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RARY 

Ni^ERSlTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


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THE   CHARACTERISTICS  OF  WOMEN :  Moral,  Po- 

BTICAL,  AND  HISTORICAL. 

THE  DIARY  OF  AN  ENNUYEE. 

MEMOIRS  OF  THE  LOVES  OF  THE  POETS.  Bio- 
graphical Sketches  of  Women  celebrated  in  Ancient  and  Mod- 
em Poetry. 

STUDIES,  STORIES,  AND  MEMOIRS. 

SKIETCHES   OF   ART,    LITERATURE,  AND   CHAR- 
ACTER.   With  a  Steel  Engraving  of  Raphael's  Madonna  del  ( 
San  Sisto. 

MEMOIRS    OF   THE    EARLY    ITALIAN    PAINTERS 
■   (Cimabue  to  Bassano). 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  MADONNA  as  represented  in  ihe 
Fine  Arts. 

SACRED  AND   LEGENDARY  ART.    In  two  volumes. 

LEGENDS  OF  THE  MONASTIC  ORDERS  as  repre- 
sented  in  the  Fine  Arts.  Forming  the  Second  Seriec  Jt  Sacred 
and  Legendary  Art. 

Each  volume,  i6mo,  $1.25 ;  the  ten  volumes,  in  box,  #12.50;  half 
calf,  I25.00;  tree  calf,  I35.00. 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  Publishers, 
Boston  and  New  York. 


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SKETCHES  OF  ART,  LITERATURE, 
AND  CHARACTER 


BY 

MRS.  JAMESON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPAN\ 

»893 


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74^5 
I  El 3 


OBI6INAL  FSBFACB. 

IHl   AUTHOR  TO   IHl   miim 

It  8eem8  a  foolish  thing  to  aend  into  the  world  • 
book  requiring  a  preface  of  apologies;  and  jet 
more  absurd  to  presome  that  anj  deprecation  on 
the  part  of  the  author  coold  possiblj  win  indul- 
gence for  what  should  be  in  itself  worthless. 

For  this  reason,  and  with  a  very  deep  feeling  of 
the  kindness  I  have  already  experienced  from  the 
public,  I  should  now  abandon  these  little  volumes 
to  their  destiny  without  one  word  of  preface  or  re> 
mark,  but  that  a  certain  portion  of  their  contents 
seems  to  require  a  little  explanation. 

It  was  the  wish  and  request  of  my  friends,  many 
months  ago,  that  I  should  collect  various  literary 
trifles  which  were  scattered  about  in  print  or  man- 
uscript, and  allow  them  to  be  published  together. 
My  departure  for  the  Continent  set  aside  this  in- 
tention for  the  time.  I  had  other  and  particular 
objects  in  view,  which  still  keep  full  possession  of 
my  mind,  and  which  have  been  suspended  not 
without  reluctance,  in  order  to  prepare  these  vol- 
ames  for  the  press : — neither  had  I,  while  travelling 
in  Germany,  the  slightest  idea  of  writing  any  thing 


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n  ORIGINAL  PBEFACE. 

of  that  country :  so  far  from  it,  that  except  duriug 
the  last  few  weeks  at  Munich,  I  kept  no  regular 
notes ;  but  finding,  on  my  return  to  England^  that 
many  particulars  which  had  strongly  excited  my 
interest  with  regard  to  the  relative  state  of  art  and 
social  existence  in  the  two  countries  appeared  new 
to  those  with  whom  I  conversed, — after  some  hesi- 
tation, I  was  induced  to  throw  into  form  the  few 
memoranda  I  had  made  on  the  spot.  They  are 
now  given  to  the  public  in  the  first  volume  of  this 
little  collection  with  a  very  sincere  feeling  of  their 
many  imperfections,  and  much  anxiety  with  regard 
to  the  reception  they  are  likely  to  meet  with ;  yet 
in  the  earnest  hope  that  what  has  been  written  in 
perfect  simplicity  of  heart,  may  be  perused  both 
by  my  English  -and  German  friends,  particularly 
the  artists,  with  indulgence ;  that  those  who  read 
and  doubt  may  be  awakened  to  inquiry,  and  those 
who  read  and  believe  may  be  led  to  reflection ;  and 
that  those  who  difier  from,  and  those  who  agree 
with,  the  writer,  may  both  find  som'e  interest  and 
amusement  in  the  literal  truth  of  the  facts  and  im- 
pressions she  has  ventured  to  record. 

It  was  difficult  to  ^ve  sketches  of  art,  literature, 
and  character,  without  making  now  and  then  some 
personal  allusions ;  but  though  I  have  often  sketched 
oom  the  life,  I  have  adhered  throughout  to  this 
principle — never  to  ^ve  publicity  to  any  name  not 
already  before  the  public,  and  in  a  manner  public 
property. 


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ORIGINAL  i'HEFACB.  fD 

While  writing  this  preface,  I  learn  that  the  sub- 
ject of  the  little  sketch  at  the  end  of  the  first  vol* 
time  is  expected  to  return  to  England  before  she 
has  finally  quitted  her  profession.  The  first  im- 
pulse was,  of  course,  to  cancel  those  pages  which 
were  written  long  ago,  and  under  a  far  different 
impression,  feeling  that  their  purport  might  expose 
either  the  gifted  person  alluded  to,  or  the  author  to 
misconstruction.  But  it  has  been  fotmd  impossible 
to  do  so  without  causing  not  only  a  great  expense, 
but  also  injury  to  my  publishers,  from  the  con- 
sequent delay.  The  allusion  to  her  immediate 
retirement  from  the  stage  is  the  only  error  I  am 
aware  of;  and  that  is  only  a  truth  deferred  for  a 
short  period  :  for  the  rest — ^I  have  no  shield  against 
folly  and  malignity,  neither  has  she — 

^  TJne  femme — ^one  flenr,  8*effenille  sans  defence." 

Under  all  the  circumstances  I  would  rather  the 
sketch  had  been  omitted ;  but  as  this  could  not  be 
done  except  by  an  obvious  injustice,  after  some 
struggle  with  my  own  wishes  and  feelings,  I  have 
suffered  the  whole  to  stand  as  originally  written  ; 
and  it  is  trusted  to  the  best  and  kindest  interpreta- 
tion of  the  public. 

