would have dashed you into eternity.
We left Schaffhausen at nine A. M. for Munich, had two hours and a half on Lake Constance, passed Augsburg, and at half past nine reached Munich.
"Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry"—
"Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry"—
"Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry"—
Munich, with its magnificent art collections, its picture and sculpture galleries, its thousand artists; Munich, with its bronze statues, the home of Schwanthaler, the city of broad streets, the capital of Bavaria, and the city that makes the best beer in all Europe.
The great hotel, "The Four Seasons," was filled with guests, but good rooms were obtained at the Baierischer Hof, on the Promenaden Platz; and our comfortable quarters were welcome indeed, after eleven hours' rapid journeying. The last portion of the way approaching Munich was dull enough, as it was over a broad, flat plain, with scarcely any trees, and the signs of life were confined to an occasional lonely shepherd, with his dog, guarding a flock. In fact, Munich is built in the middle of a great plain, which is flat and uninteresting, and the city itself is not considered healthy for Americans or English to reside in any length of time. It is, however, one of the European cities that have grown in size very rapidly the last thirty years, and the newer parts, built out into the plain, away from the old city, waiting for the gap between to fill up, remind the American traveller of cities in his native land.
The first sights of all others in Munich to which the tourist turns his attention, are the art collections. The Glyptothek is the gallery of sculpture, and the Pinacothek the picture gallery; and the admission to these superb and priceless collections is free to all. The buildings stand opposite to each other; and, as we find how much this city owes to old King Louis for its position as a seat of the fine arts; how many beautiful buildings, statues, galleries, public edifices, and streets, were built by his order; and, still further, that the expenses of the Glyptothek and other collections were paid for from his own privy purse,—we feel inclined to look with a lenient eye upon the old monarch's regard for pretty women, and the Lola Montez scandal.
The Pinacothek is a magnificent building, shaped like the letter I, and is divided off into nine splendid halls, devoted to different schools of art. Opening off or out of these halls are twenty-three smaller rooms, or cabinets, for the smaller pictures of each school. Thus there are three great halls devoted to the Italian school of art, two to the Dutch school, two to the German, one to the French and Spanish, and a great central hall to Rubens. In these great halls the larger pictures are hung, and the light, which comes from the roof, is well and artistically managed for displaying their beauties. In the cabinets are the ordinary sized and smaller paintings. But what a wealth of art! There are nearly fifteen hundred elegant paintings, hundreds of them by some of the most celebrated artists that ever lived, and nearly all of themworks that you want time to study and admire.
The American who has been shown an occasional old dingy head or blackened landscape, half obliterated by age, in his own country, and told it is a rare treasure,—one of the old masters,—and who, as many do, comes to the conclusion that the old masters did not put what he should call finish into their works, will have all impressions of that nature removed by his visit to this priceless collection. Here he will see pictures that startle even the casual observer by their wondrous faithfulness to nature; pictures upon which the hand of the artist is visible in the minutest detail, the coloring and finish of which betray the most laborious application, and which excite from him who may have been silent over expressions of admiration at pictures at home which were not his ideals of excellence,—silent, perhaps, from fearing that he might be incorrect in judgment,—the honest assertion, that here is his ideal of the artistic, and convince him that a picture cleanly finished in all its details, fresh in color, sharp, distinct, and well defined, can be artistic; and that even the best of the old masters, if their works can be taken as an indication, thought so, too.
There is a good deal of humbug in the popular admiration of muddy, indistinct old daubs, half defaced by age; and the visitor here, in inspecting some of these wondrous creations, where the artist, in groups of angels and cherubs, puts exquisite features to faces the size of one's thumb nail, and grace into those ten times that size in the same work, ascertains that a picture, to be really beautiful, must be completely and artistically finished.
It would be useless, in these limits, to attempt a detailed description of this world-renowned collection, to which two or three visits are but an aggravation to the lover of art. Tourists generally "do" it in one hasty visit, like many other sights, simply to say they have been there.
