Chapter 2

"Aye! how is it, King Gunther? here must you tine your life!The lady you would gain, well might be the devil's wife!"

"Aye! how is it, King Gunther? here must you tine your life!

The lady you would gain, well might be the devil's wife!"

It is by the secret assistance of Siegfried, and his tarn-cap, that Gunther at length vanquishes and humbles this terrible heroine, and she avenges her humiliation by the murder of Siegfried.

Around the room are sixteen full-length portraits of the other principal personages who figure in the Nibelungen Lied—portraitsthey may well becalled, for their extraordinary spirit, and truth of character. In one group we have the fierce Hagen, the courteous Dankwart, and between them, Volker tuning his viol; of him it is said—

Bolder and more knight-like fiddler, never shone the sun upon,

and he plays a conspicuous part in the catastrophe of the poem.

Opposite to this group, we have queen Uta, the mother of Chrimhilde, between her sons, Gernot and Ghiselar: in another compartment, Siegmund and Sighelind, the father and mother of Siegfried.

Over the window opposite to the entrance, Hagen is consulting the mermaids of the Danube, who foretell the destruction which awaits him at the court of Etzel: and lower down on each side of the window, King Etzel with his friend Rudiger, and those faithful companions in arms, old Hildebrand and Dietrich of Bern. The power of invention, the profound feeling of character, and extraordinary antiquarian knowledge displayed in these figures, should be seen to be understood. Those which most struck me (next to Chrimhildeand her husband) were the figures of the daring Hagen and the venerable queen Uta.

On the ceiling, which is vaulted, and enriched with most gorgeous ornaments, intermixed with heraldic emblazonments, are four small compartments in fresco: in which are represented, the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde, the murder of Siegfried, the vengeance of Chrimhilde, and the death of Chrimhilde. These are painted in vivid colours on a black ground.

On the whole, on looking round this most splendid and interesting room, I could find but one fault: I could have wished that the ornaments on the walls and ceiling (so rich and beautiful to the eye) had been more completely and consistently gothic in style; they would then have harmonized better with the subjects of the paintings.

In the next room, the two sides are occupied by two grand frescos, each about five-and-twenty feet in length, and covering the whole wall. In the first, Siegfried brings the kings of Saxony and Denmark prisoners to the court of king Gunther. The second represents the reception of the victoriousSiegfried by the two queens, Uta and Chrimhilde. This is the first interview of the lovers, and furnishes one of the most admired passages in the poem.

"And now the beauteous lady, like the rosy morn,Dispersed the misty clouds; and he who long had borneIn his heart the maiden, banish'd pain and care,As now before his eyes stood the glorious maiden fair.From her embroidered garment, glittered many a gem,And on her lovely cheek, the rosy red did gleam;Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady bright,Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before his sight.And as the moon at night, stands high the stars among,And moves the mirky clouds above, with lustre bright and strong;So stood before her maidens, that maid without compare:Higher swelled the courage of many a champion there."

"And now the beauteous lady, like the rosy morn,

Dispersed the misty clouds; and he who long had borne

In his heart the maiden, banish'd pain and care,

As now before his eyes stood the glorious maiden fair.

From her embroidered garment, glittered many a gem,And on her lovely cheek, the rosy red did gleam;Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady bright,Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before his sight.

From her embroidered garment, glittered many a gem,

And on her lovely cheek, the rosy red did gleam;

Whoever in his glowing soul had imaged lady bright,

Confessed that fairer maiden never stood before his sight.

And as the moon at night, stands high the stars among,And moves the mirky clouds above, with lustre bright and strong;So stood before her maidens, that maid without compare:Higher swelled the courage of many a champion there."

And as the moon at night, stands high the stars among,

And moves the mirky clouds above, with lustre bright and strong;

So stood before her maidens, that maid without compare:

Higher swelled the courage of many a champion there."

Between the two doors there is the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde. The second of these frescos is nearly finished; of the others I only saw the cartoons, which are magnificent. The third room will contain, arranged in the same manner, threegrand frescos, representing 1st. the scene in which the rash curiosity of Chrimhilde prevails over the discretion of her husband, and he gives her the ring and the girdle which he had snatched as trophies from the vanquished Brunhilde.102ndly. The death of Siegfried, assassinated by Hagen, who stabs the hero in the back, as he stoops to drink from the forest-well. And 3rdly. The body of Siegfried exposed in the cathedral at Worms, and watched by Chrimhilde, "who wept three days and three nights by the corse of her murdered lord, without food and without sleep."

The fourth room will contain the second marriage of Chrimhilde; her complete and sanguinary vengeance; and her death. None of these are yet in progress. But the three cartoons of the deathof Siegfried; the marriage of Siegfried and Chrimhilde; and the fatal curiosity of Chrimhilde, I had the pleasure of seeing in Professor Schnorr's studio at the academy; I saw at the same time his picture of the death of the emperor Frederic Barbarossa, which has excited great admiration here, but I confess I do not like it; nor do I think that Schnorr paints as well in oils as in fresco—the latter is certainly his forte.