A.  J. 
ifoy,  1884. 

Nors.  The  original  Edition  was  published  In  two  vol 
ernes. 


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CONTENXa 

ffAM 

r^tfcot ▼ 

■urcBif  or  An,  lanMAWMM,  ijn  (huiicra,  Pin  I. 

Intkr*4  DuUoguts, 

I.  A  Scene  in  a  Steamboat 16 

A  Singular  Character S9 

Gallery  at  Ghent 28 

The  Prince  of  Grangers  Pictoret 81 

A  Female  Gambler •  88 

Cologne — The  Medusa 42 

Professor  Wallraf. 47 

Schlegel  and  Madame  de  Stael 49 

Story  of  Archbishop  Gerard 66 

Heidelberg— Elizabeth  Stuart. 62 

An  English  Farmer's  Idea  of  the  Picturesque. . .  71 

a  Frankfort 78 

The  Theatre,  Madame  Haitsinger 76 

The  Versorgung  Hans 80 

The  Stadel  Museum 88 

Dannecker,  Memoir  of  his  Life  and  Works 86 

German  Sculpture— Ranch,  Tieca,  Schwanthaler  118 

IQ.  Goethe  and  his  Daughter-in-law i24 

The  German  Women 128 

German  Authoresses. ..  • 132 

German  Domestic  Life  and  Manners 140 

German  Coquetterie  and  German  Romance 141 

rhe  Story  of  a  Devoted  S<ster 164 


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I  CONTENTS. 

BExrouKS  OP  Abt,  LrrxaATUEB,  Airo  Chaaiotxe,  Pabx  IL 

Memoranda  at  Munich,  Nuremberg^  and  Dresden. 

PAoa 

I.  Munich 17» 

The  Theatre— Representation  oi  **  Egmont ".. . .  IM 

Leo  von  Elenze 186 

The  Glyptothek — ^Its  General  Arrangement — 
Egina  Marbles — Account  of  the  Frescos  of 
Cornelius — Canova's  Paris  and  Thorwaldson's 

Adonis 1 87-202 

The  Opera  at  Munich,  the  Kapel  Meister  Stunts  204 

The  Poems  of  the  King  of  Bavaria 207 

A  Public  Day  at  the  New  Palace 209 

Thoughts  on  Female  Singers — Their  Condition 

and  Destiny. 211 

The  Munich  Gallery — Thoughts  on  Pictures — 

Their  Moral  Influence 218 

Bubens  and  the  Flemish  Masters 216 

The  Gallery  of  Schleissheim 226 

The  Boisser^e  Gallery — The  old  German  School 
of  Painting — ^Its  Effects  on  the  Modem  German 

School  of  Art 227 

Representation  of  the  Braut  von  Messina 280 

The  Hofgarten  at  Munich 282 

The  King's  Passion  for  Building— The  Kew  Pal- 
ace— The  Beauty  of  its  Decorations — Partic- 
ular Account  of  the  Jlilodern  Paintings  on  the 

WaUs 234r-24» 

The  Frescos  of  Julius  Schnorr  from  the  Nibe- 

lungen-Lied 260 

The  Frescos  in  the  Royal  Chapel 262 

The  Opera— Madame  Scheckner 266 

The  Kunstverein 268 

Karl  von  Holtei 27C 

F6te  of  the  Obelisk 27^ 


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CONTBNTB.  II 

The  Gallery— Piotnres  and  Paintere. 278 

Madame  de  Freybeig— A  Visit  to  ThaUdrohen. .  381 

Tomb  of  Engene  Beauhamais 284 

The  Scnlptura  in  the  Glyptothek S89 

Phm  of  the  Pinakothek  or  National  Galleiy 292 

The  Reviyal  of  Fresco  Painting. 801 

Bavarian  Sculptors 808 

TheVaUiaUa. 804 

Stieler,  the  Portrait  Painter 808 

Gallery  of  the  Duo  de  Lenchtenberg. 809 

Society  at  Munich. 812 

The  Liederkranz 818 

ILKUBEMBEBO 820 

The  Old  Fortress 824 

Albert  Durer... 828 

Hans  Sachs  and  Peter  Visoher 827 

The  Cemetery 880 

Trayellingin  Germany. 888 

;n.  Dbbsden. 886 

The  Opera — Madame  Schroder  Devrient  in  the  " 

"Capelletti" 889 

Ludwig  Tieck. 842 

The  Dresden  Gallery  and  the  Italian  School. ...  847 
Bosalba— Yiolante  Siries — Henrietta  Waltert — 
Maria  Ton  Osterwyck—Elizabeth  Sirani— The 

Sofonisba 880 

Thoughts  on  Female  Artists — Louisa  and  Eliza 
Sharpe— The  Countess  Julie  von  EglofEstein..  363 

Moritz  Betzsch 868 

English  and  German  Art 378 

Catalogue  of  German  Artiste 38 


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A  YisH  to  Hardwicke. S87 

A  Yisit  to  Althorpe 425 

Bketehof  Mrs.  Siddons 448 

Sketch  of  Fanny  KembU •' 476 


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SKETCHES  OF  ART,  LTTEBATUBEi 
AND  CHABACTEa 


PABT  L 

or  THBSB  I>IAI.0CI1«. 


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SKETCHES    OF   ART,   LITERATURE 
AND   CHARACTER. 


Mei>on.  And  so  we  are  to  have  no  ^^Sentimet^ 
Ud  Travels  in  Germany"  on  hot-pressed  paper, 
liiustrated  with  views  taken  on  uut  j^hk  V 

Alda.   No. 

Medon.  Yon  have  unloaded  Time  of  his  wallet 
only  to  deal  out  his  ^  scraps  of  things  past,"  hi* 
shreds  of  remembrance,  in  beggarly,  indolent  fash- 
ion, over  your  own  fireside  ?  You  are  afraid  of 
being  termed  an  egotist ;  you,  who  within  these  ten 
minutes  have  assured  me  that  not  any  opinion  of 
any  human  being  should  prevent  yon  from  doing, 
laying,  writing — any  thing — 

Alda.  Finish  the  sentence — any  thing,y<>r  truth*$ 
take.  But  how  is  the  cause  of  truth  to  be  advanced 
by  the  insolent  publication  of  a  mass  of  crude 
thoughts  and  hasty  observations  picked  up  here 
%nd  th(^re,  '^  as  pigeons  pick  up  pease,"  and  which 
tow  lie  safe  within  the  clasps  of  those  little  grea^ 


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16  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

books  ?  You  need  not  look  at  them ;  they  do  not 
contain  another  Diary  of  an  Ennuy^e,  thank  Heav- 
en !  nor  do  I  feel  much  inclined  to  play  the  Ennth 
yeuse  in  public. 

