Seeing Europe with Famous Authors, Volume V (of X)
by
Various
Part 3 out of 3
the background of a northern sky; the rains run off them in torrents,
the snow slips from them; they suit the climate, and do not require to
be swept in winter. Some houses have doors ornamented with rustic
columns, scroll-work, recessed pediments, chubby-cheeked caryatides,
little angels and loves, stout rosettes and enormous shells, all glued
over with whitewash renewed doubtless every year.
The tobacco sellers in Hamburg can not be counted. At every third step
you behold a bare-chested negro cultivating the precious leaf or a Grand
Seigneur, attired like the theatrical Turk, smoking a colossal pipe.
Boxes of cigars, with their more or less fallacious vignettes and
labels, figure, symmetrically disposed, in the ornamentation of the
shop-fronts. There must be very little tobacco left at Havana, if we can
have faith in these displays, so rich in famous brands.
As I have said, it was early morning. Servant-maids, kneeling on the
steps or standing on the window-sills, were going on with the Saturday
scrubbing. Notwithstanding the keen air, they made a display of robust
arms bare to the shoulder, tanned and sunburned, red with that
astonishing vermilion that we see in some of Rubens' paintings, which is
the joint result of the biting of the north wind and the action of water
upon these blond skins; little girls belonging to the poorer classes,
with braided hair, bare arms, and low-necked frocks, were going out to
obtain articles of food; I shivered in my paletot, to see them so
lightly clad. There is something strange about this; the women of
northern countries cut their dresses out in the neck, they go about
bare-headed and bare-armed, while the women of the South cover
themselves with vests, haicks, pelisses, and warm garments of every
description.
Walking on, still at random, I came to the maritime part of the city,
where canals take the place of streets. As yet it was low water, and
vessels lay aground in the mud, showing their hulls, and careening over
in a way to rejoice a water-color painter. Soon the tide came up, and
everything began to be in motion. I would suggest Hamburg to artists
following in the track of Canaletto, Guardi, or Joyant; they will find,
at every step, themes as picturesque as and more new than those which
they go to Venice in search of.
This forest of salmon-colored masts, with their maze of cordage and
their yellowish-brown sails drying in the sun, these tarred sterns with
apple-green decks, these lateen-yards threatening the windows of the
neighboring houses, these derricks standing under plank roofs shaped
like pagodas, these tackles lifting heavy packages out of vessels and
landing them in houses, these bridges opening to give passage to
vessels, these clumps of trees, these gables overtopped here and there
by spires and belfries; all this bathed in smoke, traversed by sunlight
and here and there returning a glitter of polished metal, the far-off
distance blue and misty, and the foreground full of vigorous color,
produced effects of the most brilliant and piquant novelty. A
church-tower, covered with plates of copper, springing from this curious
medley of rigging and of houses, recalled to me by its odd green color
the tower of Galata, at Constantinople....
As the hour advanced, the crowd became more numerous, and it was
largely composed of women. In Hamburg they seem to enjoy great license.
Very young girls come and go alone without anyone's noticing it, and--a
remarkable thing!--children go to school by themselves, little basket on
the arm, and slate in hand; in Paris, left to their own free will, they
will run off to play marbles, tag, or hop-scotch.
Dogs are muzzled in Hamburg all the week, but on Sundays they are left
at liberty to bite whom they please. They are taxed, and appear to be
esteemed; but the cats are sad and unappreciated. Recognizing in me a
friend, they cast melancholy glances at me, saying in their feline
language, to which long use has given me the key:
"These Philistines, busy with their money-getting, despise us; and yet
our eyes are as yellow as their louis d'or. Stupid men that they are,
they believe us good for nothing but to catch rats; we, the wise, the
meditative, the independent, who have slept upon the prophet's sleeve,
and lulled his ear with the whir of our mysterious wheel! Pass your hand
over our backs full of electric sparkles--we allow you this liberty, and
say to Charles Baudelaire that he must write a fine sonnet, deploring
our woes."
As the Luebeck boat was not to leave until the morrow, I went to Wilkin's
to get my supper. This famous establishment occupies a low-ceiled
basement, which is divided into cabinets ornamented with more show than
taste. Oysters, turtle-soup, a truffled filet, and a bottle of Veuve
Cliquot iced, composed my simple bill of fare. The place was filled,
after the Hamburg fashion, with edibles of all sorts; things early and
things out of season, dainties not yet in existence or having long
ceased to exist, for the common crowd. In the kitchen they showed us, in
great tanks, huge sea-turtles which lifted their scaly heads above the
water, resembling snakes caught between two platters. Their little horny
eyes looked with uneasiness at the light which was held near them, and
their flippers, like oars of some disabled galley, vaguely moved up and
down, as seeking some impossible escape. I trust that the personnel of
the exhibition changes occasionally.
In the morning I went for my breakfast to an English restaurant, a sort
of pavilion of glass, whence I had a magnificent panoramic view. The
river spread out majestically through a forest of vessels with tall
masts, of every build and tonnage. Steam-tugs were beating the water,
towing sailing-vessels out to sea; others, moving about freely, made
their way hither and thither, with that precision which makes a
steam-boat seem like a conscious being, endowed by a will of its own,
and served by sentient organs. From the elevation the Elbe is seen,
spreading broadly like all great rivers as they near the sea. Its
waters, sure of arriving at last, are in no haste; placid as a lake,
they flow with an almost invisible motion. The low opposite shore was
covered with verdure, and dotted with red houses half-effaced by the
smoke from the chimneys. A golden bar of sunshine shot across the plain;
it was grand, luminous, superb.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874. Hamburg
is now the largest seaport on the continent of Europe. London and New
York are the only ports in the world that are larger. Exclusive of its
rural territory, it had in 1905 a population of 803,000.]
SCHLESWIG[A]
BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER
When you are in a foreign country, reduced to the condition of a
deaf-mute, you can not but curse the memory of him who conceived the
idea of building the tower of Babel, and by his pride brought about the
confusion of tongues! An omnibus took possession of myself and my
trunks, and, with the feeling that it must of necessity take me
somewhere, I confidingly allowed myself to be stowed in and carried
away. The intelligent omnibus set me down before the best hotel in the
town, and there, as circumnavigators say in their journals, "I held a
parley with the natives." Among them was a waiter who spoke French in a
way that was transparent enough to give me an occasional glimpse of his
meaning; and who--a much rarer thing!--even sometimes understood what I
said to him.
My name upon the hotel register was a ray of light. The hostess had been
notified of my expected arrival, and I was to be sent for as soon as my
appearance should be announced; but it was now late in the evening, and
I thought it better to wait till the next day. There was served for
supper a "chaud-froid" of partridge--without confiture--and I lay down
upon the sofa, hopeless of being able to sleep between the two
down-cushions which compose the German and the Danish bed....
I explored Schleswig, which is a city quite peculiar in its appearance.
One wide street runs the length of the town, with which narrow cross
streets are connected, like the smaller bones with the dorsal vertebrae
of a fish. There are handsome modern houses, which, as usual, have not
the slightest character. But the more modest dwellings have a local
stamp; they are one-story buildings, very low--not over seven or eight
feet in height--capped with a huge roof of fluted red tiles. Windows,
broader than they are high, occupy the whole of the front; and behind
these windows, spread luxuriantly in porcelain or faience or earthen
flowerpots, plants of every description; geraniums, verbenas,
fuchsias--and this absolutely without exception. The poorest house is as
well adorned as the best. Sheltered by these perfumed window-blinds, the
women sit at work, knitting or sewing, and, out of the corner of their
eye, they watch, in the little movable mirror which reflects the
streets, the rare passer-by, whose boots resound upon the pavement. The
cultivation of flowers seem to be a passion in the north; countries
where they grow naturally make but little account of them in comparison.
The church in Schleswig had in store for me a surprise. Protestant
churches in general, are not very interesting from an artistic point of
view, unless the reformed faith may have installed itself in some
Catholic sanctuary diverted from its primitive designation. You find,
usually, only whitewashed naves, walls destitute of painting or
bas-relief, and rows of oaken benches well-polished and shining. It is
neat and comfortable, but it is not beautiful. The church at Schleswig
contains, by a grand, unknown artist, an altar-piece in three parts, of
carved wood, representing in a series of bas-reliefs, separated by fine
architectural designs, the most important scenes in the drama of the
Passion.