Often have I walked up and down these superb rooms, looking up at Schnorr and his assistants, and watching intently the preparation and the process of the fresco painting—and often I thought, "What would some of our English painters—Etty, or Hilton, or Briggs, or Martin—O what would they give to have two or three hundred feet of space before them, to cover at will with grand and glorious creations,—scenes from Chaucer, or Spenser, or Shakspeare, or Milton, proudly conscious that they were painting for their country and posterity, spurred on by the spirit of their art and national enthusiasm, and generously emulating each other!" Alas! howdifferent!—with us such men as Hilton and Etty illustrate annuals, and the genius of Turner shrinks into a vignette!

I should add, before I throw down my weary pen, that every part of the new palace, from theensembledown to the minutest details of the ornaments (the paintings excepted) has been designed by De Klenze, who executed seven hundred drawings with his own hand for this palace alone, without reckoning his designs for the Glyptothek and the Pinakothek.

This has been a busy and exciting day. Then in the evening asoirée—music—

O quite tired in spirits, in voice, in mind, in heart, in frame!

Oct. 14th.—Accompanied by my kind friend, Madame de K——, and conducted by Roekel, the painter, I visited the unfinished chapel adjoining the new palace. It is painted (or ratherpainting) in fresco, on a gold ground, with extraordinary richness and beauty, uniting the old Greek, or rather Byzantine manner, with the old Italianstyle of decoration. It reminded me, in the general effect, of the interior of St. Mark's at Venice,—but, of course, the details are executed in a grander feeling, and in a much higher style of art. The pillars are of the native marble, and the walls will be covered with a kind of Mosaic of various marbles, intermixed with ornaments in relief, in gilding, in colours—all combined, and harmonizing together. The ceiling is formed of two large domes or cupolas. In the first is represented the Old Testament: in the very centre, the Creator; in a circle round him, the six days' creation. Around this again, in a larger circle, the building of the ark; the Deluge; the sacrifice of Noah; and the first covenant. In the four corners, the colossal figures of the patriarchs, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. These are designed in a very grand and severe style. The second cupola is dedicated to the New Testament. In the centre, the Redeemer: around him four groups of cherubs, three in each group. We were on the scaffold erected for the painters—near enough to remark the extreme beauty and variousexpression in these heads, which must, I am afraid, be lost when viewed from below. Around, in a circle, the twelve apostles; and in the four corners, the four evangelists, corresponding with the four patriarchs in the other dome. In the arch between the two domes, as connecting the Old and New Testaments, we have the Nativity and other scenes from the life of the Virgin. In the arch at the farthest end will be placed the Crucifixion, as the consummation of all.

The painter to whom the direction of the whole work has been entrusted, is professor Heinrich Häss, (or Hess,) one of the most celebrated of the German historical painters. He was then employed in painting the Nativity, stretched upon his back on a sort of inclined chair. Notwithstanding the inconvenience and even peril of leaving his work while the plaster was wet, he came down from his giddy height to speak to us, and explained the general design of the whole. I expressed my honest admiration of the genius, and the grand feeling displayed in many of the figures; and, in particular, of the group he was then painting,of which the extreme simplicity charmed me; but as honestly, I expressed my surprise that nothingnewin the general style of the decoration had been attempted; a representation of the Omnipotent Being was merely excusable in more simple and unenlightened times, when the understandings of men could only be addressed through their senses—and merely tolerable, when Michael Angelo gave us that grand personification of Almighty Power moving "on the wings of the wind" to the creation of the first man. But now, in these thinking, reasoning times, it is not so well to venture into those paths, upon which daring Genius, supported by blind Faith, rushed without fear, because without a doubt. The theory of religion belongs to poetry, and its practice to painting. I was struck by the wonderful stateliness of the ornaments and borders used in decorating these sacred subjects: they are neither Greek, nor gothic, nor arabesque—but composed merely of simple forms and straight lines, combined in every possible manner, and in every variety of pure colour. One might call themByzantine; at least, they reminded me of what I had seen in the old churches at Venice and Pisa.

I was pleased by the amiable and open manners of professor Hess. Much of his life has been spent in Italy, and he speaks Italian well, but no French. In general, the German artists absolutely detest and avoid the language and literature of France, but almost all speak Italian, and many can read, if they do not speak, English. He told me that he had spent two years on the designs and cartoons for this chapel; he had been painting here daily for the last two years, and expected to be able to finish the whole in about two years and a half more: thus giving six years and a half, or more probably seven years, to this grand task. He has four pupils, or assistants, besides those employed in the decorations only.

Oct. 15th.—After dinner we drove through the beautiful English garden—a public promenade—which is larger and more diversified than Kensington Gardens; but the trees are not so fine, being of younger growth. A branch of the Isar rollsthrough this garden, sometimes an absolute torrent, deep and rapid, foaming and leaping along, between its precipitous banks,—sometimes a strong but gentle stream, flowing "at its own sweet will" among smooth lawns. Several pretty bridges cross it with "airy span;" there are seats for repose, and cafés and houses where refreshment may be had, and where, in the summer-time, the artisans and citizens of Munich assemble to dance on the Sunday evenings;—altogether it was a beautiful day, and a delightful drive.