Medon.  '*  Take  any  form  but  thalj  and  my  firm 
nerves  shall  never  tremble ; "  but  with  eyes  to  see, 
a  heart  to  feel,  a  mind  to  observe,  and  a  pen  to 
record  U>08e  observations,  I  do  not  perceive  why 
you  should  not  contribute  one  drop  to  that  great 
ocean  of  thought  which  is  weltering  round  the 
world  I 

Alda.  If  I  could. 

Medon.  There  are  people,  who  when  they  trav- 
el open  their  eyes  and  their  ears,  (aye,  and  thdr 
mouths  to  some  purpose,)  and  shut  up  their  hearts 
and  souls.  I  have  heard  such  persons  make  it  their 
boast,  that  they  have  returned  to  old  England  with 
all  their  old  prejudices  thick  upon  them ;  they  have 
come  back,  to  use  their  own  phrase,  '*  with  no  for- 
eign ideas— just  the  same  as  they  went : "  they  are 
much  to  be  congratulated  1  I  hope  you  are  not  one 
of  these? 

Alda.  I  hope  not;  it  is  this  cold  impervioiw 
pride  which  is  the  perdition  of  us  English  and  d 
England.  I  remember,  that  in  one  of  my  several 
ezcur^ons  on  the  Rhine,  we  had  on  board  the 
iteamboat  an  English  family  of  high  rank.  There 
was  the  lordly  papa,  plain  and  shy,  who  never 
ipoke  to  any  one  except  his  own  family,  and  then 
only  iu  the  lowest  whisper.  There  was  the  lady 
eiamnia,  so  truly  lady-like,  with  fine-cut  ]»atricias 


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UTEKATURS,   AX1>   CHARACTER.  19 

Teatures,  and  in  her  countenance  a  kind  of  passive 
hauteur^  softened  by  an  appearance  of  suffering, 
and  ill-health.  There  were  two  daughters,  proud, 
pale,  fine-looking  girls,  dressed  h  ravir^  with  that 
indescribable  air  of  high  pretension,  so  elegantly 
impassive — so  self-possessed — which  some  people 
call  Vair  distingue,  but  which,  as  extremes  meet,  I 
would  rather  call  the  refinement  of  vulgarity — the 
polish  we  see  bestowed  on  debased  material — the 
plating  over  the  steel — the  stucco  over  the  brick 
work! 
Medon.  Good ;  you  can  be  severe  then  I 
Alda.  I  spoke  generally:  bear  witness  to  the 
general  truth  of  the  picture,  for  it  will  fit  others  as 
well  as  the  personages  I  have  brought  before  you, 
who  are,  indeed,  but  specimens  of  a  species.  This 
group,  then,  had  designedly  or  instinctively  in- 
trenched themselves  in  a  corner  to  the  right  of  the 
steersman,  within  a  fortification  of  tables  and 
benches,  so  arranged  as  to  forbid  all  approach 
within  two  or  three  yards;  the  young  ladies  had 
each  their  sketch-book,  and  wielded  pencil  and 
Indian  rubber,  I  know  not  with  what  effect, — but 
I  know  that  I  never  saw  either  countenance  once 
relax  or  brighten  in  the  midst  of  the  divine  scenery 
through  which  we  glided.  Two  female  attendants, 
leated  on  the  outer  fortifications,  formed  a  kind  of 
piquet  guard ;  and  two  footmen  at  thp  other  end 
kept  watch  over  the  well-appointed  carriages,  and 
came  and  went  as  their  attendance  was  required. 
No  one  else  ventured  to  approach  this  aristocratic 


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18  8KBTCUES   OF   AKT, 

Olympiis;  the  celestials  within  its  precincts,  thou^ 
not  exactly  seated  *^on  golden  stools  at  golden 
tables,**  like  the  divinities  in  the  song  of  the  Farcas,* 
phowed  as  supreme,  as  godlike  an  indifference  to 
the  throng  of  mortals  in  the  nether  sphere :  no 
word  was  exchanged  during  the  whole  day  with 
any  of  the  fifty  or  sixty  human  beings  who  were 
round  them ;  nay,  when  the  rain  drove  us  down  to 
the  pavilion,  even  there,  amid  twelve  or  fourteen 
others,  they  contrived  to  keep  themselves  alooi 
from  contact  and  conversation.  In  this  fashion 
they  probably  pursued  their  tour,  exchanging  the 
interior  of  their  travelling  carriage  for  the  interior 
of  an  hotel ;  and  everywhere  associating  only  with 
those  of  their  own  caste.  What  do  they  see  of  all 
that  is  to  be  seen  ?  What  can  they  know  of  what 
is  to  be  known  ?  What  do  they  endure  of  what  is 
to  be  endured  ?  I  can  speak  from  experience — 1 
have  travelled  in  that  same  style.  As  they  went, 
80  they  return ;  happily,  or  rather  pitifully,  uncon- 
Bcious  of  the  narrow  circle  in  which  move  their 
factitious  enjoyments,  their  confined  experience, 
their  half-awakened  sympathies  1  And  I  should  tell 
you,  that  in  the  same  steamboat  were  two  Grerman 
girls,  under  the  care  of  an  elderly  relative,  I  think 
an  aunt,  and  a  brother,  who  was  a  celebrated  juris- 
cor.sulte  and  judge :  their  rank  was  equal  to  that 
of  my  country-women ;  their  blood,  perhaps,  more 
puiely  noble,  that  is,  older  by  some  centuries ;  and 

*  Id  G(Hith«>'s  Iphlflpni* 


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utjsbatube,  and  characteb.  19 

dieir  family  more  illustrious,  by  Grod  knows  how 
many  quarterings;  moreover,  their  father  i?as  a 
minister  of  state.  Both  these  ^rls  were  beautiful ; 
^fair,  and  fiur-haired,  with  complexions  on  which 
^  the  rose  stood  ready  with  a  blush  ; "  and  one,  the 
youngest  sister,  was  exquisitely  lovely — in  truth, 
ihe  might  have  sat  for  one  of  Guido*s  angels.  They 
walked  up  and  down  the  deck,  neither  seeking  nor 
avoiding  the  proximity  of  others.  They  accepted 
the  telescopes  which  the  gentlemen,  particularly 
some  young  Englishmen,  pressed  on  them  wheo 
any  distant  or  remarkable  object  came  in  view,  and 
repaid  the  courtesy  with  a  bright  kindly  smile; 
they  were  natural  and  easy,  and  did  not  deem  it 
necessary  to  mount  guard  over  their  own  dignity. 
Do  you  think  I  did  not  observe  and  feel  the  con- 
trast? 