Around the church stand sepulchral chapels of fine funereal fancy and
excellent decorative effect. A vaulted hall contains the tombs of the
ancient Dukes of Schleswig; massive slabs of stone, blazoned with
armorial devices, covered with inscriptions which are not lacking in
character.
In the neighborhood of Schleswig are great saline ponds, communicating
with the sea. I paced the high-road, remarking the play of light upon
this grayish water, and the surface crisped by the wind; occasionally I
extended my walk as far as the chateau metamorphosed into a barrack, and
the public gardens, a miniature St. Cloud, with its cascade, its
dolphins, and its other aquatic monsters all standing idle. A very good
sinecure is that of a Triton in a Louis Quinze basin! I should ask
nothing better myself.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.]
LUEBECK[A]
BY THEOPHILE GAUTIER
In the evening the train carried me to Luebeck, across magnificent
cultivated lands, filled with summer-houses, which lave their feet in
the brown water, overhung by spreading willows. This German Venice has
its canal, the Brenta, whose villas, tho not built by Sanmichele or
Palladio, none the less make a fine show against the fresh green of
their surroundings.
On arriving at Luebeck, a special omnibus received me and my luggage, and
I was soon set down at the hotel. The city seemed picturesque as I
caught a glimpse of it through the darkness by the vague light of
lanterns; and in the morning, as I opened my chamber-window, I perceived
at once I had not been mistaken.
The opposite house had a truly German aspect. It was extremely high and
overtopped by an old-fashioned denticulated gable. At each one of the
seven stories of the house, iron cross-bars spread themselves out into
clusters of iron-work, supporting the building, and serving at once for
use and ornament, in accordance with an excellent principle in
architecture, at the present day too much neglected. It is not by
concealing the framework, but by making it distinct, that we obtain more
character.
This house was not the only one of its kind, as I was able to convince
myself on walking a few steps out of doors. The actual Luebeck is still
to the eye the Luebeck of the Middle Ages, the old capital of the
Hanseatic League.[B] All the drama of modern life is enacted in the old
theater whose scenery remains the same, its drop-scene even not
repainted. What a pleasure it is to be walking thus amid the outward
life of the past, and to contemplate the same dwellings which
long-vanished generations have inhabited! Without doubt, the living man
has a right to model his shell in accordance with his own habits, his
tastes, and his manners; but it can not be denied that a new city is far
less attractive than an old one.
When I was a child, I sometimes received for a New Year's present one of
those Nuremberg boxes containing a whole miniature German city. In a
hundred different ways I arranged the little houses of painted wood
around the church, with its pointed belfry and its red walls, where the
seam of the bricks was marked by fine white lines. I set out my two
dozen frizzed and painted trees, and saw with delight the charmingly
outlandish and wildly festal air which these apple-green, pink, lilac,
fawn-colored houses with their window-panes, their retreating gables,
and their steep roofs, brilliant with red varnish, assumed, spread out
on the carpet.
My idea was that houses like these had no existence in reality, but were
made by some kind fairy for extremely good little boys. The marvelous
exaggeration of childhood gave this little parti-colored city a
respectable development, and I walked through its regular streets, tho
with the same precautions as did Gulliver in Liliput. Luebeck gave back
to me this long-forgotten feeling of my childish days. I seemed to walk
in a city of the imagination, taken out of some monstrous toy-box. I
believe, considering all the faultlessly correct architecture that I
have been forced to see in my traveler's life, that I really deserved
that pleasure by way of compensation.
A cloister, or at least a gallery, a fragment of an ancient monastery,
presented itself to view. This colonnade ran the whole length of the
square, at the end of which stood the Marienkirche, a brick church of
the fourteenth century. Continuing my walk, I found myself in a
market-place, where awaited me one of those sights which repay the
traveler for much fatigue: a public building of a new, unforeseen,
original aspect, the old Stadthaus in which was formerly the Hanse hall,
rose suddenly before me.
It occupies two sides of the square. Imagine, in front of the
Marienkirche, whose spires and roof of oxydized copper rise above it, a
lofty brick facade, blackened by time, bristling with three bell-towers
with pointed copper-covered roofs, having two great empty rose-windows,
and emblazoned with escutcheons inscribed in the trefoils of its ogives,
double-headed black eagles on a gold field, and shields, half gules,
half argent, ranged alternately, and executed in the most elaborate
fashion of heraldry.
To this facade is joined a palazzino of the Renaissance, in stone and of
an entirely different style, its tint of grayish-white marvelously
relieved by the dark-red background of old brick-work. This building,
with its three gables, its fluted Ionic columns, its caryatides, or
rather its Atlases (for they are human figures), its semicircular
window, its niches curved like a shell, its arcades ornamented with
figures, its basement of diamond-shaped stones, produces what I may call
an architectural discord that is most unexpected and charming. We meet
very few edifices in the north of Europe of this style and epoch.
In the facade, the old German style prevails: arches of brick, resting
upon short granite columns, support a gallery with ogive-windows. A row
of blazons, inclined from right to left, bring out their brilliant color
against the blackish tint of the wall. It would be difficult to form an
idea of the character and richness of this ornamentation.
This gallery leads into the main building, a structure than which no
scene-painter, seeking a medieval decoration for an opera, ever invented
anything more picturesque and singular. Five turrets, coiffed with roofs
like extinguishers, raise their pointed tops above the main line of the
facade with its lofty ogive-windows--unhappily now most of them
partially bricked up, in accordance, doubtless, with the exigencies of
alterations made within. Eight great disks, having gold backgrounds, and
representing radiating suns, double-headed eagles, and the shields,
gules and argent, the armorial bearings of Luebeck, are spread out
gorgeously upon this quaint architecture. Beneath, arches supported upon
short, thick pillars yawn darkly, and from far within there comes the
gleam of precious metals, the wares of some goldsmith's shop.
Turning back toward the square again, I notice, rising above the houses,
the green spires of another church, and over the heads of some
market-women, who are chaffering over their fish and vegetables, the
profile of a little building with brick pillars, which must have been a
pillory in its day. This gives a last touch to the purely Gothic aspect
of the square which is interrupted by no modern edifice. The ingenious
idea occurred to me that this splendid Stadthaus must have another
facade; and so in fact it had; passing under an archway, I found myself
in a broad street, and my admiration began anew.
Five bell-towers, built half into the wall and separated by tall
ogive-windows now partly blocked up, repeated, with variations, the
facade I have just described. Brick rosettes exhibited their curious
designs, spreading with square stitches, so to speak, like patterns for
worsted work. At the base of the somber edifice a pretty little lodge,
of the Renaissance, built as an afterthought, gave entrance to an
exterior staircase going up along the wall diagonally to a sort of
mirador, or overhanging look-out, in exquisite taste. Graceful little
statues of Faith and Justice, elegantly draped, decorated the portico.
The staircase, resting on arches which widened as it rose higher, was
ornamented with grotesque masks and caryatides. The mirador, placed
above the arched doorway opening upon the market-place, was crowned with
a recessed and voluted pediment, where a figure of Themis held in one
hand balances, and in the other a sword, not forgetting to give her
drapery, at the same time, a coquettish puff. An odd order formed of
fluted pilasters fashioned like pedestals and supporting busts,
separated the windows of this aerial cage. Consoles with fantastic masks
completed the elegant ornamentation, over which Time had passed his
thumb just enough to give to the carved stone that bloom which nothing
can imitate....
The Marienkirche, which stands, as I have said, behind the Stadt-haus,
is well worth a visit. Its two towers are 408 feet in height; a very
elaborate belfry rises from the roof at the point of intersection of the
transept. The towers of Luebeck have the peculiarity, every one of them,
of being out of the perpendicular, leaning perceptibly to the right or
left, but without disquieting the eye, like the tower of Asinelli at
Bologna, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Seen two or three miles away,
these towers, drunk and staggering, with their pointed caps that seem to
nod at the horizon, present a droll and hilarious silhouette.