In the evening at the opera with the ambassadress and a large party. It was the queen's fête, and the whole court was present. The theatre was brilliantly illuminated—crowded in every part: in short, it was all very gay and very magnificent; as to hearing a single note of the opera, (the Figaro,) that was impossible; so I resigned myself to the conversation around me. "Are you fond of music?" said I, innocently, to a lady whose volubility had ceased not from the moment we entered the box. "Moi! si je l'aime!—mais avec passion!" And then without pauseor mercy continued the same incessant flow ofspirituelsmall-talk while Scheckner-Wagen and Meric, now brought for the first time into competition, and emulous of each other,—one pouring forth her fullsostenutowarble, like a wood-lark,—the other trilling and running divisions, like a nightingale—were uniting their powers in the "Sull' Aria;" but though I could not hear I could see. I was struck to-night more than ever by the singular dignity of the demeanour of Madame Scheckner-Wagen. She is not remarkable for beauty, nor is there any thing of the common made-up theatrical grace in her deportment—still less does she remind us of queen Medea—queen Pasta, I should say—the imperial syren who drowned her own identity and ours together in her "cup of enchanted sounds;"—no—but Scheckner-Wagen treads the stage with the air of a high-bred lady, to whom applause or censure are things indifferent—and yet with an exceeding modesty. In short, I never saw an actress who inspired such an immediate and irresistible feeling of respect and interest for the individualwoman.I do not say that this is thene plus ultraof good acting—on the contrary; though it is a mistake to imagine that the moral character of an actress or a singer goes for nothing with an audience—but of this more at some future time. Madame Scheckner's style of singing has the same characteristic simplicity and dignity: her voice is of a fine full quality, well cultivated, well managed. I have known her a little indolent and careless at times, but never forced or affected; and I am told that in some of the grand classical German operas, Gluck's Iphigenia, for instance, her acting as well as her singing is admirable.

I wish, if ever we have that charming Devrient-Schröeder, and her vocal suite, again in England, they would give us the Iphigenia, or the Armida, or the Idomeneo. She is another who must be heard in her native music to be justly appreciated. Madame Milderwasa third, but her reign is past. This extraordinary creature absolutely could not, or would not, sing the modern Italian music; no one, I believe, ever heard her sing a note of Rossini in her life. Madame Vespermannis here, but she sings no more in public. She was formed by Winter, and was a fine classical singer, though no original genius like the Milder; and her voice, if I may judge by what remains of it, could never have been of first-rate quality.

Well—after the opera—while scandal, and tea, and refreshments were served up together—I had a long conversation with Count —— on the politics and statistics of Bavaria, the tone of feeling in the court, the characters and revenues of some of the leading nobles—particularly Count d'Armansberg, the former minister, (now in Greece taking care of the young King Otho,) and Prince Wallerstein, the present minister of the interior. He described the king's extremely versatile character, and hisvivacités, and lamented his present unpopularity with the liberal party in Germany, the disputes between him and the Chambers, and the opinions entertained of the recent conferences between the king and his brother-in-law, the Emperor of Austria, at Lintz, &c. I learnt much that was new, much that was interesting to me,but do not understand these matters sufficiently to say any thing more about them.

The two richest families in Bavaria are the Tour-and-Taxis, and the Arco family. The annual revenue of the Prince of Tour-and-Taxis amounts to upwards of five millions of florins, and he lays out about a million and a half yearly in land. He seldom or never comes to Munich, but resides chiefly on his enormous estates, or at Ratisbon, which ishismetropolis,—in fact, this rich and powerful noble is little less than a sovereign prince.

16th.—I went with Madame von A—— and her daughters to theKunstverein, or "Society of Arts." A similar institution of amateurs and artists, maintained by subscription, exists, I believe, in all the principal cities of Germany. The young artists exhibit their works here, whether pictures, models, or engravings. Some of these are removed and replaced by others almost every day, so that there is a constant variety. As yet,however, I have seen noverystriking, though many pleasing pictures; but I have added several names to my list of German artists.11To-day at the Kunstverein, there was a series of small pictures framed together, the subjects from Victor Hugo's romance of Notre Dame. These attracted general attention, partly as the work of a stranger, partly from their own merit, and the popularity of Victor Hugo. The painter, M. Couder, is a young Frenchman, now on his return from Italy to Paris. I understand that he has obtained leave to paint one of the frescos in the Pinakothek, as a trial of skill. Of the designs from Notre Dame, the central and largest picture is the scene in the garret between Phœbus and Esmeralda, when the former is stabbed by the priest Frollo: one can hardly imagine a more admirable subject for painting, if properly treated; but this is a failure in effect and in character. It fails in effect because the light is too generally diffused:—it is day-light, not lamp-light. The monk ought to have been thrown completely into shadow, onlyjustvisible, terribly, mysteriously visible, to the spectator. It fails in character because the figure of Esmeralda, instead of the elegant, fragile, almost etherial creature she is described, rather reminds us of a coarse Italian contadina; and, for the expression—a truly poetical painter would have averted the face, and thrown the whole expression into the attitude. It will hardly be believed that of such a subject, the painter has made acoldpicture, merely by not feeling the bounds within which he ought to have kept. The small pictures are much better, particularly the Sachet embracing her child, and the tumult in front of Notre Dame. There were some other striking pictures by the same artist, particularly Chilperic and Fredegonde strangling the young queen Galsuinde, painted with shocking skill and truth. That taste for horrors, which is now the reigning fashion in French art and French literature, speaks ill for Frenchsensibilité—a word they are so fond of—for that sensibility cannot be great which requires such extravagantstimuli. Painters and authors, all alike! They remind me of the sentimentalnegresses of queen Carathis, in the Tale of Vathek—"qui avaient un gout particulier pour les pestilences." Couder, however, has undoubted talent. His portrait of De Klenze, painted since he came here, is all butalive.