My note-book and catalogues are crammed with sentences of admiration and marginal notes; but a few extracts will give the reader who has not been abroad an idea of theinterest of this gallery. First, there were two great halls and six or eight ante-rooms devoted to the German school of art. Here we saw numerous pictures by Albert Dürer—a Knight in Armor, St. Peter and St. John, the Birth of Christ, &c.; a number by Holbein, the elder and younger; Wohlgemuth, some strikingly effective pictures from the life of Christ; Quentin Matsys' well-known picture of the Misers; Mabeuse's noble picture of the archangel Michael; Dietrich's splendid sea scenes; Van Eyck's Adoration of the Magi, Annunciation, and Presentation in the Temple—pictures of wonderful execution, the faces finished exquisitely, and the minutest details executed in a manner to command admiration; Albert Dürer's Mater Dolorosa; the head of an old woman and man, the most wonderful pictures of the kind I ever saw, painted by Balthasar Denner, and every wrinkle, hair, speck, pore of the skin, depicted with such wonderful and microscopic exactness as to render it an impossibility to tell it from a living person at three feet distance.
The third and fifth halls are filled with paintings of the Dutch school by the pupils of Rubens and other artists, and the nine cabinets, or smaller halls opening out of them, with pictures by various Flemish and Dutch masters. Here were Teniers' elegantly finished and admirable pictures of Boors Smoking, Boors at Cards; Ostade's Boors Quarrelling and Boors Merry-making; Gerard Dow's Mountebank at the Fair, Wouvermans' Stag Hunt, Vandyke's Susanna and the Elders, Rembrandt's magnificent Descent from the Cross, &c., besides many other Rembrandts, Teniers, Ostades, and Van der Werfs, any one of which was a study, a plethora, a wilderness of beauty.
The fourth apartment, or central hall, is devoted entirely to the works of Rubens, and contains nearly a hundred of the great master's pictures. There was his Christ on the Cross, a most terribly real picture, that made one almost shudder to look upon; the Fall of the Angels, a remarkable and wondrous work of art; the Massacre of the Innocents, the Sabine Women, the Last Judgment, Triumph of Religion,Rubens and his Wife in a Garden, the Lion Hunt, &c. But just think of one room in a gallery with a hundred of Rubens's best works surrounding you; it is useless to attempt description. The ante-room, containing the best pictures, to my mind, was that filled with Van der Werf's paintings, which were marvellously clear and sharp in their execution, and finished with exquisite skill. Here were the Magdalen in a Grotto, Rest on the Flight into Egypt, Ecce Homo—all pictures of superb coloring never seen in any modern work of art; Abraham sending forth Hagar and Ishmael; portrait of the wife of the Elector John William; these two paintings were finished equal to engravings. In Jesus disputing with the Doctors in the Temple, the faces of the disputants are wondrous studies, exhibiting various emotions, and the figure of Christ, a beautiful boy, has the look of Heaven in every lineament of his face. Many other perfectly finished pictures that hold one entranced with their wondrous beauty are in this room.
Now we come to the sixth hall, containing the Spanish and French schools; and here are those pictures of Murillo's with which we are all so familiar from engravings, viz., the Beggar Boys eating Melons and Grapes, Boys playing Dice, Beggar Boys, &c.; Nicolas Poussin's pictures, &c.
The seventh and eighth great halls contain other paintings of the same schools of art; among them Carlo Dolce, Tintoretto, Domenichino, and Correggio. So also does the ninth apartment, formerly the private cabinet of the king, in which there are beautiful works from the pencil of Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Giorgione, and Raphael. We come from this gallery of art literally surfeited, fatigued with long gazing, walking, pausing, looking, wondering, and admiring, and realize over again what an exhausting work is continuous sight-seeing.
Besides the art collections which have already been described, we visited the new Pinacothek, containing ten halls and fourteen cabinets for the exhibition of modern paintings, among which we saw Kaulbach's Destruction of Jerusalem, a magnificent picture, familiar from the print that has been made of it; Wilkie's capital painting of the Reading of the Will; the Deluge, by Charles Schorn, a Dusseldorf artist; Peasant's Wedding, an excellent picture by Maurice Muller; Frederic Bischof's First Snow; Battle of Custozza, by Adam; Two Boys buying their first Cigars, by H. Rhomberg, a Munich artist, &c. There were nearly three hundred pictures in this collection, which was first opened to the public in 1853.