Medon.  If  nations  b^n  at  last  to  understand 
each  other^s  true  interests,  morally  and  politically, 
It  will  be  through  the  agency  of  gifled  men  ;  but  if 
ever  they  learn  to  love  and  sympathize  with  each 
other,  it  will  be  through  the  medium  of  you  women. 
You  smile,  and  shake  your  head ;  but  in  spite  of  a 
late  example,  which  might  seem  to  controvert  this 
idea,  I  still  think  so :  our  prejudices  are  stronger 
and  bitterer  than  yours,  because  they  are  those 
which  perverted  reason  builds  up  on  a  foundation 
of  pride ;  but  yours,  which  are  generally  those  of 
fancy  and  association,  soon  melt  away  before  your 
own  kindly  affections.  More  mobile,  more  impres- 
sible, more  easily  yielding  to  external    circum* 


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fO  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

itances,  more  easily  lending  yourselves  to  diflTei^nt 
manners  and  habits,  more  quick  to  perceive,  mor« 
gentle  to  judge ; — yes,  it  is  to  you  we  must  look,  to 
break  down  the  outworks  of  prejudice — ^you^  the 
advanced  guard  of  humanity  and  civilization ! 

**  The  gentle  race  and  dear, 
By  whom  alone  the  world  is  glorified  I " 

flvery  feeling,  well  educated,  generous,  and  truly 
refined  woman  who  travels  is  as  a  dove  sent  out  on 
a  mission  of  peace ;  and  should  bring  back  at  least 
an  olive-leaf  in  her  hand,  if  she  bring  nothing  else. 
It  is  her  part  to  soften  the  intercourse  between 
rougher  and  stronger  natures ;  to  aid  in  the  inter- 
fusion of  the  gentler  sympathies ;  to  speed  the  in* 
terchange  of  art  and  literature  from  pole  to  pole : 
not  to  pervert  wit,  and  talent,  and  eloquence,  and 
abuse  the  privileges  of  her  sex,  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
hatred  where  she  might  plant  those  of  love — ^to  im- 
bitter  national  discord  and  aversion,  and  dissemi- 
nate individual  prejudice  and  error. 

Alda.  Thank  you  1  I  need  not  say  how  entirely 
I  agree  with  you. 

Medon.  Then  tell  me,  what  have  ytm  brought 
home  ?  if  but  an  olive-leaf,  let  us  have  it ;  come, 
unpack  your  budget  Have  you  collected  store  q\ 
Anecdotes,  private,  literary,  scandalous,  abundantly 
interspersed  with  proper  names  of  grand-dukes  and 
little  dukes,  counts,  barons,  ministers,  poets,  author* 
actors,  and  opera- dancers? 

Alda.  II 


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LITEBATURB,  AKD  CHARACTER.  21 

Medon.  Cry  you  mercy ! — I  did  but  jest,  so  do 
not  look  so  indignant  I  But  have  you  then  traced 
the  cause  and  consequences  of  that  under-curreni 
of  opinion  ^hich  is  slowly  but  surely  sapping  the 
foundations  of  empires  ?  Have  you  heard  the  low 
booming  of  that  mighty  ocean  which  approaches, 
wave  after  wave,  to  break  up  the  dikes  and  boun* 
daries  of  ancient  power  ? 

Alda.  I!  no;  how  should  I — skimming  over  the 
Burface  of  society  with  perpetual  sunshine  and 
favoring  airs — how  should  I  sound  the  gul&  and 
shoals  which  lie  below  ? 

Medon.  Have  you,  then,  analyzed  that  odd 
combination  of  poetry,  metaphysics,  and  politics, 
which,  like  the  three  primeval  colors,  tinge  in  va- 
rious tints  and  shades,  simple  and  complex,  all  liter- 
ature, morals,  art,  and  even  conversation,  through 
Germany? 
Alda.  No,  indeed  I 

Medon.  Have  you  decided  between  the  dif- 
ferent systems  of  Jacobi  and  Schelling? 

Alda.  You  know  I  am  a  poor  philosopher ;  but 
when  Schelling  was  introduced  to  me  at  Munich, 
I  remember  I  looked  up  at  him  with  inexpressible 
admiration,  as  one  whose  giant  arm  had  cut  through 
an  bthmus,  and  whose  giant  mind  had  new-model- 
Vd  the  opinions  of  minds  as  gigantic  as  his  own. 

Medon.   Then  you  are  of  this  new  school,  whicb 
reveals  the  union  of  faith  and  philosophy  ? 
Alda.  If  I  am,  it  is  by  instinct. 
Medon.   Well,  to  descend  to  yo7ir  owx  poculiai 


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2S  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

ipherc,  hare  you  satisfied  yourself  as  to  the  moral 
and  social  position  of  the  women  in  Germany  ? 

Alda.  No,  indeed  I — ^at  least,  not  yet 

Medon.  Have  you  examined  and  noted  down 
the  routine  of  the  domestic  education  of  their  chil- 
dren ?  (we  know  something  of  the  public  and  na- 
tional systems.)  Can  you  give  some  accurate  no 
lion  of  the  ideas  which  generally  prevail  on  this 
subject  ? 

Alda.  O  no !  you  have  mentioned  things  which 
would  require  a  life  to  study.  Merely  to  have 
thought  upon  them,  to  have  glanced  at  them,  gives 
me  no  right  to  discuss  them,  unless  I  could  bring 
my  observations  to  some  tangible  form,  and  derive 
from  them  some  useful  result. 

Medon.  Yet  in  this  last  journey  you  had  an 
object — a  purpose? 