In the evening at the theatre with M. and Mad. S——. We had Karl von Holtëi's melo-drama of Lenore, founded on Bürger's well-known ballad;—but with the omission of the spectre, which was something like acting Hamlet "with the part of Hamlet left out, by particular desire." Lenore is, however, one of the prettiest and most effective of thepetites piècesI have seen here—very tragical and dolorous of course. Madlle. Schöller acted Lenore with more feeling and power than I thought was in her. There is a mad scene, in which she fancies her lover at her window, calling to her, as the spectre calls in the ballad—

"Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, Leonore?"

And which was so fine as a picture, and so well acted, that it quite thrilled me—no easy matter. Holtëi is one of the first dramatists in Germanyfor comedies, melo-dramas, farces, and musical pieces. In this particular department he has no rival. He played to-night himself, being for his own benefit, and sung his popular Mantel Lied, orcloak-song, which, like his other songs, may be heard from one end of Germany to the other.

18th.—A grand military fête. The consecration of the great bronze obelisk, which the king has erected in the Karoline-Platz, to thegloryand the memory of the thirty-seven thousand Bavarian conscripts who followed, or rather were dragged by, Napoleon to the fatal Russian campaign in 1812. Of these, about six thousand returned alive: most of them mutilated, or with diseases which shortened their existence. Of many thousands no account ever reached home. They perished, God knows how or where. There was, in particular, a detachment, or a battery of six thousand Bavarians, so completely destroyed that it was as if the earth had swallowed them, or the snows had buried them, for not one remained to tell the tale of how or where they died. Of those who did return, about one thousand onehundred survive, of whom four hundred continue in the army; the rest had returned to their civil pursuits, and had become peasants or tradesmen in different parts of the kingdom. Now, it appears, that several hundreds of these men have arrived in Munich within the last few days in order to be present at the ceremony: and some, from the mere sentiment of honour, have travelled from afar—even from Upper Bavaria and the Flemish Provinces, a distance of more than eighty leagues, (two hundred and fifty miles.) On this occasion, according to the arrangements previously made, the veteran soldiers who remained in the army, were alone to be admitted within the enclosure round the monument. The others, I believe about five hundred in number, who had quitted the service, but who had equally fought, suffered, bled, in the same disastrous expedition, demanded, very naturally, the same privilege. It was refused; because forsooth they had no uniforms, and the unseemly intrusion of drab coats and blue worsted stockings among epaulettes and feathers and embroidered facings, would certainlyspoil the symmetry—the effect of thecoup d'œil! They complained, murmured aloud, resisted; and all night there was fighting in the streets and taverns between them and the police. This morning they went up in a body to Marshal Wrede, (who is said to have betrayed the army,) and wererenvoyés. They then went up to the palace; and at last, at a late hour this morning, the king gave orders that they should be admitted within the circle; but it was too late—the affront had sunk deep. The permission, which in the first instance ought indeed to have been rather an invitation, now seemed forced, ungraceful, and ungracious. There was a palpable cloud of discontent over all; for the popular feeling was with them. For myself, a mere stranger, such was my indignation, the whole proceeding appeared to me so heartless, so unkingly, so unkind, and my sympathy with these brave men was so profound, that I could scarce persuade myself to go;—however, I went. I had been invited to view the ceremony from the balcony of the French ambassador's house, which is exactly opposite to the obelisk.

I had indulged my ill-humour till it was late; already all the avenues leading to the Karoline-Platz were occupied by the military, and my carriage was stopped. As I was within fifty yards of the ambassador's house, it did not much signify, and I dismissed the carriage; but they would not allow the lacquais to pass. Wondering at all these precautions I dismissedhimtoo. A little further on I was myself stopped, and civillycommandedto turn back. I pleaded that I only wished to enter the house to which I pointed. "It was impossible." Now, what I had not cared for a moment before became at once an object to be attained, and which I was resolved to attain. I was really curious and anxious to see how all this would end, for the indifferent or lowering looks of the crowd had struck me. I observed to a well-dressed man, who politely tried to make way for me, that it was strange to see so much severity of discipline at a public fête. "Public fête!" he repeated with scornful bitterness; "Je vous demande pardon, madame! c'est une fête pour quelquesuns, mais ce n'est pas une fête pour nous, ce n'est pas pour le peuple!"