The Glyptothek, or Hall of Sculpture, is another priceless collection of art. The exterior is handsomely adorned with statues, and the interior, which consists of twelve halls, and each devoted to different branches of art, is admirably planned and appropriately decorated.
In the hall known as the Æginetan, which is devoted to marbles discovered in the Island of Ægina, we saw a splendid group of marble figures, fourteen in number, which have been set up exactly in the position they formerly occupied on the Grecian temple they adorned, being carefully put together, and such parts as were broken carefully restored by Thorwaldsen, giving one some idea of the beauty of the sculpture of the ancient Greeks, and showing the actual figures in all their spirited grace and action, which has never been excelled by modern sculptors.
There were Hercules and Telamon fighting the Trojans, and the struggle of the Greeks and Trojans over the body of Patroclus, as described by Homer, the warriors with helmet, shield, and javelin, in the most spirited attitudes—specimens of the wondrous skill of the ancient sculptors, and the reality of those outline engravings, by Flaxman and others, of statues and sculpture, which adorn the illustrated books of Greek and Roman history. In the Hall of Apollo, among many other fine works, were a superb Bacchus, found at Athens, with a crown of vine leaves most exquisitely cut, a beautiful Ceres, and a grand and majestic statue of Minerva.
The Hall of Bacchus, however, contains the gem ofthe whole collection, and, in fact, the most wonderful and life-like statue I ever looked upon—the celebrated Barberini Faun, a colossal figure of a Satyr, half sitting, half reclining, as if in a deep sleep after a carouse. The attitude is so perfect, the appearance of relaxation of the muscles and limbs so thoroughly true to nature, and the very atmosphere of complete languor and repose so pervades the countenance and whole body of the figure, that the spectator almost forgets it is but senseless stone before him in half expectancy of the breast heaving to the breathings of the sleeper, which seems all that is lacking to make it a living reality; and yet this wondrous work is from an unknown hand. The catalogues and guide-books claim it is from the chisel of Praxiteles; but that is only surmise. On account of its excellence they doubtless think it ought to be; but it was dug out of the ditch of the Castle of St. Angelo, where it was supposed to have been hurled from the walls in the year 537. In this hall is also a magnificently executed figure of Silenus, Bacchus and Panther.
In the Hall of Heroes are some splendid figures; Jason binding on his Sandal; Nero as a gladiator, a fine head, with the brow and curls of a Hercules; the Victorious Gladiator, Alexander the Great, &c. In the hall of modern sculpture were Canova's beautiful figures of Paris and Venus; Adonis, by Thorwaldsen; Love and the Muse, by Eberhardt; and others, giving the visitor an opportunity of comparing ancient with modern art.
The great bronze statue of Bavaria, just outside the city, is a huge figure of sixty feet in height, standing upon a pedestal thirty feet high. It represents a female with a sword in her right hand, while the left raises on high the wreath of victory. At her side sits the lion of Bavaria. By the staircase inside we ascended to the head of the bronze giant, which we found would comfortably accommodate eight or nine persons; and from a window in its curling locks we had a fine view of Munich and the surrounding country. This great statue was modelled by Schwanthaler, and cast by F. Miller at the royal foundery of Munich, where so many bronze figures for this country have been cast; and having for that reason a desireto see it, we drove thither. On sending our cards in, with a message that we were a party of Americans, we were immediately waited upon by the superintendent, who, with the greatest courtesy, showed us over the entire establishment, where were bronze giants in every process of manufacture, from the mass of liquid metal to the shapely figure under the artistic files of the finishers.
We were shown here the Hall of the Colossi, in which were the plaster models of all the works that have been executed at the foundery. Here, among others, we saw the cast of the statue of Henry Clay, made for New Orleans, those of Beethoven for Boston Music Hall, and Horace Mann for Boston State House grounds, Colonel Benton for St. Louis, and the figures of Jefferson, Mason, Henry, Nelson, Lewis, and Marshall, which adorn the Washington Monument at Richmond, Va.; also the model of the triumphal car, drawn by lions, which adorns the arch at one end of the fine street (Ludwigstrasse) named after King Louis. The lions were giants ten feet high, and a cast of the hand of the great figure of Bavaria was six or seven feet long and two feet thick, suggesting that a box on the ear from such a palm would undoubtedly be a "stunner." From here we naturally went to the studio of the great sculptor Schwanthaler, where we were courteously received by his son, and were interested in the processes of sculpture, which we saw in all its phases under the workmen's hands.