Alda.  I  had — a  purpose  which  has  long  been 
revolving  in  my  mind — an  object  never  lost  sight 
of; — ^but  give  me  time ! — ^time  1 

Medon.  I  see ;  but  are  you  prepared  for  con- 
sequences ?  Can  you  task  your  sensitive  mind  to 
stand  reproach  and  ridicule  ?  Remember  your  own 
Btory  of  Runckten  the  traveller,  who,  when  about 
to  commence  hb  expedition  into  the  desarts  of 
Africa,  prepared  himself,  by  learning  beforehand 
to  digest  poisons ;  to  swallow  without  disgust  rep> 
tiles,  spiders,  vermin — 

Alda.   "  Thou  hast  the  most  unsavory  similes  I " 

Mkdon.  Take  a  proverb  then — "Bisogna  co 
Orirsi  bene  il  viso  innanzi  di  struzzicare  il  vespaia 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CBARACTER.  23 

Ai.DA.  I  will  not  hide  my  face;  nor  can  I  an- 
swer you  in  this  jesting  vein,  for  to  me  it  is  a  serioos 
diought  There  is  in  the  kindly  feelings,  the  spon- 
taneous sjrmpathy  of  the  public  towanb  me,  some- 
thing which  fills  me  with  gratitude  and  respect,  and 
lells  me  to  respect  myself;  which  I  would  not  ex- 
change for  the  greater  eclat  which  hangs  round 
greater  names;  which  I  will  not  forfeit  by  writing 
one  line  from  an  unworthy  motive ;  nor  flatter,  nor 
invite,  by  withholding  one  thought,  opinion,  or  sen- 
timent which  I  believe  to  be  true,  and  to  which  ] 
can  put  the  seal  of  my  heart's  conviction. 

Medon.  Good  !  I  love  a  Uttle  enthusiasm  now 
and  then;  so  like  Britomart  in  the  enchanter^i 
palace,  the  motto  is, 

"  Be  bold,  be  bold,  and  everywhere  be  bold.  ** 
Alda.    I  should  rather  say,  be  gentle,  be  gentle, 
everj'where  be  gentle ;  and  then  we  cannot  be  too 
lold* 

Medon.   Well,  then,  I  return  once  more  to  ^he 
charge.     Have  you  been  rambhng  about  the  world 
for  these  six  months,  yet  learned  nothing  ? 
Alda.    On  the  contrary. 
Mldon.    Then  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  hatft 
jrou  learned  ? 

Alda.  Not  much ;  but  I  have  learned  to  sweep 
my  mind  of  some  ill-conditioned  cobwebs.  I  have 
ieamo,d  to  consider  my  own  acquired  knowledge 

*  Orer  another  iron  door  waa  writt, 
Be  not  too  bold. 

Vaebt  Q7EIK,  lock  in  Canto  si 


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U  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

but  as  a  torch  flung  into  an  abyss,  making  the 
darkness  visible,  and  showing  me  the  extent  of  my 
own  ignorance. 

Medon.  Then  give  us — give  me,  at  least — ^the 
benefit  of  your  ignorance ;  only  let  it  be  all  your 
own.  I  honor  a  profession  of  ignorance — if  only 
for  its  rarity — in  these  all-knowing  times.  Let  me 
tell  you,  the  ignorance  of  a  candid  and  not  uncul- 
tivated mind  is  better  than  the  second-hand  wisdom 
of  those  who  take  all  things  for  granted ;  who  arc 
the  echoes  of  others'  opinions,  the  utterers  of  others 
words ;  who  think  they  know,  and  who  think  they 
think :  I  am  sick  of  them  all.  Come,  refresh  me 
with  a  little  ignorance — and  be  serious. 

Alda.  You  make  me  smile ;  after  all,  *tis  only 
going  over  old  ground,  and  I  know  not  what  pleas- 
ure, what  interest  it  can  impart,  beyond  half  an 
hour's  amusement. 

Medon.  Sceptic  I  is  that  nothing  ?  In  this  harsh, 
cold,  working-day  world,  is  half  an  hour's  amuse- 
ment nothing  ?  Old  ground  ! — ^as  if  you  did  not 
know  the  pleasure  of  going  over  old  ground  with  a 
new  companion  to  refresh  half-faded  recollections 
— ^to  compare  impressions — ^to  correct  old  ideas  and 
acquire  new  ones  1  O  I  can  suck  knowledge  out 
of  ignorance,  as  a  weazel  sucks  eggs  1— Begin. 

Alda.    "VMiere  shall  I  begin  ? 

Medox.  AVhere,  but  at  the  beginning  I  and  then 
diverge  as  you  will.  Your  first  journey  was  one 
»f  mere  amusement  ? 

Ai.DA.   Merely,  and  it  answered  its  purpose ;  w* 


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LITKRATUBE,  AND   CHARACTKrt.  2C 

bAvelled  a  la  milor  Anglais — a  par  tie  carrde~--ti 
barouche  hung  on  the  most  approved  pnncipl« — 
double-cushioned — ^luxurious — ^rising  and  sinking 
on  its  springs  like  a  swan  on  the  wave — the  pockets 
stuffed  with  new  publications — maj/S  and  guides  ad 
infinitum;  English  servants  for  comfort,  foreign 
servants  for  use ;  a  chessboard,  backgammon  tables 
— ^in  short,  surrounded  with  all  that  could  render 
OS  entirely  independent  of  the  amusements  we  had 
come  to  seek,  and  of  the  people  among  whom  wc 
had  come  to  visit 
Mkdox.  Admirable — and  English  I 
Alda.  Yes,  and  pleasant  1  thought,  not  with- 
out gratitude,  of  the  contrasts  between  present 
feelings  and  those  of  a* former  journey.  To  aban- 
don one's  self  to  the  quickening  influence  of  new 
objects  without  care  or  thought  of  to-morrow,  with 
a  mind  awake  in  all  its  strength;  with  restored 
health  and  cheerfulness ;  with  sensibility  tamed, 
not  dead ;  possessing  one*s  soul  in  quiet ;  not  seek- 
ing, nor  yet  shrinking  from  excitement ;  not  self- 
engrossed,  nor  yet  pining  for  sympathy ;  was  not 
this  much  ?  Not  so  interesting,  perhaps,  as  playing 
the  ennuyde;  but,  oh  1  you  know  not  how  sad  it  is 
JO  look  upon  the  lovely  through  tearful  eyes,  and 
walk  among  the  loving  and  the  kind  wrapped  as 
vn  a  death-shroud ;  to  carry  into  the  midst  of  the 
most  glorious  scenes  of  nature,  and  the  divinest 
creations  of  art,  perceptions  dimmed  and  troubled 
urith  sickness  and  anguish :  to  move  in  the  morn- 
ing with  aching  and  reluctance — ^to  faint  in  thf 