At length I fortunately met an officer, with whom I was slightly acquainted, who immediately conducted me to the door. The spectacle, merely as aspectacle, was not striking; but to me it had a peculiar interest. There was a raised platform on one side for the queen and her children, who, attended by a numerous court, were spectators. An outer circle was formed by several regiments of guards, and within this circle the soldiers who had served in Russia were drawn up near the obelisk, which was covered for the present with a tarpauling. But all my attention was fixed on the disbanded soldiers without uniforms, who stood together in a dark dense column, contrasting with the glittering and gorgeous array of those around them. The king rode into the circle, accompanied by his brother, Prince Charles, the arch-duke Francis of Austria, Marshal Wrede, and followed by a troop of generals, equerries, &c. There was a dead silence, and not a shout was raised to greethim. A few of the disbanded soldiers, who were nearest to him, took off their hats, others kept them on. The trumpets sounded a salute: the bands struck up our "God save the King," which is nationalized astheloyal anthem all over Germany. The canvass covering fell at once, and displayed the obelisk, which is entirely of bronze, raised upon four granite steps. It bears a simple inscription. I think it is "Ludwig I., king, to the soldiers of Bavaria who fell in the Russian campaign;" or nearly to that purpose. Marshal Wrede then alighted from his horse and addressed the soldiers. This was a striking moment; for while the outer circle of military remained immovable as statues, the soldiers within, both those with, and those without uniforms, finding themselves out of ear-shot, advanced a few steps, and then breaking their ranks, pressed forward in a confused mass, surrounding the king and his officers, in the most eager but respectful manner. I could not distinguish one sentence of the harangue, which, as I afterwards heard, was any thing rather than satisfactory.

I heard it remarked round me that the Duke de Leuchtenberg, (the son of Eugène Beauharnais,) was not present, neither as one of the royal cortège nor as a spectator.

The whole lasted about twenty minutes. The day was cold; and, in truth, the ceremony wascold, in every sense of the word. The Karoline-Platz is so large that not a third part of the open space was occupied. Had the people, who lingered sullen and discontented outside the military barrier, been admitted under proper restrictions, it had been a grand and imposing sight; but, perhaps the king is following the Austrian tactics, and seeking to crush systematically every thing like feeling or enthusiasm in his people. I know not how he will manage it; for he is himself the very antipodes of Austrian carelessness and sluggishness: a restless enthusiast—fond of intellectual excitement—fond of novelty—with no natural taste, one would think, for Metternich'svieilleries. If he adopt Austrian principles, his theory and his practice, his precept and example, will always be at variance. At the conclusion of the ceremonythe king and his suite rode up to the platform and saluted the queen: and when she—who is so universally and truly beloved here that I believe the people would die for her at anytime—rose to depart, I heard a cheer, the first and last this day! The disbanded soldiers approached the platform, at first timidly by twos and threes, and then in great numbers, taking off their hats. She stood up, leaning on the princess Matilda, and bowed. The royal cortège then disappeared. The military bands struck up, and one battalion after another filed off. I expected that the crowd would have rushed in, but the people seemed completely chilled and disgusted. Only a few appeared. In about half an hour the obelisk was left alone in its solitude.

I spent the rest of the day with Madame de V——, and returned home quite tired and depressed.

I understand this morning (Saturday) that the king has ordered a gratuity and dinner to be given to the disbanded soldiers. I hope it is true, King Louis! You ought at least to understand yourmetier de Roibetter than to degrade the "pomp and circumstance ofgloriouswar" in theeyes of your people, and make them feel for what a poor recompence they may fight, bleed, die—be made at once victims and executioners in the contests of royal and ambitious gamblers!

I saw to-day, at the house of the court banker, Eichthal, a most charming picture by the Baroness de Freyberg, the sister of my good friend, M. Stuntz. It is a Madonna and child—loveliest of subjects for a woman and a mother!—she is sure to put her heart into it, at least; but, in this particular picture, the surpassing delicacy of touch, the softness and purity of the colouring, the masterly drawing in the hands of the Virgin, and the limbs of the child, equalled the feeling and the expression—and, in truth,surprisedme. Madame de Freyberg gave this picture to her father, who is not rich, and, unhappily, blind. Of him, the present possessor purchased it for fifteen hundred florins, (about 140l.) and now values it at twice the sum. In the possession of her brother, I have seen others of her productions, and particularly a head of one of his children, of exceeding beauty, and very much in the old Italian style.

In the evening, a very lively and amusingsoiréeat the house of Dr. Martius. We had some very good music. Young Vieux-temps, a pupil of De Beriot, was well accompanied by an orchestra of amateurs. I met here also a young lady of whom I had heard much—Josephine Lang, looking so gentle, so unpretending, so imperturbable, that no one would have accused or suspected her of being one of the Muses in disguise, until she sat down to the piano, and sang her own beautiful and original compositions in a style peculiar to herself. She is a musician by nature, by choice, and by profession, exercising her rare talent with as much modesty as good-nature. The painter Zimmermann, who has a magnificent bass voice, sung for me Mignon's song—"Kennst du das Land!" And, lastly, which was the most interesting amusement of the evening, Karl von Holtei read aloud the second act of Goethe's Tasso. He read most admirably, and with a voice which kept attention enchained, enchanted; still it was genuine reading. He kept equally clear of acting and of declamation.