Many of the streets of Munich are broad and beautiful, and the squares adorned with statues. A bronze obelisk in the Karolinenplatz, nearly a hundred feet high, formed from captured cannon, is erected in memory of the Bavarians who fell in the army of Bonaparte during the Russian campaign; and statues of King Louis and Schiller are in the Odeon Platz; while in another square is another statue, formed from captured cannon, of Maximilian I., surrounded by four other statues of distinguished Bavarians.
The new palace which we visited wasrich in elegant pictures, beautiful frescoes, and works of art. In one series of rooms were great paintings illustrating the history of Bavaria. Some of the rooms containing them bore the names of Hall of Marriage, Hall of Treachery, Hall of Revenge, &c., the scenes in these apartments being those historical events in which these characteristics were prominent. Schwanthaler and Kaulbach's pencils have contributed liberally to the decoration of many of the rooms, particularly the Throne Room, which contains the illustrations of a German poem, painted by Kaulbach, and another room with thirty or forty illustrations of Goethe's works, by the same artist.
The Hall of Frederick Barbarossa contains fine large paintings of scenes in his life, including his battle and victory in the third crusade. Then we have the Hall of Charlemagne, with great pictures of his battle scenes, and the Hall of Beauties, which contains a series of portraits of beautiful women of Bavaria, painted by order of the late king, without regard to rank or station; so that here the peasant girl jostles the banker's daughter, and the duchess finds herself face to face with the child of a cobbler—the stamp of beauty being the signet that admitted each to this collection, which, in truth, does honor to the king's judgment.
The great Throne Room is a magnificent apartment, one hundred and eight feet long and seventy-five wide. At the upper end of the throne, and on either side between the tall marble Corinthian pillars with gold capitals, stand twelve colossal statues in gilt bronze. The statues, which are ten feet high, were designed by Schwanthaler, and represent the different princes of the house of Bavaria, beginning with Otho, 1253, and ending with Charles XII., 1798. The figures are very finely executed, and in the costumes and weapons show the progress of civilization. This room is, in truth, a royal one, and is as fit to hold a royal reception in as one could wish. In fact, as we look round through Munich, capital of the little kingdom of Bavaria, with its less than five million souls, we get the impression that it has art, wealth, galleries, libraries, &c., enough for the capital of an empire of five times its size.
Munich makes beer that is celebrated for its quality, and the quantity drank here is something fabulous. I am confident it is a necessity at all the gardens where the musical performances are given; and apropos, the superb music which one may listen to here for a mere trifle is astonishing. I visited one of these gardens, where Gung'l's band of about forty performers played a splendid programme—twelve compositions of Strauss, Wagner, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Gung'l. But those Strauss and Gung'l waltzes and galops—they were given with a precision and spirit that were positively electrical. One could almost hear the dancers' feet slip to the luxurious murmuring of the waltz, or catch the gusts of air that whirled from the rush of the rattling galop. Admission to this concert was eight cents, and order what you choose—a glass of beer for four or five cents, or a bottle of wine at from twenty cents to two dollars.
One of the monuments which old King Louis, or Ludwig, as they call him here, leaves behind him is the Basilica of St. Boniface, built to commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the king's marriage—the finest church in Munich, and built in imitation of a Roman basilica of the sixth century. The interior presents a superb sight, the roof being supported by sixty-four splendid columns of gray marble, making a nave and four aisles. The view through the length of these aisles, amid the forest of pillars for a distance of two hundred and eighty-five feet, and up to the roof, which is eighty feet from the pavement, and represents the firmament studded with golden stars, is inexpressibly beautiful. The magnificent frescoes on the walls, perfections in the art, by Henry Hess and his students, and the splendid pictures illustrating the progress of Christianity in Germany, and scenes in the life of St. Boniface, heighten the effect. The church was finished in 1850, and has all the beauty and freshness of modern workmanship upon an ancient model. It is certainly one of the most elegant and artistical of ecclesiastical interiors. The sarcophagus of King Louis and of his queen, Therese, is in this church, and beneath it a crypt for the interment of theBenedictine monks, who are in some way or other attached to the church.