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B6  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

eviMiing  with  weariness  and  pain ;  to  feel  all 
change,  all  motion,  a  torment  to  the  dying  heart 
ftll  rest,  all  delay,  a  burden  to  the  impatient  spirit 
to  shiver  in  the  presence  of  joy,  like  a  ghost  in  the 
lunshine,  yet  have  no  s^-mpathy  to  spare  for  suf- 
fering. How  could  I  remember  that  all  this  had 
been,  and  not  bless  the  miracle-worker — Time  ? 
And  apropos  to  the  miracles  of  time — ^I  had  on  this 
first  journey  one  source  of  amusement,  which  I  am 
Bony  I  cannot  share  with  you  at  full  length ;  it  was 
the  near  contemplation  of  a  very  singular  character, 
of  which  I  can  only  afibrd  you  a  sketch.  Our 
CHEF  de  voyage^  for  so  we  chose  to  entitle  him  who 
was  the  planner  and  director  of  our  excursion,  was 
one  of  the  most  accomplished  and  most  eccentric 
of  human  beings :  even  courtesy  might  have  termed 
him  old,  at  seventy ;  but  old  age  and  he  were  many 
miles  asunder,  and  it  seemed  as  though  he  had 
made  some  compact  with  Time,  like  that  of  Faust 
with  the  devil,  and  was  not  to  surrender  to  his  in- 
evitable adversary'  till  the  very  last  moment.  Years 
could  not  quench  his  vivacity,  nor  "  stale  his  infinite 
variety.**  He  had  been  one  of  the  prince's  wild 
companions  in  the  days  of  Sheridan  and  Fox,  and 
could  play  alternately  blackguard  and  gentleman, 
and  both  in  perfection ;  but  the  high-born  gentle- 
man ever  prevailed.  He  had  been  heir  to  an 
enoimous  income,  most  of  which  had  slipped 
thiough  his  fingers  unknownst^  as  the  Irish  say,  and 
had  stood  in  the  way  of  a  coronet,  which,  somehoTV 
%r  other,  had  passed  over  his  head  to  light  on  tha/ 


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OTERATUREy  AND  CHARACTEB  %f 

ttf  his  eldest  son.  He  had  lived  a  life  which  would 
have  ruined  twenty  iron  constitutions,  and  had 
suffered  what  might  well  have  broken  twenty 
hearts  of  common  stuff;  but  his  self-complacency 
was  invulnerable,  his  animal  spirits  inexhaustible, 
his  activity  indefatigable.  The  eccentricities  of  this 
singular  man  have  been  matter  of  celebrity ;  but 
against  each  of  these  stories  it  would  be  easy  to  place 
Bome  act  of  benevolence,  some  trait  of  lofty,  gentle- 
manly feeling,  which  would  at  least  neutralize  their 
effect  He  oflen  told  me  that  he  had  early  in  life 
selected  three  models,  after  which  to  form  his  own 
conduct  and  character ;  namely,  De.  Grammont, 
Hotspur,  and  Lord  Herbert  of  Cherbury ;  and  he 
certainly  did  unite,  in  a  greater  degree  than  he  knew 
himself,  the  characteristics  of  all  three.  Such  was 
our  CHEF,  and  thus  led,  thus  appointed,  away  we 
posted,  from  land  to  land,  from  city  to  city — 

Medon.  Stay — stay !  this  is  galloping  on  at  tlui 
rate  of  Lenora  and  her  phantom  lover — 

**  Tramp,  tramp  across  the  land  we  go, 
Splash,  splash  across  the  seal " 

Take  me  with  you,  and  a  little  more  leisurely. 

Alda.  I  think  Bruges  was  the  first  place  which 
Interested  me,  perhaps  from  its  historical  associa- 
tions. Bruges,  where  monarchs  kissed  the  hand  to 
merchants,  now  emptied  of  its  former  splendor,  re- 
mmded  me  of  the  improvident  steward  in  Scrip- 
^re,  who  could  not  dig,  and  to  beg  was  ashamed 
(t  had  an  air  of  grave  idleness  and  thieadbart 


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M  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

dignity ;  and  it^  listless,  thinly  scattered  inhabitaiiti 
looked  as  if  they  had  gone  astray  among  the  wide 
streets  and  huge  tenantless  edifices.  There  is  one 
thing  here  which  you  must  see — the  tomb  of  Charles 
the  Bold,  and  his  daughter  Mary  of  Burgundy.  The 
tomb  is  of  the  most  exquisite  workmanship,  com- 
posed of  polished  brass  and  enamelled  escutcheons ; 
and  there  the  fiery  father  and  the  gentle  daughter 
he,  side  by  side,  in  sculptured  bronze,  equally 
still,  cold,  and  silent  I  remember  that  I  stood  long 
gazing  on  the  inscription,  which  made  me  smile, 
and  made  me  think.  There  was  no  mention  of 
defeat  and.massacre,  disgraceful  flight,  or  obscure 
death.  "  But,**  says  the  epitaph,  after  enumerating 
his  titles,  his  exploits,  and  his  virtues,  "  Fortune, 
who  had  hitherto  been  his  good  lady,  ungently 
turned  her  back  upon  him,  on  such  a  day  of  such 
a  year,  and  oppressed  him," — an  amusing  instance 
of  mingled  courtesy  and  naivetd,  Ghent  was  our 
next  resting-placfe.  The  aspect  of  Ghent,  so  fa- 
miliarized to  us  of  late  by  our  travelled  artists, 
made  a  strong  impression  upon  me,  and  I  used  to 
walk  about  for  hours  together,  looking  at  the 
strange  picturesque  old  buildings  coeval  with  the 
Spanish  dominion,  with  their  ornamented  fronts 
and  peaked  roofs.  There  is  much  trade  here,  many 
:!ourishing  manufactories,  and  the  canab  and  quays 
often  exhibited  a  lively  scene  of  bustle,  of  which 
the  form,  at  least,  was  new  to  us.  The  first  ex- 
position, or  exhibition,  of  the  newly-founded  Roya. 
Academy  of  the  Netherlands  was   at  this  seasoB 


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LITBKATUBB,  AND  CHARACTEB.  29 

open.  You  will  allow  it  was  a  fair  opportunity  ol 
judging  of  the  present  state  of  painting,  in  the 
self-same  land  where  she  had  once  found,  if  not  a 
temple,  at  least  a  home. 