Oct. 20th. Sunday.—I went with M. Stuntz to hear a grand mass at the royal chapel.

21st.—It rained this morning:—went to the gallery, and amused myself for two hours walking up and down the rooms, sometimes pausing upon my favourite pictures, sometimes abandoned to the reveries suggested by these glorious creations of the human intellect.

'Twas like the bright processionOf skiey visions in a solemn dream,From which men wake as from a paradise,And draw fresh strength to tread the thorns of life!

'Twas like the bright procession

Of skiey visions in a solemn dream,

From which men wake as from a paradise,

And draw fresh strength to tread the thorns of life!

While looking at the Castor and Pollux of Rubens, I remembered what the biographers asserted of this most wonderful man—that he spoke fluently seven languages, besides being profoundly skilled in many sciences, and one of the most accomplished diplomatists of his time. Before he took up his palette in the morning, he was accustomed to read, or hear read, some fine passages out of the ancient poets; and thus releasing his soul from thetrammels of low-thoughted care, he let her loose into the airy regions of imagination.

What Goethe says of poets, must needs be applicable to painters. He says, "If we look only at the principal productions of a poet, and neglect to study himself, his character, and the circumstances with which he had to contend, we fall into a sort of atheism, which forgets the Creator in his creation."

I think most people admire pictures in this sort of atheistical fashion; yet next to loving pictures, and all the pleasure they give, and revelling in all the feelings they awaken, all the new ideas with which they enrich our mental hoard—next to this, or equal with it, is the inexhaustible interest of studying the painter in his works. It is a lesson in human nature. Almost every picture (which is the production of mind) has an individual character, reflecting the predominant temperament—nay, sometimes, the occasional mood of the artist, its creator. Even portrait painters, renowned for their exact adherence to nature, will be found to have stamped upon their portraits a general anddistinguishing character. There is, besides the physiognomy of the individual represented, the physiognomy, if I may so express myself, of the picture; detected at once by the mere connoisseur as a distinction of manner, style, execution: but of which the reflecting and philosophical observer might discover the key in the mind or life of the individual painter.

In the heads of Titian, what subtlety of intellect mixed with sentiment and passion! In those of Velasquez, what chivalrous grandeur, what high-hearted contemplation! When Ribera painted a head—what power of sufferance! In those of Giorgione, what profound feeling! In those of Guido, what elysian grace! In those of Rubens what energy of intellect—what vigorous life! In those of Vandyke, what high-bred elegance! In those of Rembrandt, what intense individuality! Could Sir Joshua Reynolds have painted a vixen without giving her a touch of sentiment? Would not Sir Thomas Lawrence have given refinement to a cook-maid? I do believe that Opie would have made even a calf's headlook sensible, as Gainsborough made our queen Charlotte look picturesque.

If I should whisper that since I came to Germany I have not seen one really fine modern portrait, the Germans would never forgive me; they would fall upon me with a score of great names—Wach, Stieler, Vogel, Schadow—and beat me, like Chrimhilde, "black and blue." But before they are angry, and absolutely condemn me, I wish they would place one of their own most admired portraits beside those of Titian or Vandyke, or come to England, and look upon our school of portraiture here! I think they would allow, that with all their merits, they are in the wrong road. Admirable, finished drawing; wonderful dexterity of hand; exquisite and most conscientious truth of imitation, they have; but they abuse these powers. They do not seem to feel the application of the highest, grandest principles of art to portrait painting—they think too much of the accessories. Are not these clever and accomplished men aware that imitation may be carried so far as to cease to be nature—to be error, not truth? For instance,by the common laws of vision I can behold perfectly only one thing at a time. If I look into the face of a person I love or venerate, do I seefirstthe embroidery of the canezou or the pattern on the waistcoat? if not—why should it be so in a picture? The vulgar eye alone is caught by such misplaced skill—the vulgar artist only ought to seek to captivate by such means.

These would sound in England as the most trite and impertinent remarks—the most self-evident propositions: nevertheless they are truths which the generality of the German portrait painters and their admirers have not yet felt.

I drove with my kind-hearted friends, M. and Madame Stuntz, to Thalkirchen, the country-house of the Baron de Freyberg. The road pursued the banks of the rapid, impetuous Isar, and the range of the Tyrolian alps bounded the prospect before us. An hour's drive brought us to Thalkirchen, where we were obviously quite unexpected, but that was nothing:—I was at once received as a friend, and introduced without ceremonyto Madame de Freyberg's painting-room. Though now the fond mother of a largelittlefamily, she still finds some moments to devote to her art. On her easel was the portrait of the Countess M—— (the sister of De Freyberg) with her child, beautifully painted—particularly the latter. In the same room was an unfinished portrait of M. de Freyberg, evidently paintedcon amore, and full of spirit and character; a head of Cupid, and a piping boy, quite in the Italian manner and feeling; and a picture of the birth of St. John, exquisitely finished. I was most struck by the heads of two Greeks—members, I believe, of the deputation to King Otho—painted with her peculiar delicacy and transparency of colour, and, at the same time, with a breadth of style and a freedom in the handling, which I have not yet seen among the German portrait painters. A glance over a portfolio of loose sketches and unfinished designs added to my estimation of her talents. She excels in children—her own serving her as models. I do not hesitate to say of this gifted woman, that while she equals AngelicaKauffman in grace and delicacy, she far exceeds her inpower, both of drawing and colouring. She reminded me more of the Sofonisba,12but it is a different, and, I think, a more delicate style of colour, than I have observed in the pictures of the latter.