On entering the church, the first curious object that meets the eye is
a copy of the Todtentanz, or Dance of Death, of the cemetery at Basle. I
do not need to describe it in detail. The Middle Ages were never tired
of composing variations upon this dismal theme. The most conspicuous of
them are brought together in this lugubrious painting, which covers all
the walls of one chapel. From the Pope and the Emperor to the infant in
his cradle, each human being in his turn enters upon the dance with the
inevitable terror. But death is not depicted as a skeleton, white,
polished, cleaned, articulated with copper wire like the skeleton of an
anatomical cabinet: that would be too ornamental for the vulgar crowd.
He appears as a dead body in a more or less advanced state of
decomposition, with all the horrid secrets of the tomb carefully
revealed....
The cathedral, which is called in German the Dom, is quite remarkable in
its interior. In the middle of the nave, filling one whole arch, is a
colossal Christ of Gothic style, nailed to a cross carved in open-work,
and ornamented with arabesques. The foot of this cross rests upon a
transverse beam, going from one pillar to another, on which are standing
the holy women and other pious personages, in attitudes of grief and
adoration; Adam and Eve, one on either side, are arranging their
paradisaic costume as decently as may be; above the cross the keystone
of the arch projects, adorned with flowers and leafage, and serves as a
standing-place for an angel with long wings. This construction, hanging
in mid-air, and evidently light in weight, notwithstanding its
magnitude, is of wood, carved with much taste and skill. I can define
it in no better way than to call it a carved portcullis, lowered halfway
in front of the chancel. It is the first example of such an arrangement
that I have ever seen....
The Holstenthor, a city gate close by the railway station, is a most
curious and picturesque specimen of German medieval architecture.
Imagine two enormous brick towers united by the main portion of the
structure, through which opens an archway, like a basket-handle, and you
have a rude sketch of the construction; but you would not easily
conceive of the effect produced by the high summit of the edifice, the
conical roofs of the towers, the whimsical windows in the walls and in
the roofs, the dull red or violet tints of the defaced bricks. It is
altogether a new gamut for painters of architecture or of ruins; and I
shall send them to Luebeck by the next train. I recommend to their notice
also, very near the Holstenthor, on the left bank of the Trave, five or
six crimson houses, shouldering each other for mutual support, bulging
out in front, pierced with six or seven stories of windows, with
denticulated gables, the deep red reflection of them trailing in the
water, like some high-colored apron which a servant-maid is washing.
What a picture Van den Heyden would have made of this!
Following the quay, along which runs a railway, where freight-trains
were constantly passing, I enjoyed many amusing and varied scenes. On
the other side of the Trave were to be seen, amid houses and clumps of
trees, vessels in various stages of building. Here, a skeleton with
ribs of wood, like the carcass of some stranded whale; there, a hull,
clad with its planking near which smokes the calker's cauldron, emitting
light yellowish clouds. Everywhere prevails a cheerful stir of busy
life. Carpenters are planing and hammering, porters are rolling casks,
sailors are scrubbing the decks of vessels, or getting the sails half
way up to dry them in the sun. A barque just arriving comes alongside
the quay, the other vessels making room for her to pass. The little
steamboats are getting up steam or letting it off; and when you turn
toward the city, through the rigging of the vessels, you see the
church-towers, which incline gracefully, like the masts of clippers.
[Footnote A: From "A Winter in Russia." By arrangement with, and by
permission of, the publishers, Henry Holt & Co. Copyright, 1874.]
[Footnote B: The decline of Luebeck dates from the first quarter of the
sixteenth century and was chiefly due to the discovery of America and
the consequent diversion of commerce to new directions. Other
misfortunes came with the Thirty Years' War. As early as 1425, one of
the constant sources of Luebeck's wealth had begun to fail her--the
herring, which was found to be deserting Baltic waters. The discovery by
the Portuguese of a route to India by the Cape of Good Hope was another
cause of Luebeck's decline.]
HELIGOLAND[A]
BY WILLIAM GEORGE BLACK
In Heligoland itself there are few trees, no running water, no romantic
ruins, but an extraordinary width of sea-view, seen as from the deck of
a gigantic ship; and yet the island is so small that one can look around
it all, and take the sea-line in one great circle.
Seen from a distance, as one must first see it, Heligoland is little
more than a cloud on the horizon; but as the steamer approaches nearer,
the island stands up, a red rock in the ocean, without companion or
neighbor. A small ledge of white strand to the south is the only spot
where boats can land, and on this ledge nestle many white-walled,
red-roofed houses; while on the rim of the rock, nearly two hundred feet
above, is a sister hamlet, with the church-tower and lighthouse for
central ornaments.
On the Unterland are the principal streets and shops, on the Oberland
are many of the best hotels and government-house. As there is no harbor,
passengers reach the shore in large boats, and get their first glimpse
of the hardy, sun-browned natives in the boatmen who, with bright
jackets and hats of every picturesque curve that straw is capable of,
pull the boat quickly to the steps of the little pier. Crowds of
visitors line the way, but one gets quickly through, and in a few
minutes returns either to familiar quarters in the Oberland, or finds an
equally clean and moderate home among the lodging-house keepers or
seamen. The season is a very short one, only ten weeks out of fifty-two,
but the prices are moderate and the comfort unchallengeable....
Heligoland is only one mile long from pier to Nordkap, and a quarter of
a mile wide at its widest--in all it is three-quarters of a square mile
in size. There are no horses or carts in Heligoland--only six cows, kept
always in darkness, and a few sheep and goats tethered on the Oberland.
The streets are very narrow, but very clean, and the constant
repetition in houses and scarves and flags of the national colors gives
Heligoland a gay aspect; for the national colors are anything but dull.
Green land, red rocks, white strand--nothing could be better descriptive
of the island than these colors. They are easily brought out in domestic
architecture, for with a whitewashed cottage and a red-tiled roof the
Heligolander has only to give his door and window-shutters a coat of
bright green paint, and there are the colors of Heligoland. In case the
unforgettable fact should escape the tourist, the government have worked
the colors into the ingenious and pretty island postage-stamp, and many
of our German friends wear bathing-pants of the same unobtrusive tints.
Life is a very delightful thing in summer in this island. On your first
visit you feel exhilarated by the novelty of everything as much as by
the strong warm sea wind which meets you wherever you go. When you
return, the novelty has worn away, but the sense of enjoyment has
deepened. As you meet friendly faces and feel the grip of friendly
hands, so you also exchange salutations with Nature, as if she, too,
were an old Heligoland friend. You know the view from this point and
from that; but, like the converse of a friend, it is always changing,
for there is no monotony in the sea. The waves lap the shore gently, or
roar tumultuously in the red caverns, and it is all familiar, but none
the less welcome and soothing because of that familiarity. It is not a
land of lotus-eating delights, but it is a land where there is little
sound but what the sea makes, and where every face tells of strong sun
and salt waves. No doubt, much of its charm lies in its contrast to the
life of towns or country places. Whatever comes to Heligoland comes from
over the sea; there is no railway within many a wide mile; the people
are a peculiar people, with their own peculiar language, and an island
patriotism which it would be hard to match....
From the little pier one passes up the narrow white street, no broader
than a Cologne lane, but clean and bright as is no other street in
Europe, past the cafes with low balconies, and the little shops--into
some there are three or four steps to descend, into others there is an
ascent of a diminutive ladder--till the small square or garden is
reached in front of the Conversation House, a spacious building with a
good ball-room and reading-room, where a kiosque, always in summer full
of the fragrant Heligoland roses, detains the passer-by. Then another
turn or two in the street, and the bottom of the Treppe is
approached--the great staircase which winds upward to the Oberland, in
whose crevices grow masses of foliage, and whose easy ascent need not be
feared by any one, for the steps are broad and low.
The older flight of steps was situated about a hundred paces northward
from the present Treppe. It was cut out of the red crumbling rock, and
at the summit passed through a guard-house. Undoubtedly the present
Treppe should be similarly fortified. It was built by the government in
1834. During the smuggling days, it is said, an Englishman rode up to
the Oberland, and the apparition so shocked an old woman, who had never
seen a horse before, that she fell senseless to the ground.
From the Falm or road skirting the edge of the precipice from the head
of the stairs to Government House, one of the loveliest views in all the
world lies before our eyes. Immediately beneath are the winding stairs,
with their constant stream of broad-shouldered seamen, or coquettish
girls, or brown boys, passing up and down, while at each resting-place
some group is sitting on the green-red-white seats gossiping over the
day's business. Trees and plants nestle in the stair corners, and almost
conceal the roadway at the foot.