Medon.  And  learned  to  be  homely — ^but  the 
result? 

Alda.  I  can  scarcely  express  the  surprise  I  felt 
at  the  time,  though  it  has  since  diminished  on 
reflection.  All  the  attempts  at  historical  painting 
were  bad,  without  exception.  There  was  the  usual 
assortment  of  Virgins,  St  Cecilias,  Cupids  and 
Psyches,  Zephyrs  and  Floras;  but  such  incom- 
parable atrocities  I  There  were  some  cabinet  pic- 
tures in  the  same  style  in  which  their  Flemish 
ancestors  excelled — such  as  small  interior  con-* 
versation  pieces,  battle  pieces,  and  flowers  and 
fruit ;  some  of  these  were  really  excellent,  but  the 
proportion  of  bad  to  good  was  certainly  fifty  to 
one. 

Medon.  Something  like  our  own  Royal  Acad- 
emy. 

Alda.  No  ;  because  with  much  which  was  quite 
as  bad,  quite  as  insipid,  as  coarse  in  taste,  as 
stupidly  presumptuous  in  attempt,  and  ridiculous 
in  failure,  as  ever  shocked  me  on  the  walls  of  Som- 
erset House,  there  was  nothing  to  be  compared  to 
the  best  pictures  I  have  seen  there.  As  I  looked 
and  listened  to  the  remarks  of  the  crowd  around 
me,  I  perceived  that  the  taste  for  art  is  even  at 
low  in  the  Netherlands  as  it  is  here  and  else* 
where. 


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BO  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

Medon.  And,  surely,  not  from  tho  want  of 
models,  nor  from  the  want  of  facility  in  the  meanii 
of  studying  them.  You  visited,  of  course,  Schamp*fl 
collection  ? 

Alda.  Surely;  there  were  miracles  of  art 
crowded  together  like  goods  in  a  counting-house, 
with  wondrous  economy  of  space,  and  more  la- 
mentable economy  of  light  Some  were  nailed 
against  doors,  inside  and  out,  or  suspended  from 
screens  and  window-shutters.  Here  I  saw  Rubens' 
picture  of  Father  Rutseli,  the  confessor  of  Albert 
and  Isabella :  one  of  those  heads  more  suited  to 
the  crown  than  to  the  cowl — grand,  sagacious,  in- 
tellectual, with  such  a  world  of  meaning  in  the  eye 
that  one  almost  shrunk  away  from  the  expression. 
Here,  too,  I  found  that  remarkable  picture  of 
Charles  the  First,  painted  by  Lely  during  the 
king's  imprisonment  at  Windsor — ^the  only  one  for 
which  he  sat  between  his  dethronement  and  his 
death :  he  is  still  melancholy  and  gentlemanlike, 
but  not  quite  so  dignified  as  on  the  canvas  of 
Vandyke.  This  is  the  very  picture  that  Horace 
Walpole  mentions  as  lost  or  abstracted  from  the 
collection  at  Windsor.  How  it  came  into  Schamp's 
collection  I  could  not  learn.  A  very  small  head 
of  an  Italian  girl  by  Correggio,  or  in  his  manner, 
hung  close  beside  a  Dutch  girl  by  Mieris :  equally 
exquisite  as  paintings,  they  gave  me  an  opportunity 
of  contrasting  two  styles,  both  founded  in  nature-* 
but  the  nature,  how  difierent !  the  one  all  life,  tlM 
•tber  li'e  and  soul.     Schamp's  collection  is  liberal  If 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER  SI 

Dpen  to  the  public,  as  well  as  many  others ;  if  u^ 
iBts  fail,  it  is  not  for  want  of  models. 

Medon.  Perhaps  for  want  of  patronage  ?  Yet 
I  hear  that  the  late  king  of  the  Netherlands  sent 
several  young  artists  to  Italy  at  his  own  expense, 
and  that  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  liberal  and 
even  munificent  in  his  purchases — particularly  of 
the  old  masters. 

Alda.  When  I  went  to  see  the  collection  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange  at  Brussels,  I  stepped  from  the 
room  in  which  hung  the  glorious  Vandykes,  per^ 
haps  unequalled  in  the  world,  into  the  adjoining 
apartment,  in  which  were  two  unfinished  portraits 
disposed  upon  easels.  They  represented  members 
uf  the  prince's  family;  and  were  painted  by  a 
native  artist  of  fashionable  fame,  and  royally  pat- 
ronised. These  were  pointed  out  to  my  admiration 
as  universally  approved.  What  shall  I  say  of 
them  ?  Believe  me,  that  they  were  contemptible 
beyond  all  terms  of  contempt  1  Can  you  tell  me 
why  the  Prince  of  Orange  should  have  suflScient 
taste  to  select  and  appropriate  the  finest  specimens 
of  art,  and  yet  purchase  and  patronise  the  vilest 
iaubs  ever  perpetrated  by  imbecility  and  pre* 
Bumption  ? 

Medon.  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  that  in  the 
former  case  he  made  use  of  others*  eyes  and  julg- 
nent,  and  in  the  latter  of  his  own. 