We had coffee, and then strolled through the grounds—the children playing around us. If I was struck by the genius and accomplishments of Madame de Freyberg, I was not less charmed by the frank and noble manners of her husband, and his honest love and admiration of his wife, whom he married in despite of all prejudices of birth and rank.

In this truly German dwelling there was an extreme simplicity, a sort of negligent elegance, a picturesque and refined homeliness, the presiding influence of a most poetical mind and eye every where visible, and a total indifference to what we English denominatecomfort; yet with the obvious presence of that crowning comfort of all comforts—cordialdomestic love and union—which impressed me altogether with pleasant ideas, long after borne in my mind, and not yet, nor ever to be, effaced. How little is needed for happiness, when we have not been spoiled in the world, nor our tastes vitiated by artificial wants and habits! When the hour of departure came, and De Freyberg was handing me to the carriage, he made me advance a few steps, and pause to look round; he pointed to the western sky, still flushed with a bright geranium tint, between the amber and the rose; while against it lay the dark purple outline of the Tyrolian mountains. A branch of the Isar, which just above the house overflowed and spread itself into a wide still pool, mirrored in its clear bosom not only the glowing sky and the huge dark mountains, and the banks and trees blended into black formless masses, but the very stars above our heads;—it was a heavenly scene!—"You will not forget this," said De Freyberg, seeing I was touched to the heart; "you will think of it when you are in England, and inrecalling it, you will perhaps remember us—who will not forgetyou! Adieu, madame!"

Afterwards to the opera: it was Herold's "Zampa:" noisy, riotous music, which I hate. I thought Madame Schechner's powers misplaced in this opera—yet she sang magnificently.

Spent the morning with Dr. Martius, looking over the beautiful plates and illustrations of his travels and scientific works. It appears from what he told me, that the institution of the botanic garden is recent, and is owing to the late king Max-Joseph, who was a generous patron of scientific and benevolent institutions—as munificent as his son is magnificent.

One of the most interesting monuments in Munich, is the tomb of Eugene Beauharnais, in the church of St. Michael. It is by Thorwaldson, and one of his most celebrated works. It is finely placed, and all the parts are admirable: but I think it wants completeness and entireness of effect, and does not tell its story well. Upon a lofty pedestal, there is first, in thecentre, the colossal figure of the duke stepping forward; one hand is pressed upon his heart, and the other presents the civic crown—(but to whom?)—his military accoutrements lie at his feet. The drapery is admirably managed, and the attitude simple and full of dignity. On his left is the beautiful and well-known group of the two genii, Love and Life, looking disconsolate. On the right, the seated muse of History is inscribing the virtues and exploits of the hero; and as, of all the satellites of Napoleon, Eugene has left behind the fairest name, I looked at her, and her occupation, with complacency. The statue is, moreover, exceedingly beautiful and expressive—so are the genii; and the figure of Eugene is magnificent; and yet the combination of the whole is not effective. Another fault is, the colour of the marble, which has a grey tinge, and ought at least to have been relieved by constructing the pedestal and accompaniments of black marble; whereas they are of a reddish hue.

The widow of Eugene, the eldest sister of the king of Bavaria, raised this monument to herhusband, at an expense of eighty thousand florins. As the whole design is classical, and otherwise in the purest taste and grandest style of art, I exclaimed with horror at the sight of a vile heraldic crown, which is lying at the feet of the muse of History. I was sure that Thorwaldson would never voluntarily have committed such a solecism. I was informed that the princess-widow insisted on the introduction of this piece of barbarity as emblematical of the vice-royalty of Italy; any royalty being apparently better than none.

I remember that when travelling in the Netherlands, at a time when the people were celebrating theFête-Dieu, I saw a village carpenter busily employed in erecting aréposoirfor the Madonna, of painted boards and draperies and wreaths of flowers. In the mean time, as if to deprecate criticism, he had chalked in large letters over his work, "La critique est aisée, mais l'art est difficile." I could not help smiling at this application of one of those undeniable truisms which no one thinks it necessary to remember. When I recall the pleasure I derived from this noble work ofThorwaldson, all the genius, all the skill, all the patience, all the time, expended on its production, I think the foregoing trifling criticisms appear very ungrateful and impertinent; and yet, as a friend of mine insisted, when I was once upon a time pleading for mercy on certain defects and deficiencies in some other walk of art, "Toleration is the nurse of mediocrity." Artists themselves, as I often observe,—even the vainest of them—prefer discriminating admiration to wholesale praise. In the Frauen Kirche, there is another most admirable monument, achef d'œuvre, in the Gothic style. It is the tomb of the Emperor Louis of Bavaria, who died excommunicated in 1347; a stupendous work, cast in bronze. At the four corners are four colossal knights kneeling, in complete armour, each bearing a lance and ensign, and guarding the recumbent effigy of the emperor, which lies beneath a magnificent Gothic canopy. At the two sides are standing colossal figures, and I suppose about eight or ten other figures on a smaller scale, all of admirable design andworkmanship.13It should seem, that in the sixteenth century the art of casting in bronze was not only brought to the highest perfection in Germany, but found employment on a very grand scale.