Lifting one's eyes away from the little town, the white pier sprawls on
the, sea, and countless boats at anchor spot with darkness the shining
water. Farther away, the Duene lies like a bar of silver across the view,
ribbed with emerald where the waves roll in over white sand; and all
around it, as far as the eye can reach, white sails gleam in the light,
until repose is found on the horizon where sea and sky meet in a vapory
haze. At night the Falm is a favorite resort of the men whose houses are
on the Oberland. With arms resting on the broad wall, they look down on
the twinkling lights of the houses far beneath, listen to the laughter
or song which float up from the small tables outside the cafe, or watch
the specks of light on the dark gleam of the North Sea. It is a prospect
of which one could hardly tire, if it was not that in summer one has in
Heligoland a surfeit of sea loveliness....
Heligoland is conjecturally identified with the ocean island described
by Tacitus as the place of the sacred rites of the Angli and other
tribes of the mainland. It was almost certainly sacred to Forsete, the
son of Balder the Sun-god--if he be identified, as Grimm and all Frisian
writers identify him, with Fosite the Frisian god. Forsete, a
personification to men of the great white god, who dwelt in a shining
hall of gold and silver, was among all gods and men the wisest of
judges.
It is generally supposed that Heligoland was first named the Holy Island
from its association with the worship of Forsete, and latterly in
consequence of the conversion of the Frisian inhabitants. Hallier has,
however, pointed out that the Heligolanders do not use this name for
their home. They call the island "det Lunn"--the land; their language
they call "Hollunner," and he suggests that the original name was
Hallig-lunn. A hallig is a sand-island occasionally covered with water.
When the Duene was connected with the rock there was a large stretch of
sand covered by winter floods. Hallig-lunn would then mean the island
that is more than a hallig; and from the similarity of the words to
Heligoland a series of etymological errors may have arisen; but
Hallier's derivation is, after all, only a guess.
[Footnote A: From "Heligoland and the Islands of the North Sea."
Heligoland, an island and fortress in the North Sea, lies thirty-six
miles northwest of the mouth of the Elbe--Hamburg. It was ceded to
Germany by Great Britain in 1890; and is attached to Schleswig Holstein.
As a fortress, its importance has been greatly increased since the
Germans recovered possession of the island.]
V
VIENNA
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF THE CAPITAL[A]
BY BAYARD TAYLOR
I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great capital, this
German Paris, this connecting-link between the civilization of Europe
and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It looks familiar to be in a
city again whose streets are thronged with people and resound with the
din and bustle of business. It reminds me of the never-ending crowds of
London or the life and tumult of our scarcely less active New York. The
morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the
Leopoldstadt to explore the world before us. Entering the broad
Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube which
separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent
coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their
breakfasts in the shady porticos. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses
the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the
dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little
brown Hungarian boys were going around selling bunches of lilies, and
Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the sidewalk.
The throng became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The
streets were filled with carts and carriages, and, as there are no
side-pavements, it required constant attention to keep out of their way.
Splendid shops fitted up with great taste occupied the whole of the
lower stories, and goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvas awnings in
front of them. Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some
particular person or place, which was represented on a large panel by
the door. The number of these paintings added much to the splendor of
the scene; I was gratified to find, among the images of kings and dukes,
one dedicated "To the American," with an Indian chief in full costume.
The Altstadt, or "old city," which contains about sixty thousand
inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population,
taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a
million.[B] It is situated on a small arm of the Danube and encompassed
by a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a
quarter to half a mile in length, called the "Glacis." This formerly
belonged to the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up
so rapidly on all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk.
The city is still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat,
but, since it was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed
into a garden with a beautiful carriage-road along the bottom around the
whole city.
It is a beautiful sight to stand on the summit of the wall and look over
the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every direction and
filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The Vorstaedte, or new
cities, stretch in a circle, around beyond this; all the finest
buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid Vienna Theater
and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The mountains of
the Vienna forest bound the view, with here and there a stately castle
on their woody summits.
There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Besides the
numberless walks of the Glacis there are the imperial gardens, with
their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and
opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph; and the Prater, the largest
and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of
the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle
at the end of the Praterstrasse broad carriage-ways extend through its
forests of oak and silver ash and over its verdant lawns to the
principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined
with stately horse-chestnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense
canopy, completely shutting out the sun.
Every afternoon the beauty and nobility of Vienna whirl through the
cool groves in their gay equipages, while the sidewalks are thronged
with pedestrians, and the numberless tables and seats with which every
house of refreshment is surrounded are filled with merry guests. Here on
Sundays and holidays the people repair in thousands. The woods are full
of tame deer, which run perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw
several in one of the lawns lying down in the grass, with a number of
children playing around or sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk
there in the cool of the evening, when the paths are crowded and
everybody is enjoying the release from the dusty city. It is this free
social life which renders Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws
yearly thousands of visitors from all parts of Europe....
We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to
Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the
Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment-hall nearly five hundred feet long,
with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a
garden-walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled
with tables, where the people seated themselves as they came and
conversed sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed
in a little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I
stationed myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king whose
magic tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion.
After the band had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized,
handsome man stept forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand
and bow in the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a
magician summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his
bow, the tones leaped forth from the instruments, and, guided by his eye
and hand, fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every
instrument performed its part was truly marvelous. He could not have
struck the measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his
own piano than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth so
perfect and distinct that one almost expected to see them embodied,
whirling in wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely
light and bounding the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it
sank into a mournful lament with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away
in a long-breathed sigh.
Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He would wave his
fiddle-bow a while, then commence playing with desperate energy, moving
his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from his brow. A
book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use of it. He
often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at the
restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from bounding to
the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The composition
of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted more in the
exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the perfect,
the wonderful, exactness with which each performed its part--a piece of
art of the most elaborate and refined character.
The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of
enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight with the
stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between
the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We
walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such
a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends and
the language our mother-tongue.
We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon to a little
cemetery about a mile from the city to find the grave of Beethoven. On
ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are
many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the
narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz
Clement, a young composer who died two or three years ago. On turning
again my eye fell instantly on the word "Beethoven" in golden letters on
a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the pedestal,
above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem of
resurrection. Here, then, moldered the remains of that restless spirit
who seemed to have strayed to earth from another clime, from such a
height did he draw his glorious conceptions.
The perfection he sought for here in vain he has now attained in a
world where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There
were no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius;
only one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long
ago by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their
bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not
resist the temptation to steal one or two while the old gravedigger was
busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open in a
few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred
relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer whose
beautiful songs are heard all over Germany.
We visited the imperial library a day or two ago. The hall is two
hundred and forty-five feet long, with a magnificent dome in the center,
under which stands the statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble,
surrounded by twelve other monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls
are of variegated marble richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling
and dome are covered with brilliant fresco-paintings. The library
numbers three hundred thousand volumes and sixteen thousand manuscripts,
which are kept in walnut cases gilded and adorned with medallions. The
rich and harmonious effect of the whole can not easily be imagined. It
is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such splendor should be used
to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may seem hollow and vain, for
it is but the dwelling of a man; but no building can be too magnificent
for the hundreds of great and immortal spirits to dwell in who have
visited earth during thirty centuries.
Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a
brass plate containing one of the records of the Roman Senate made one
hundred and eighty years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth
and sixth centuries, and a volume of Psalms printed on parchment in the
year 1457 by Faust and Schoeffer, the inventors of printing. There were
also Mexican manuscripts presented by Cortez, the prayer-book of
Hildegard, wife of Charlemagne, in letters of gold, the signature of San
Carlo Borromeo, and a Greek Testament of the thirteenth century which
had been used by Erasmus in making his, translation and contains notes
in his own hand. The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem
Delivered" of Tasso, in the poet's own hand, with his erasures and
corrections.
The chapel of St. Augustine contains one of the best works of
Canova--the monument of the Grand Duchess Maria Christina of
Sachsen-Teschen. It is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high,
with an opening in the side representing the entrance to a sepulcher. A
female figure personating Virtue bears in an urn to the grave the ashes
of the departed, attended by two children with torches. The figure of
Compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his
benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. On the lower step
rests a mourning genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the
pyramid above represents an angel carrying Christina's image, surrounded
with the emblem of eternity, to heaven. A spirit of deep sorrow, which
is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the
whole group.