In the great cathedral—a huge brick building three hundred and twenty feet in length, with its windows sixty-seven feet high, filled with the rich stained glass of the fifteenth century—we saw the monument of the Emperor Louis, erected in 1622, upheld upon the shoulders of four stalwart knights, armedcap-à-pie, in bronze, the size of life.
The public library of Munich is another storehouse of treasures. It is a huge three-story building, with a superb staircase and magnificent architectural interior, and contains eight hundred and fifty thousand books, and twenty-two thousand manuscripts, besides coins and literary curiosities of priceless value, such as block-books, printed anterior to 1500, manuscripts of the New Testament, in the seventh and eighth centuries, the code of laws given by Alaric to the West Goths in 506, Luther's Bible, containing his own and Melanchthon's portraits, and other rarities of like interest. This library is the second largest in existence, being exceeded in extent only by that of Paris.
But the reader will tire of Munich and its art treasures, if we do not; so we will bid them a reluctant adieu, and take train for Salzburg. This was an eight hours' ride, and of no particular note, except that at every crossing on the railroad, and at intervals on the line, we saw switch-tenders, or station-masters, who were in the red uniform of the railroad company, and stood upright in military position, with hand raised to the cap in salute, as the train whizzed past them. Arrived at Salzburg, we went to the fine Hotel de l'Europe, where, among other excellences of the Austrian cuisine, we had Austrian bread, the best in the world, such as, once tasted, makes the eater ever long for it, and establish it in his mind as the standard by which the quality of all others is regulated.
The city is on the River Salza, and in quite a picturesque situation, at the foot of the great Alpine heights, with a semicircle of mountains about it. The plain, or valley, about the city is rich in beautiful gardens, orchards, groves, and country houses, the dark-wooded heights and slopes of the mountains forming the framework of the picture, and in the centre Salzburg Castle perched upon its high rock, reminding one very much, from its appearance and position, of Edinburgh Castle.
We have driven round the dull old town, seen the house where Mozart was born, and his statue by Schwanthaler in one of the squares, and bought elegantly-painted china covers for the tops of beer mugs—drinkers at the bier halles having their special mugs, and recognizing them by the design upon the cover. Some of the beer flagons and tankards exposed for sale here were very beautiful and elaborate, and got up with much artistic taste.
One of the most delightful rides we ever took was over the romantic road from Salzburg out to the Chateau of Hellbrunn, for the whole distance of nearly three miles was one continuous arch of splendid elms, shading the broad, smooth, level road. The view of the town, and the old castle in the centre, with the background of grand Alpine walls, which we had constantly before us, and from many different points of observation, was very picturesque and beautiful.
The gardens of the chateau are celebrated for containing the most wonderful and curious of water-works. The grounds are beautifully laid out, and at every turn we met new surprises. There was, of course, every variety of ordinary fountain, dolphins and nymphs spouting, &c., and besides these many curious contrivances for the fluid. There were two beautiful pictures painted on copper, before which was apparently a sheet of glass; but it was only a broad, thin, falling, transparent, aqueous curtain. A beautiful bouquet of flowers was enclosed in a complete hemisphere of falling water, as pure and unbroken as a glass globe, with scarcely a perceptible motion in its swift current. Two turtles, directly opposite each other, five feet apart, seemed to hold a glass cord, the size of a man's finger between them, in their mouths. Touching the transparent cord with a cane, we interrupted a swift stream, and the liquid spattered in every direction. The cane was withdrawn, the stream immediately reunited, and theturtles again held their apparently motionless crystal cord as before. We came to automaton old men grinding their scythes at a grindstone, millers at work at their mill, all running by water power; entered a wondrous grotto, where Neptune in his car drawn by sea-horses swam around, the horses and dolphins spouting liquid streams from their mouths, and birds piping their liquid notes from the wall, all moved by water power.