In the evening there was a concert at the Salle de l'Odeon—the third I have attended since I came here. This concert room is larger than any public room in London, and admirably constructed for music. Over the orchestra, in a semi-circle, are the busts of the twelve great German composers who have flourished during the last hundred years, beginning with Handel and Bach, and ending with Weber and Beethoven. On this occasion the hall was crowded. We had all the best performers of Munich, led by the Kapelmeister Stuntz, and Schechner and Meric, who sangà l'envie l'une de l'autre. The concert began at seven, and ended a little after nine; and much as I love music, Ifelt I had had enough. They certainly manage these social pleasures much better here than in London, where a grand concert almost invariably proves a most awful bore, from which we return wearied, yawning, jarred, satiated.

Count —— amused me this evening with his laconic summing up of the rise, progress, and catastrophe of a Polish amour;—se passioner, se battre, se ruiner, enlever, épouser, et divorcer; and so ends this six-act tragico-comico-heroico pastoral.

23rd.—To-day went over the Pinakothek (the new grand national picture gallery) with M. de Klenze, the architect, and Comtesse de V——. This is the second time; but I have not yet a clear and connected idea of the general design, the building being still in progress. As far as I can understand the arrangements, they will be admirable. The destination of the edifice seems to have been the first thing kept in view. The situation of particular pictures has been calculated, and accurate experiments have been made for the arrangement of the light, &c. Professor Zimmermann has kindly promised to take me over the wholeonce more. He has the direction of the fresco paintings here.

Society is becoming so pleasant, and engagements of every kind so multifarious, that I have little time for scribbling memoranda. New characters unfold before me, new scenes of interest occupy my thoughts. I find myself surrounded with friends, where only a few weeks ago I had scarcely one acquaintance. Time ought not to linger—and yet it does sometimes.

Our circumstances alter; our opinions change; our passions die; our hopes sicken, and perish utterly:—our spirits are broken; our health is broken, and even our hearts are broken; butWILLsurvives—the unconquerable strength of will, which is in later life what passion is when young. In this world, there is always something to be done or suffered, even when there is no longer any thing to be desired or attained.

The Glyptothek is, at certain hours, open to strangersonly, and strangers do not at present abound: hence it has twice happened that I havefound myself in the gallery alone—to-day for the second time. I felt that, under some circumstances, an hour of solitude in a gallery of sculpture may be an epoch in one's life. There was not a sound, no living thing near, to break the stillness; and lightly, and with a feeling of awe, I trod the marble pavements, looking upon the calm, pale, motionless forms around me, almost expecting they would open their marble lips and speak to me—or, at least, nod—like the statue in Don Giovanni: and still, as the evening shadows fell deeper and deeper, they waxed, methought, sadder, paler, and more life-like. A dim, unearthly glory effused those graceful limbs and perfect forms, of which the exact outline was lost, vanishing into shade, while the sentiment—theideal—of their immortal loveliness, remained distinct, and became every moment more impressive: and thus they stood; and their melancholy beauty seemed to melt into the heart.

As the Graces round the throne of Venus, so music, painting, sculpture, wait as handmaids round the throne of Poetry. "They from hergolden urn draw light," as planets drink the sunbeams; and in return they array the divinity which created and inspired them, in those sounds, and hues, and forms, through which she is revealed to our mortal senses. The pleasure, the illusion, produced by music, when it is thevoiceof poetry, is, for the moment, by far the most complete and intoxicating, but also the most transient. Painting, with its lovely colours blending into life, and all its "silent poesy of form," is a source of pleasure more lasting, more intellectual. Beyond both, is sculpture, the noblest, the least illusive, the most enduring of the imitative arts, because it charms us not by what it seems to be, but by what it is; because if the pleasure it imparts be less exciting, the impression it leaves is more profound and permanent; because it is, or ought to be, the abstract idea of power, beauty, sentiment, made visible in the cold, pure, impassive, and almost eternal marble.

It seems to me that the grand secret of that grace of repose which we see developed in the antique statues, may be defined asthe presenceof thought, and the absence of volition. The moment we have, in sculpture, the expression of will, or effort, we have the idea of something fixed in its place by an external cause, and a consequent diminution of the effect of internal power. This is not well expressed, I fear. Perhaps I might illustrate the thought thus: the Venus de Medici looks as if she were content to stand on her pedestal and be worshipped; Canova's Hebe looks as if she would fain step off the pedestal—if she could: the Apollo Belvedere, as if he could step from his pedestal—if he would.

Among the Greeks, in the best ages of sculpture, and in all their very finest statues, this seems to be the presiding principle—viz. that in sculpture the repose of suspended motion, or of subsided motion, is graceful; but arrested motion, and all effort, to be avoided. When the ancients did express motion, they made it flowing or continuous, as in the frieze of the Parthenon.

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