While we looked at it the organ breathed out a slow, mournful strain
which harmonized so fully with the expression of the figures that we
seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they mourned. The
combined effect of music and sculpture thus united in their deep pathos
was such that I could have sat down and wept. It was not from sadness at
the death of a benevolent tho unknown individual, but the feeling of
grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so powerfully represented, came to
the heart like an echo of its own emotion and carried it away with
irresistible influence. Travelers have described the same feeling while
listening to the "Miserere" in the Sistine Chapel at Rome. Canova could
not have chiselled the monument without tears.
One of the most interesting objects in Vienna is the imperial armory. We
were admitted through tickets previously procured from the armory
direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told
to wait in the court till our turn came. Around the wall, on the inside,
is suspended the enormous chain which the Turks stretched across the
Danube at Buda in the year 1529 to obstruct the navigation. It has eight
thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. The court is filled with
cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from other
nations. I saw a great many which were cast during the French
Revolution, with the words "Liberte! Egalite!" upon them, and a number
of others bearing the simple letter "N."....
The first wing contains banners used in the French Revolution, and
liberty-trees with the red cap, the armor of Rudolph of Hapsburg,
Maximilian, I., the emperor Charles V., and the hat, sword and order of
Marshal Schwarzenberg. Some of the halls represent a fortification, with
walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. A long room
in the second wing contains an encampment in which twelve or fifteen
large tents are formed in like manner. There was also exhibited the
armor of a dwarf king of Bohemia and Hungary who died a gray-headed old
man in his twentieth year, the sword of Marlborough, the coat of
Gustavus Adolphus, pierced in the breast and back with the bullet which
killed him at Luetzen, the armor of the old Bohemian princess Libussa,
and that of the amazon Wlaska, with a steel vizor made to fit the
features of her face.
The last wing was the most remarkable. Here we saw the helm and
breastplate of Attila, king of the Huns, which once glanced at the head
of his myriads of wild hordes before the walls of Rome; the armor of
Count Stahremberg, who commanded Vienna during the Turkish siege in
1529, and the holy banner of Mohammed, taken at that time from the
grand vizier, together with the steel harness of John Sobieski of
Poland, who rescued Vienna from the Turkish troops under Kara Mustapha;
the hat, sword and breastplate of Godfrey of Bouillon, the crusader-king
of Jerusalem, with the banners of the cross the crusaders had borne to
Palestine and the standard they captured from the Turks on the walls of
the Holy City. I felt all my boyish enthusiasm for the romantic age of
the crusaders revive as I looked on the torn and moldering banners which
once waved on the hills of Judea, or perhaps followed the sword of the
Lion-Heart through the fight on the field of Ascalon. What tales could
they not tell, those old standards cut and shivered by spear and lance!
What brave hands have carried them through the storm of battle, what
dying eyes have looked upward to the cross on the folds as the last
prayer was breathed for the rescue of the holy sepulcher.
[Footnote A: From "Views Afoot." Published by G.P. Putnam's Sons.]
[Footnote B: The population of Vienna, according to the census of 1910,
was 2,085,888.]
ST. STEPHEN'S CATHEDRAL[A]
BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN
Of the chief objects of architecture which decorate street scenery in
Vienna, there are none, to my old-fashioned eyes, more attractive and
thoroughly beautiful and interesting--from a thousand associations of
ideas than places of worship, and of course, among these, none stands
so eminently conspicuous as the mother-church, or the cathedral, which
in this place, is dedicated to St. Stephen. The spire has been long
distinguished for its elegance and height. Probably these are the most
appropriate, if not the only, epithets of commendation which can be
applied to it. After Strasburg and Ulm, it appears a second-rate
edifice. Not but what the spire may even vie with that of the former,
and the nave may be yet larger than that of the latter; but, as a whole,
it is much inferior to either--even allowing for the palpable falling
off in the nave of Strasburg cathedral.
The spire, or tower--for it partakes of both characters--is indeed
worthy of general admiration. It is oddly situated, being almost
detached--and on the south side of the building. Indeed the whole
structure has a very strange, and I may add capricious, if not
repulsive, appearance, as to its exterior. The western and eastern ends
have nothing deserving of distinct notice or commendation. The former
has a porch; which is called "the Giant's porch;" it should rather be
designated as that of the Dwarf. It has no pretensions to size or
striking character of any description. Some of the oldest parts of the
cathedral appear to belong to the porch of the eastern end. As you walk
round the church, you can not fail to be struck with the great variety
of ancient--and to an Englishman, whimsical looking mural monuments, in
basso and alto relievos. Some of these are doubtless both interesting
and curious.
But the spire is indeed an object deserving of particular admiration.
It is next to that of Strasburg in height; being 432 feet of Vienna
measurement. It may be said to begin to taper from the first stage or
floor; and is distinguished for its open and sometimes intricate
fretwork. About two-thirds of its height, just above the clock, and
where the more slender part of the spire commences, there is a gallery
or platform, to which the French quickly ascended, on their possession
of Vienna, to reconnoiter the surrounding country. The very summit of
the spire is bent, or inclined to the north; so much so, as to give the
notion that the cap or crown will fall in a short time.
As to the period of the erection of this spire, it is supposed to have
been about the middle, or latter end, of the fifteenth century. It has
certainly much in common with the highly ornamental Gothic style of
building in our own country, about the reign of Henry VI. The colored
glazed tiles of the roof of the church are very disagreeable and
unharmonizing. These colors are chiefly green, red, and blue. Indeed the
whole roof is exceedingly heavy and tasteless.
I will now conduct you to the interior. On entering, from the southeast
door, you observe, to the left, a small piece of white marble--which
every one touches, with the finger or thumb charged with holy water, on
entering or leaving the cathedral. Such have been the countless
thousands of times that this piece of marble has been so touched, that,
purely, from such friction, it has been worn nearly half an inch below
the general surrounding surface. I have great doubts, however, if this
mysterious piece of masonry be as old as the walls of the church (which
may be of the fourteenth century), which they pretend to say it is.
The first view of the interior of this cathedral, seen even at the most
favorable moment--which is from about three till five o'clock--is far
from prepossessing. Indeed, after what I had seen at Rouen, Paris,
Strassburg, Ulm, and Munich, it was a palpable disappointment. In the
first place, there seems to be no grand leading feature of simplicity;
add to which, darkness reigns everywhere. You look up, and discern no
roof--not so much from its extreme height, as from the absolute want of
windows. Everything not only looks dreary, but is dingy and black--from
the mere dirt and dust which seem to have covered the great pillars of
the nave--and especially the figures and ornaments upon it--for the last
four centuries. This is the more to be regretted, as the larger pillars
are highly ornamented; having human figures, of the size of life,
beneath sharply pointed canopies, running up the shafts. The extreme
length of the cathedral is 342 feet of Vienna measurement. The extreme
width, between the tower and its opposite extremity--or the
transepts--is 222 feet.
There are comparatively few chapels; only four--but many Bethstuehle or
Prie-Dieus. Of the former, the chapels of Savoy and St. Eloy are the
chief; but the large sacristy is more extensive than either. On my first
entrance, while attentively examining the choir, I noticed--what was
really a very provoking, but probably not a very uncommon sight--a maid
servant deliberately using a long broom in sweeping the pavement of the
high altar, at the moment when several very respectable people, of both
sexes, were kneeling upon the steps, occupied in prayer. But the
devotion of the people is incessant--all the day long--and in all parts
of the cathedral.
Meanwhile, service is going on in all parts of the cathedral. They are
singing here; they are praying there; and they are preaching in a third
place. But during the whole time, I never heard one single note of the
organ. I remember only the other Sunday morning--walking out beneath one
of the brightest blue skies that ever shone upon man--and entering the
cathedral about nine o'clock. A preacher was in the principal pulpit;
while a tolerably numerous congregation was gathered around him. He
preached, of course, in the German language, and used much action. As he
became more and more animated, he necessarily became warmer, and pulled
off a black cap--which, till then, he had kept upon his head; the zeal
and piety of the congregation at the same time seeming to increase with
the accelerated motions of the preacher.