In another beautiful grotto a whirling fountain lifted a handsome golden crown eight feet into the air, and kept it suspended amid a shower of sparkling drops. Taking a position at the rear of a dark cavern, and looking out towards the little arched entrance, the water was let on in fine mist, and the arched doorway was as rich as the gates of Paradise in wreathed rainbows. Two huge stags guarded another cavern, streams issuing from their mouths and every point of their huge antlers. Hunters were on galloping steeds, and blew torrents from their horns, or were enveloped in the floods that spouted from their spear-heads. Luxurious seats invited the tired pedestrian to repose, when, on seating himself, he was ringed in with a circle of miniature water-spouts, rendering dry egress apparently impossible. Finally we came to a place where two huge doors were thrown open, displaying a space about twelve feet high and eight or ten wide, in which was the complete representation in miniature of the square in a city.
There were cathedral, palace, dwelling-house, and artisans' shops, all faithfully represented; and in the streets, the shops and the houses which were open to view, were over one hundred automaton figures of men, women, and children, all moved by water power, and giving life to the scene before you. There were masons hoisting stone and building a house, coopers and tinkers clattering away in their shops, butchers killing and cutting up, cobblers pegging away in their little stalls, wood-sawyers, blacksmiths beating with a regular clink-clank-clink upon their anvils, artisans in their shops; also all the usual street scenes of a city. Here was a man with adancing bear, surrounded by a curious crowd; there a shrewish old woman shaking her head, gesticulating, and scolding at her tipsy husband; children playing in the street; ladies, looking from windows of houses, returned the courtly salutes of gallants who passed by in the streets with graceful bow or wave of the hand; loaded teams passed by; people went in and out of houses; Turks, priests, Jews, and courtiers passed along in the most natural manner, and finally came a whole regiment of soldiers, marching across the square; at last, the notes of the organ were heard in the cathedral, and into its broad portal filed priests and people, and the scene closed. The size of these automatons was from six to eight inches; they were very well executed; and the whole scene, with the cathedral, square, streets, and throng of moving figures, seemed a sort of realization of Gulliver's experiences in Lilliput. This place is the property of the king, and no fee is charged for viewing it and its many wonders; nevertheless, the custodian, who had so kindly and faithfully exhibited them to our party, was extremely gratified at the magnificent fee of thirty cents, and took leave of us with a profusion of bows and polite expressions.
Our visit to the old castle was also an interesting one. From its battlements we looked directly down upon the town, and, afar off, on a beautiful landscape of fields, winding river, and distant mountain. Within the walls we saw the grand apartments of the old bishops, and the remains of the torture chamber, fragments of the rack, and other hellish inventions of cruel ingenuity which they used to apply to their victims.
Following the advice of a friend, we telegraphed on in advance to the Hotel Archduke Charles, at Vienna, that we were coming, and to secure rooms. An eight hours' ride by rail brought us to the capital of the Austrian dominions, and I had scarce stepped from the railway carriage ere a well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking individual, in dress coat, dark pants and vest, gloves, spotless shirt-front, and immaculate neck-tie, called me by name, and in perfectly correct English inquired if the luggage of the party was upon the train,and was to be taken to the hotel. I looked at him inquiringly, and assented.
"I am attached to the hotel, sir, and have received your despatch (exhibiting it). If you will please to step into this carriage we have in waiting for you, after pointing out your trunks, I will follow you with them."
We were amazed, and began to wonder whether or not the fellow might not be a clever English impostor, who had obtained our telegraphic despatch with a view of getting our luggage into his hands, and running away with it. Our doubts were, however, soon settled by a young Prussian lady of the party, who conversed with him in his native tongue, and found that he was a sort of chief clerk, or managing man, for the proprietors of the hotel, and was equally at home in the German, French, or English languages. We therefore committed ourimpedimentato his charge, were escorted by him to the carriage, when, as he helped us in, tumbled and travel-stained as we were, and passed in the travelling-pouches and shawls, and stood in his spotless linen and polished boots, raising his French hat, as if he had just stepped from a ball-room or the opera,—I could not help feeling a little awkward at presuming to permit so gentlemanly-appearing a personage to perform a menial act; but our reflections were cut short by his rapid directions to the driver in his own tongue. The coach-door was clapped to, and we were soon whirling through the brilliantly-lighted streets on our way to the hotel.