In other more retired parts, solitary devotees were seen--silent, and
absorbed in prayer. Among these, I shall not easily forget the head and
the physiognomical expression of one old man--who, having been supported
by crutches, which lay by the side of him--appeared to have come for the
last time to offer his orisons to heaven. The light shone full upon his
bald head and elevated countenance; which latter indicated a genuineness
of piety, and benevolence of disposition, not to be soured, even by the
most bitter of worldly disappointments! It seemed as if the old man were
taking leave of this life, in full confidence of the rewards which await
the righteous beyond the grave.
So much for the living. A word or two now for the dead. Of course this
letter alludes to the monuments of the more distinguished characters
once resident in and near the metropolis. Among these, doubtless the
most elaborate is that of the Emperor Frederick III.--in the florid
Gothic style, surmounted by a tablet, filled with coat-armor, or
heraldic shields. Some of the mural monuments are very curious, and
among them are several of the early part of the sixteenth century--which
represent the chins and even mouths of females, entirely covered by
drapery; such as is even now to be seen and such as we saw on descending
from the Vosges. But among these monuments--both for absolute and
relative antiquity--none will appear to the curious eye of an antiquary
so precious as that of the head of the architect of the cathedral, whose
name was Pilgram.
[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour,"
published in 1821.]
THE BELVEDERE PALACE[A]
BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN
To the Belvedere Palace, therefore, let us go. I visited it with Mr.
Lewis--taking our valet with us, immediately after breakfast--on one of
the finest and clearest-skied September mornings that ever shone above
the head of man. We had resolved to take the Ambras, or the little
Belvedere, in our way; and to have a good, long, and uninterrupted view
of the wonders of art--in a variety of departments.
Both the little Belvedere and the large Belvedere rise gradually above
the suburbs; and the latter may be about a mile and a half from the
ramparts of the city. The Ambras contains a quantity of ancient horse-
and foot-armor, brought thither from a chateau of that name, near
Inssbruck, built by the Emperor Charles V. Such a collection of old
armor--which had once equally graced and protected the bodies of their
wearers, among whom the noblest names of which Germany can boast may be
enrolled--was infinitely gratifying to me. The sides of the first room
were quite embossed with suspended shields, cuirasses, and
breast-plates. The floor was almost filled by champions on
horseback--yet poising the spear, or holding it in the rest--yet almost
shaking their angry plumes, and pricking the fiery sides of their
coursers.
Here rode Maximilian--and there halted Charles his son. Different suits
of armor, belonging to the same character, are studiously shown you by
the guide; some of these are the foot-, and some the horse-, armor; some
were worn in fight--yet giving evidence of the mark of the bullet and
battle-ax; others were the holiday suits of armor, with which the
knights marched in procession, or tilted at the tournament. The
workmanship of the full-dress suits, in which a great deal of highly
wrought gold ornament appears, is sometimes really exquisite.
The second, or long room, is more particularly appropriated to the foot-
or infantry-armor. In this studied display of much that is interesting
from antiquity, and splendid from absolute beauty and costliness, I was
particularly gratified by the sight of the armor which the Emperor
Maximilian wore as a foot-captain. The lower part, to defend the thighs,
consists of a puckered or plated steel petticoat, sticking out at the
bottom of the folds, considerably beyond the upper part. It is very
simple, and of polished steel. A fine suit of armor--of black and
gold--worn by an Archbishop of Salzburg in the middle of the fifteenth
century, had particular claims upon my admiration. It was at once chaste
and effective. The mace was by the side of it.
This room is also ornamented by trophies taken from the Turks; such as
bows, spears, battle-axes, and scimitars. In short, the whole is full of
interest and splendor. I ought to have seen the arsenal--which I learn
is of uncommon magnificence; and, altho not so curious on the score of
antiquity, is yet not destitute of relics of the warriors of Germany.
Among these, those which belong to my old bibliomaniacal friend
Corvinus, King of Hungary, cut a conspicuous and very respectable
figure. I fear it will be now impracticable to see the arsenal as it
ought to be seen.
It is now approaching mid-day, and we are walking toward the terrace in
front of the Great Belvidere Palace, built by the immortal Eugene[B] in
the year 1724, as a summer residence. Probably no spot could have been
selected with better judgment for the residence of a Prince--who wished
to enjoy, almost at the same moment, the charms of the country with the
magnificence of a city view, unclouded by the dense fumes which forever
envelop our metropolis. It is in truth a glorious situation. Walking
along its wide and well-cultivated terraces, you obtain the finest view
imaginable of the city of Vienna.
Indeed it may be called a picturesque view. The spire of the cathedral
darts directly upward, as it were, to the very heavens. The ground
before you, and in the distance, is gently undulating; and the
intermediate portion of the suburbs does not present any very offensive
protrusions. More in the distance, the windings of the Danube are seen;
with its various little islands, studded with hamlets and fishing-huts,
lighted up by a sun of unusual radiance. Indeed the sky, above the
whole of this rich and civilized scene, was at the time of our viewing
it, almost of a dazzling hue; so deep and vivid a tint we had never
before beheld. Behind the palace, in the distance, you observe a chain
of mountains which extends into Hungary. As to the building itself, it
is perfectly palatial in its size, form, ornaments, and general effect.
Among the treasures, which it contains, it is now high time to enter and
to look about us. My account is necessarily a mere sketch. Rubens, if
any artist, seems here to "rule and reign without control!" Two large
rooms are filled with his productions; besides several other pictures,
by the same hand, which are placed in different apartments. Here it is
that you see verified the truth of Sir Joshua's remark upon that
wonderful artist: namely, that his genius seems to expand with the size
of his canvas.
His pencil absolutely riots here--in the most luxuriant manner--whether
in the majesty of an altarpiece, in the gaiety of a festive scene, or in
the sobriety of portrait-painting. His Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis
Xavier--of the former class--each seventeen feet high, by nearly
thirteen wide--are stupendous productions in more senses than one. The
latter is, indeed, in my humble judgment, the most marvelous specimen of
the powers of the painter which I have ever seen; and you must remember
that both England and France are not without some of his celebrated
productions, which I have frequently examined.
In the old German School, the series is almost countless; and of the
greatest possible degree of interest and curiosity. Here are to be seen
Wohlgemuths, Albert Duerers, both the Holbeins, Lucas Cranachs,
Ambergaus, and Burgmairs of all sizes and degrees of merit. Among these
ancient specimens--which are placed in curious order, in the very upper
suite of apartments, and of which the backgrounds of several, in one
solid coat of gilt, lighten up the room like a golden sunset--you must
not fail to pay particular attention to a singularly curious old
subject--representing the Life, Miracles, and Passion of our Savior, in
a series of one hundred and fifty-eight pictures--of which the largest
is nearly three feet square, and every other about fifteen inches by
ten. These subjects are painted upon eighty-six small pieces of wood; of
which seventy-two are contained in six folding cabinets, each holding
twelve subjects. In regard to Teniers, Gerard Dow, Mieris, Wouvermann,
and Cuyp, you must look at home for more exquisite specimens. This
collection contains, in the whole, not fewer than fifteen hundred
paintings, of which the greater portion consists of pictures of very
large dimensions. I could have lived here for a month; but could only
move along with the hurried step, and yet more hurrying eye, of an
ordinary visitor.
[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour,"
published in 1821.]
[Footnote B: The celebrated Austrian general, who defeated the Turks in
1697, and shared with Marlborough in the victories of Blenheim and
Malplaquet.]
SCHOENBRUNN AND THE PRATER[A]
BY THOMAS FROGNALL DIBDIN
About three English miles from the Great Belvedere--or rather about the
same number of miles from Vienna, to the right, as you approach the
capital--is the famous palace of Schoenbrunn. This is a sort of
summer-residence of the Emperor; and it is here that his daughter, the
ex-Empress of France, and the young Bonaparte usually reside.[B] The
latter never goes into Italy, when his mother, as Duchess of Parma, pays
her annual visit to her principality. At this moment her son is at
Baden, with the court. It was in the Schoenbrunn palace that his father,
on the conquest of Vienna, used to take up his abode, rarely venturing
into the city. He was surely safe enough here; as every chamber and
every court yard was filled by the elite of his guard--whether as
officers or soldiers.
It is a most magnificent pile of building; a truly imperial
residence--but neither the furniture nor the objects of art, whether
connected with sculpture or painting, are deserving of anything in the
shape of a catalogue raisonne. I saw the chamber where young Bonaparte
frequently passes the day; and brandishes his flag staff, and beats upon
his drum. He is a soldier (as they tell me) every inch of him; and
rides out, through the streets of Vienna, in a carriage of state drawn
by four or six horses, receiving the homage of the passing multitude.
To return to the Schoenbrunn Palace. I have already told you that it is
vast, and capable of accommodating the largest retinue of courtiers. It
is of the gardens belonging to it, that I would now only wish to say a
word. These gardens are really worthy of the residence to which they are
attached. For what is called ornamental, formal, gardening--enriched by
shrubs of rarity, and trees of magnificence--enlivened by
fountains--adorned by sculpture--and diversified by vistas, lawns, and
walks--interspersed with grottoes and artificial ruins--you can conceive
nothing upon a grander scale than these: while a menagerie in one place
(where I saw a large but miserably wasted elephant)--a flower-garden in
another--a labyrinth in a third, and a solitude in a fourth place--each,
in its turn, equally beguiles the hour and the walk. They are the most
spacious gardens I ever witnessed.
It was the other Sunday evening when I visited the Prater, and when--as
the weather happened to be very fine--it was considered to be full, but
the absence of the court, of the noblesse, necessarily gave a less
joyous and splendid aspect to the carriages and their attendant
liveries. In your way to this famous place of Sabbath evening promenade,
you pass a celebrated coffee-house, in the suburbs, called the
Leopoldstadt, which goes by the name of the Greek coffee-house--on
account of its being almost entirely frequented by Greeks--so numerous
at Vienna. Do not pass it, if you should ever come hither, without
entering it--at least once. You would fancy yourself to be in Greece, so
thoroughly characteristic are the countenances, dresses, and language of
everyone within.
But yonder commences the procession of horse and foot; of cabriolets,
family coaches, German wagons, cars, phaetons and landaulets, all moving
in a measured manner, within their prescribed ranks, toward the Prater.
We must accompany them without loss of time. You now reach the Prater.
It is an extensive flat, surrounded by branches of the Danube, and
planted on each side with double rows of horse-chestnut trees. The
drive, in one straight line, is probably a league in length. It is
divided by two roads, in one of which the company move onward, and in
the other they return. Consequently, if you happen to find a hillock
only a few feet high, you may, from thence, obtain a pretty good view of
the interminable procession of the carriages before mentioned: one
current of them, as it were, moving forward, and another rolling
backward.
But, hark! the notes of a harp are heard to the left, in a meadow, where
the foot passengers often digress from the more formal tree-lined
promenade. A press of ladies and gentlemen is quickly seen. You mingle
involuntarily with them; and, looking forward, you observe a small stage
erected, upon which a harper sits and two singers stand. The company
now lie down upon the grass, or break into standing groups, or sit upon
chairs hired for the occasion--to listen to the notes so boldly and so
feelingly executed. The clapping of hands, and exclamations of bravo
succeed, and the sounds of applause, however warmly bestowed, quickly
die away in the open air. The performers bow, receive a few kreutzers,
retire, and are well satisfied.
The sound of the trumpet is now heard behind you. Tilting feats are
about to be performed; the coursers snort and are put in motion; their
hides are bathed in sweat beneath their ponderous housings; and the
blood, which flows freely from the pricks of their riders' spurs, shows
you with what earnestness the whole affair is conducted. There, the ring
is thrice carried off at the point of the lance. Feats of horsemanship
follow in a covered building, to the right; and the juggler, conjurer,
or magician, displays his dexterous feats, or exercises his potent
spells, in a little amphitheater of trees, at a distance beyond.
Here and there rise more stately edifices, as theaters, from the doors
of which a throng of heated spectators is pouring out. In other
directions, booths, stalls and tables are fixt; where the hungry eat,
the thirsty drink, and the merry-hearted indulge in potent libations.
The waiters are in a constant state of locomotion. Rhenish wine sparkles
here; confectionery glitters there; and fruit looks bright and tempting
in a third place. No guest turns round to eye the company; because he is
intent upon the luxuries which invite his immediate attention, or he is
in close conversation with an intimate friend, or a beloved female. They
talk and laugh--and the present seems to be the happiest moment of their
lives.
All is gaiety and good humor. You return again to the foot-promenade,
and look sharply about you, as you move onward, to catch the spark of
beauty, or admire the costume of taste, or confess the power of
expression. It is an Albanian female who walks yonder, wondering, and
asking questions, at every thing she sees. The proud Jewess, supported
by her husband and father, moves in another direction. She is covered
with brocade and flaunting ribbons; but she is abstracted from
everything around her, because her eyes are cast downward upon her
stomacher, or sideways to obtain a glimpse of what may be called her
spangled epaulettes. Her eye is large and dark; her nose is aquiline;
her complexion is of an olive brown; her stature is majestic, her dress
is gorgeous, her gait is measured--and her demeanor is grave and
composed. "She must be very rich," you say--as she passes on. "She is
prodigiously rich," replies the friend, to whom you put the
question--for seven virgins, with nosegays of choicest flowers, held up
her bridal train; and the like number of youths, with silver-hilted
swords, and robes of ermine and satin, graced the same bridal ceremony.
Her father thinks he can never do enough for her; and her husband, that
he can never love her sufficiently.
Whether she be happy or not, in consequence, we have no time to stop to
inquire, for see yonder! Three "turbaned Turks" make their advances. How
gaily, how magnificently they are attired! What finely proportioned
limbs--what beautifully formed features! They have been carousing,
peradventure, with some young Greeks--who have just saluted them, en
passant--at the famous coffee-house before mentioned. Everything around
you is novel and striking; while the verdure of the trees and lawns is
yet fresh, and the sun does not seem yet disposed to sink below the
horizon. The carriages still move on, and return, in measured
procession. Those who are within, look earnestly from the windows, to
catch a glance of their passing friends. The fair hand is waved here;
the curiously-painted fan is shaken there; and the repeated nod is seen
in almost every other passing landaulet. Not a heart seems sad; not a
brow appears to be clouded with care.
Such--or something like the foregoing--is the scene which usually passes
on a Sunday evening--perhaps six months out of the twelve--upon the
famous Prater at Vienna; while the tolling bell of St. Stephen's tower,
about nine o'clock--and the groups of visitors hurrying back, to get
home before the gates of the city are shut against them--usually
conclude the scene just described.
[Footnote A: From "A Bibliographical, Antiquarian and Picturesque Tour."
published in 1821.]
[Footnote B: Marie Louise, second wife of Napoleon, and their son, the
King of Rome.]
VI
HUNGARY
A GLANCE AT THE COUNTRY[A]
BY H. TORNAI DE KOEVER
Hungary consists of Hungary proper, with Transylvania (which had
independent rule at one time), Croatia and Slavonia (which have been
added), and the town of Fiume on the shores of the Adriatic Sea.
The lowlands are exceedingly beautiful in the northeast and west, where
the great mountain, peaks rise into the clear blue sky or are hidden by
big white clouds, but no beauty can be compared to the young green
waving corn or the ripe ears when swaying gently in the breeze. One sees
miles and miles of corn, with only a tree here and there to mark the
distances, and one can not help comparing the landscape to a green sea,
for the wind makes long silky waves, which make the field appear to rise
and fall like the ocean. In the heat of midday the mirage, or, as the
Hungarians call it, "Delibab," appears and shows wonderful rivers,
villages, cool green woods--all floating in the air. Sometimes one sees
hundreds of white oxen and church towers, and, to make the picture still
more confusing and wonderful, it is all seen upside down. This, the
richest part of the country, is situated between the rivers Danube and
Theiss, and runs right down to the borders of Servia. Two thirds of
Hungary consist of mountainous districts, but one third has the richest
soil in Europe.
Great rivers run through the heart of the country, giving it the
fertility which is its great source of wealth. The great lowlands, or
"Alfoeld," as the Magyars call them, are surrounded by a chain of
mountains whose heights are nearly equal to some Alpine districts. There
are three principal mountain ranges--the Tatra, Matra, and Fatra--and
four principal rivers--the Danube, Theiss, Drave, and Save. Hungary is
called the land of the three mountains and four rivers, and the emblem
of these form the chief feature in the coat-of-arms of the country.