Vienna appears to be a city that is having immense additions made to it; in fact, to have recently taken a fresh start in new and spacious squares, wide streets, and new buildings. The different portions of it are known as the old and new cities. The new city streets are open, wide, and airy, with broad and handsome sidewalks; the streets of the old are narrow and crooked, with no sidewalk or curbstone. Our hotel—the Archduke Charles—is situated on a street scarcely wide enough for two vehicles to pass, and the noise (for it is always crowded) that comes up between the tall buildings is almost unbearable in warm weather, when open casements are a necessity. Talk of the crooked streets of Boston! Why, some of the corkscrew passages of the old city of Vienna will wind up an expert Bostonian into a most inexplicable tangle.
The large, new streets, however, will, in time, rival the Boulevards in beauty and attractiveness. Great blocks of buildings are built on the Parisian model, elegant restaurants and stores, with plate glass windows, rich displays of goods, and a profusion of gas-jets, give quite a Paris air to the scene; in fact, the improvements in the way of new buildings and new streets, not only here but in Munich and other cities, seem to be after the Paris, or Haussman model. The tourist can hardly help thinking that Louis Napoleon made his influence to be felt in more ways than one, and has taught the monarchs of some of these sleepy old empires a good lesson in widening, enlarging, and beautifying their capitals, making them attractive to visit and pleasant to live in, and to realize that it is money in their purses, or those of their subjects,—which is much the same,—to render their cities inviting to the hosts of travellers who traverse the continent, and to induce them to remain and spend money, or come again and spend more.
Tobona fidetourists there are now very few restrictions. Custom-house examinations are a mere form; passports, except in the intolerant Roman States, are never called for, and admissions to galleries, palaces, or collections, which require tickets from government officials, are granted to foreigners without restraint. One of our first sight-seeing excursions took us to the Imperial Library—a magnificent collection of books and manuscripts, commenced in the thirteenth century, and which now contains nearly three hundred thousand books, and over sixteen thousand manuscripts, including many rare literary curiosities, among which we saw Charlemagne's psalm book; a roll of hieroglyphics on skin, sent by Cortes from Mexico to the King of Spain; Tasso's own manuscript of Jerusalem Delivered; the Latin Bible of1462, on parchment; elegant illuminated manuscripts and parchment volumes, whose exquisite penmanship and still brilliant colors make it hard to believe that the hands that laboriously fashioned them, in shady cloister and convent cell, have crumbled into undistinguishable dust hundreds of years ago.
One of the most magnificent collections of royal jewelry we have ever looked upon we saw at the Imperial Treasury, or Jewel House. Here were necklaces of diamonds as big as filberts, and of a brilliancy that others pale before; a bow-knot as large as a half sheet of commercial note-paper, that blazed like fire with clear, pure diamonds; great crowns; conquerors' wreaths in emeralds and diamonds; royal orders and decorations; magnificent chains and collars belonging to the dresses of various orders worn by the emperor. But it was not only the sparkling collection of gems of purest ray serene that attracted our attention—the curious historic relics that are preserved here are of great value and interest. Think of standing and looking upon the coronation robe, crown, and sceptre of the stout old Charlemagne himself; the great diamond worn by Charles the Bold; the robes and crown worn by Napoleon at his coronation at Milan; an elegant crucifix, with the wondrous carving and chasing of that renowned artificer, Benvenuto Cellini; a collection of curious watches of olden times, the "Nuremburg eggs" that we have so often read of. Besides the huge falchion of Charlemagne, we were shown the sword of Maximilian I., that of Francis I. of France, the scimeter that was once wielded by Tamerlane, and the celebrated iron crown of Lombardy.
I cannot begin to enumerate the stories of relics connected with the history of Austria; the wealth of cut and uncut jewels which we were hurried through by the thick-headed, stupid guide, who recited a description he had learned by rote in the most monotonous manner; who was utterly unable to answer the simplest question, and only went from one object to another that was in his programme of performance, commencing with his everlasting "Dies is der," and going on with a monotonous enumeration of facts, running his words and sentences together, like a state official repeating a formula. I ought not to omit mentioning that they have several sacred relics here, some of which cannot fail to excite a smile, and others such as tourists always expect to find in every collection. Among the first is what is said to be part of the table-cloth used at the Last Supper! The visitor is not expected to inquire if table-cloths were used in those days, or he might be answered, "Of course they were; else how came this piece here?" The piece of the true cross is here, of course, for no well-regulated collection of relics or cathedral is complete without it; while the tooth of St. John the Baptist and leg bone of St. Anne may cause some unbelieving Thomases to wonder how long these mortuary relics can be kept preserved from the crumbling touch of time.