The Carpathian range of mountains stretches from the northwest along the
north and down the east, encircling the lowlands and sending forth
rivers and streams to water the plains. These mountains are of a
gigantic bulk and breadth; they are covered with fir and pine trees, and
in the lower regions with oaks and many other kinds. The peaks of the
high Tatra are about 9,000 feet high, and, of course, are bare of any
vegetation, being snow-covered even in summer-time. On the
well-sheltered sides of these mountains numerous baths are to be found,
and they abound in mineral waters. Another curious feature are the deep
lakes called "Tengerszem" (Eyes of the Sea). According to folklore they
are connected with the sea, and wonderful beings live in them. However,
it is so far true that they are really of astonishing depth. The summer
up in the Northern Carpathians is very short, the nights always cold,
and there is plenty of rain to water the rich vegetation of the forests.
Often even in the summer there are snowstorms and a very low
temperature.
The Northeastern Carpathians include a range of lower hills running down
to the so-called Hegyalja, where the wonderful vine which produces the
wine of Tokay is grown. The southeastern range of the Carpathians
divides the county of Maramaros from Erdely (Transylvania). The main
part of this country is mountainous and rugged, but here also there is
wonderful scenery. Everything is still very wild in these parts of the
land, and tho mineral waters abound everywhere, the bathing-places are
very primitive.
The only seaport the country possesses is Fiume, which was given to
Hungary by Maria Theresa, who wanted to give Hungary the chance of
developing into a commercial nation. Besides the deep but small mountain
lakes, there are several large ones; among these the most important is
the Balaton, which, altho narrow, is about fifty miles long. Along its
borders there are summer bathing-places, considered very healthy for
children. Very good wine is produced here, as in most parts of Hungary
which are hilly, but not situated too high up among the mountains. The
lake of Balaton is renowned for a splendid kind of fresh-water fish, the
Fogas. It is considered the best fish after trout--some even prefer
it--and it grows to a good size.
The chief river of Hungary is the Danube, and the whole of Hungary is
included in its basin. It runs through the heart of the country, forming
many islands; the greatest is called the Csallokoez, and has over a
hundred villages on it. One of the prettiest and most cultivated of the
islands is St. Margaret's Isle, near Budapest, which has latterly been
joined to the mainland by a bridge. Some years ago only steamers
conveyed the visitors to it; these still exist, but now carriages can
drive on to the island too. It is a beautiful park, where the people of
Budapest seek the shade of the splendid old trees. Hot sulfur springs
are to be found on the island, and there is a bath for the use of
visitors.
The Danube leaves Hungary at Orsova, and passes through the so-called
Iron Gates. The scenery is very beautiful and wild in that part, and
there are many points where it is exceedingly picturesque, especially
between Vienna and Budapest. It is navigable for steamships, and so is
the next largest river, the Theiss. This river begins its course in the
Southeastern Carpathians, right up among the snow-peaks, amid wild and
beautiful scenery, and it eventually empties its waters into the Danube
at Titel. The three largest rivers of Hungary feed the Danube, and by
that means reach the Black Sea.
Hungary lies under the so-called temperate zone, but there does not seem
much temperance in the climate when we think of the terrible, almost
Siberian winters that come often enough and the heat waves occasioning
frequent droughts in the lowlands. The summer is short in the
Carpathians; usually in the months of August and September the weather
is the most settled. June and July are often rainy--sometimes snowstorms
cause the barometer to fall tremendously. In the mountain districts
there is a great difference between the temperature of the daytime and
that of the night. All those who go to the Carpathians do well to take
winter and Alpine clothing with them.
The winter in the mountains is perhaps the most exhilarating, as plenty
of winter sport goes on. The air is very cold, but the sun has great
strength in sheltered corners, enabling even delicate people to spend
the winter there. In the lowlands the summer is exceedingly hot, but
frequent storms, which cool the air for some days, make the heat
bearable. Now and then there have been summers when in some parts of
Hungary rain has not fallen for many weeks--even months. The winter,
too, even in the more temperate parts, is often severe and long, there
being often from eight to ten weeks of skating, altho the last few years
have been abnormally mild. In the valleys of the Carpathians potatoes,
barley, oats, and cabbages are grown, while in the warmer south wheat,
maize, tobacco, turnips, and the vine are cultivated. Down by the
Adriatic Sea the climate is much warmer, but Hungary, as already
mentioned, has only the town of Fiume of her own to boast of. The
visitors who look for a temperate winter and want to get away from the
raw cold must go to the Austrian town of Abbazia, which is reached in
half an hour by steamboat, and is called the Austrian Riviera. Those who
visit Hungary should come in spring--about May--and spend some weeks in
the capital, the lowlands and hilly districts, and go north to the
mountains and bathing-places in the summer months.
Tokay produces some of the finest wine in the world, and the vintage
time in that part of the country is most interesting and picturesque.
[Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.]
BUDAPEST[A]
BY H. TORNAI DE KOEVER
Budapest is one of the most beautifully situated cities in Europe.
Nobody can ever forget the wonderful sight of the two sister towns
divided by the wide and swiftly flowing Danube, with the steamers and
barges on her waters. Buda, the old stronghold, is on one side with the
fantastic "Gellert" hill, which is a formidable-looking mass of rocks
and caves; farther on is the lovely royal palace with its beautifully
kept gardens clinging to the hillside; then the oldest part, called the
stronghold, which has been rebuilt exactly in the style Matthias
Corvinus built it, and which was demolished during the Turkish invasion.
Here is the old church of Matthias too, but it is so much renovated that
it lacks the appearance of age. Behind the smaller hills larger ones
are to be seen covered with shady woods; these are the villa regions and
summer excursion places for the people.
Along the Danube are green and shady islands of which the most beautiful
is St. Margaret's Isle, and on the other side of the waters is the city
of "Pest," with the majestic Houses of Parliament, Palace of Justice,
Academy of Science, and numerous other fine buildings. At the present
time four bridges join the two cities together, and a huge tunnel leads
through the first hill in Buda into another part of the town. One can
not say which is the more beautiful sight: to look from Pest, which
stands on level ground, up to the varying hilly landscape of Buda; or to
look from the hillside of the latter place on to the fairy-land of Pest,
with the broad silver Danube receding in the distance like a great
winding snake, its scales all aglitter in the sunshine. It is beautiful
by day, but still more so at night, for myriads of lights twinkle in the
water, and the hillsides are dotted as if with flitting fairy-lamps.
Even those who are used to the sight look at it in speechless rapture
and wonder. What must it be like to foreigners!
Besides her splendid natural situation, Budapest has another great
treasure, and this is the great quantity of hot sulfur springs which
exists on both sides of the Danube. The Romans made use of these at the
time of their colonization, and we can find the ruins of the Roman baths
in Aquincum half an hour from Budapest. During the Turkish rule many
Turkish baths were erected in Buda. The Rudas bath exists to this day,
and with its modernized system is one of the most popular. Csaszar bath,
St. Lukacs bath, both in Buda, have an old-established reputation for
the splendid cures of rheumatism. A new bath is being built in Pest
where the hot sulfur water oozes up in the middle of the park--the same
is to be found in St. Margaret's Isle. Besides the sulfur baths there
are the much-known bitter waters in Buda called "Hunyady" and "Franz
Joseph," as well as salt baths.
The city, with the exception of some parts in Buda, is quite modern, and
has encircling boulevards and wide streets, one of the finest being the
Andrassy Street. The electric car system is one of the most modern,
while underground and overground electric railways lead to the most
distant suburbs. The city has a gay and new look about it; all along the
walks trees are planted, and cafes are to be seen with a screen of
shrubs or flowers around them. In the evening the sound of music floats
from the houses and cafes. There are plenty of theaters, in which only
the Hungarian language is used, and a large and beautiful opera-house
under government management. There are museums, institutions of art and
learning, academies of painting and music, schools, and shops, and life
and movement everywhere. At present [1911] the city numbers about
900,000 souls, but the more distant suburbs are not reckoned in this
number.
[Footnote A: From "Hungary." Published by the Macmillan Co.]
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