I had no idea what an intensely curious exhibition a cabinet of minerals could be, till I stood within the great building containing the collection here, which is in a series of apartments in all as long as Quincy Market, in Boston, and most admirably arranged and classified. It seemed as if the whole world had been ransacked for specimens in every nook and corner, from the frozen regions of the poles to the coral caves of the tropics; from the surface to the centre; and that geology might be studied here by illustration, and metallurgy and mineralogy thoroughly learned from specimens, so numerous are they, and so perfectly are the different varieties and branches arranged.
Here are marbles from every part of the world, even Greenland; copper from the slave-worked mines of Siberia, and the prolific pits of the Lake Superior country, in fragments, dust, ingots, and masses; coal bearing the familiar names of our American mines, those of the great English pits, and specimens from China, Japan, Bohemia, and New Zealand; gold in all its curious shapes, as found in rock that showed not its glitter, and in the smooth nuggets from California and Australia; the less precious, but not less useful iron, from every part of the globe; diamonds from Brazil;agates; malachite from the Ural Mountains; crystals from the Alps; amethysts, rubies, and uncut gems, plucked from streams or rocky prisons; silver ore from the mines of Potosi; solid lead from Great Britain, Spain, and America; tin, cinnabar, platina—till it seemed that every known metal, ore, rock, mineral, or gem, from every quarter of the world, had its representative specimen in this priceless collection.
Among the remarkable curiosities of the museum were the largest opal in the world,—as large as a man's fist, and weighing seventeen ounces,—too big for the breastpin of the most ambitious American expressman or negro minstrel; a great rock crystal, as big as a man's leg; a great bed or mass of crystals, four and a half feet in diameter; elegant specimens of uncut gems and diamond crystals; a large collection of aerolites, or meteoric stones, which have fallen in various parts of the world. Among the most curious of these is one mass looking like melted rock, weighing over five hundred pounds. Then there are curious fossil remains, bird tracks, and ferns, in stone, and various other interesting illustrations of geology. A very costly wonder is a beautiful bouquet of flowers, made entirely of precious stones, for the Empress Maria Theresa,—the colors of leaves, buds, and petals all being preserved by different-colored gems,—a sparkling but scentless nosegay. This superb collection is one of the wonders of Vienna, and must afford an admirable opportunity to students and others engaged in the study of mineralogy, &c., numbers of whom we saw in different departments, as we passed through, making notes and examinations.
A museum where one having any taste for antiquities may positively luxuriate, is the Ambras Museum of ancient arms and armor, a real, authenticated historical collection,—armor that had actually been worn and fought in by men whose names figure in history hundreds of years ago. How the antiquary will thank the old Archduke Ferdinand, who made this collection in 1560, expressly for the purpose of interesting future ages, and left his own autographic manuscripts (still preserved), authenticating them beyond a doubt.
Three large rooms of six in the museum are devoted to the collection of arms and armor. Here were the helmet of Francis I., of France, that may have been worn in his battle with his warlike opponent, the German emperor, Charles V., or at his meeting with Henry VIII. on the Field of the Cloth of Gold; the complete armor, for man and horse, of the Emperor Maximilian; the armor of Charles V.; that of Philip II.,—armor that he may have ridden in, side by side with his English wife, Bloody Mary; the dinted armor of that fierce warrior, Don John of Austria, that may have shielded its owner in many a deadly encounter; a magnificent steel suit, fluted with gold, belonging to the Archbishop of Salzburg; the handsomely-wrought steel armor of Maurice, Elector of Saxony; a whole room full of armor suits and weapons used at tournaments during the middle ages; the elegant suit of Alexander Farnese, of Parma, made in 1592, of great beauty of workmanship, and which would put our artificers of the present day to their best skill to rival. Here are the battle-axe of Montezuma, emperor of Mexico; the horse-tail standards captured from the Turks, and elegant swords and weapons of Italian warriors, rich in ornament and chasing. Of these interesting memorials of ancient chivalry, there are nearly one hundred and fifty suits of armor, weapons, &c.—historical mementos of the manners of the middle ages.