Ai.DA.  I  might  have  anticipated  the  answer; 
*ut  be  that  as  it  may,  of  all  the  galleries  I  saw  in 
the  Netherlands,  the  small  but  invaluable  collection 


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f2  8KE1CH£S   OF   ART, 

he  had  foi-med  in  his  palace  pleased  me  most.  1 
remember  a  portrait  of  Sir  Thomas  More,  by 
Holbein.  A  female  head,  b}  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
said  to  be  one  of  the  mistresses  of  Francis  I.,  but 
this  is  doubtful;  that  most  magnificent  group, 
Chnst  deliveiing  the  keys  to  St  Peter,  by  Rubens, 
once  in  England;  about  eight  or  ten  Vandykes, 
masterpieces — for  instance,  Philip  IV.  and  his  min- 
ister Olivarez;  and  a  Chevalier  le  Roy  and  hia 
wife,  all  that  you  can  imagine  of  chivalrous  dignity 
and  lady-like  grace.  But  thei*e  was  one  picture,  a 
family  group,  by  Gonsalez,  which  struck  me  more 
than  all  the  rest  put  together.  I  had  never  seen 
any  production  of  this  painter,  whose  works  are 
scarcely  known  out  of  Spain ;  and  I  looked  upon 
this  with  equal  astonishment  and  admiration. 
There  was  also  a  small  but  most  curious  collection 
of  pictures,  of  the  ancient  Flemish  and  German 
schools,  which  it  is  now  the  fashion  to  admire,  and, 
what  is  worse,  to  imitate.  The  word  fashion  does 
not  express  the  national  enthusiasm  on  this  subject 
which  prevails  in  Germany.  I  can  understand  that 
these  pictures  are  often  most  interesting  as  historic 
documents,  and  often  admirable  for  their  literal 
transcripts  of  nature  and  expression,  but  they  can 
only  possess  comparative  excellence  and  relative 
value ;  and  where  the  feeling  of  ideal  beauty  and 
classic  grace  has  been  highly  cultivated,  the  eye 
shrinks  involuntarily  from  these  hard,  grotesque, 
and  glaring  productions  of  an  age  when  genius  was 
blindly  groping  amid  the  darkness  of  ignorance. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  8S 

To  confess  the  truth,  I  was  sometimes  annoyed,  and 
HMnetimes  amused,  by  the  cant  I  heard  in  Germanj 
about  those  schoob  of  painting  which  preceded 
Albert  Durer.  Perhaps  I  should  not  say  cant — ^it 
is  a  vile  expression ;  and  in  German  affectation 
there  is  something  so  very  peculiar — so  poetical,  so 
— so  naturaly  if  I  might  say  so,  that  I  would  give  it 
aroiher  name  if  I  could  find  one.  In  this  worship 
of  their  old  painters  I  really  could  sympathize 
sometimes,  even  when  it  most  provoked  me. 
Retzsch,  whom  I  had  the  delight  of  knowing  at 
Dresden,  showed  me  a  sketch,  in  which  he  had 
ridiculed  this  mania  with  the  most  exquisite  humor: 
it  represented  the  torso  of  an  antique  Apollo,  (em- 
blematical of  ideal  grace,)  mutilated  and  half- 
buried  in  the  earUi,  and  subject  to"  every  spcciea 
c£  profanation ;  it  serves  as  a  stool  for  a  German 
student,  who,  with  his  shirt  collar  turned  down, 
and  his  hair  dishevelled,  and  his  cap  stuck  on  one 
side  h  la  Rafaelle,  is  intently  copying  a  stiff,  hard^ 
sour-looking  old  Madonna,  while  Ignorance  lookf 
on,  gaping  with  admiration.  No  one  knows  better 
than  Retzsch  the  value  of  these  ancient  masters — 
no  one  has  a  more  genuine  feeling  for  all  that  is 
admirable  in  them ;  but  no  one  feels  more  sensibly 
the  gross  pervereion  and  exaggeration  of  the  wor- 
ship paid  to  them.  I  wish  he  would  publish  this 
good-humored  little  bit  of  satire,  which  is  too  just 
and  too  graceful  to  be  called  a  caricature. 

I  must  tell  yo'i,  however,  that  there  were  two 
most  curious  old  pictures  in  tl^  Orange  Gallery 
8 


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34  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

wluch  arrested  my  attention,  and  of  which  1  hatt 
retained  a  very  distinct  and  vivid  recollection ;  and 
that  is  more  than  I  can  say  of  many  better  pictures. 
They  tell,  in  a  striking  manner,  a  very  interesting 
story :  the  circumstances  are  said  to  have  occurred 
about  the  year  985,  but  I  cannot  say  that  they  rest 
on  any  very  credible  authority. 

Of  these  two  pictures,  each  exhibits  two  scenes. 
A  certain  nobleman,  a  favorite  of  the  Emperor 
Otho,  is  condemned  to  death  by  his  master  on  the 
false  testimony  of  the  empress,  (a  sort  of  Potiphar'a 
wife,)  who  has  accused  him  of  having  tempted  her 
to  break  her  marriage  vow.  In  the  background  we 
see  the  unfortunate  man  }ed  to  judgment ;  he  b  in 
his  shirt,  bare-footed  and  bare-headed.  His  wife 
walks  at  his  side,  to  whom  he  appears  to  be  speak- 
ing earnestly,  and  endeavoring  to  persuade  her 
of  his  innocence.  A  friar  precedes  them,  and  a 
crowd  of  people  follow  after.  On  the  walls  of  the 
city  stand  the  emperor  and  his  wicked  empress, 
looking  down  on  the  melancholy  procession.  In 
the  foreground,  we  have  the  dead  body  of  the 
victim,  stretched  upon  the  earth,  and  the  execu- 
tioner is  in  the  act  of  delivering  the  head  to  hit 
wife,  who  looks  grim  with  despsur.  The  severed 
head  and  (lowing  blood  are  painted  with  such  a 
horrid  and  literal  fidelity  to  nature,  that  it  hai 
been  found  advisable  to  cover  this  portion  of  the 
picture. 

In  the  foreground  of  the  second  picture,  the 
Emperor  Otho  is  represented  on  his  throne,  snr 


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LITERATURE,  AKD  CHARACTER  35 

founded  by  his  counsellorp  and  courtiers.  Before 
him  kneels  the  widow  of  the  count :  she  has  the 
ghastly  head  of  her  husband  in  her  lap,  and  in  her 
left  hand  she  holds  firmly  and  unhurt  the  red-hot 
iron,  the  fiery  ordeal  by  which  she  proves  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  present  the  innocence  of  her 
murdered  lord.  The  emperor  looks  thunderstruck; 
the  empress  stands  convicted,  and  is  condemned  to 
death ;  and  in  the  background,  we  have  the  catas- 
trophe. She  is  bound  to  a  stake,  the  fire  is  kindled, 
and  she  suffers  the  terrible  penalty  of  her  crime. 
These  pictures,  in  subject  and  execution,  might  be 
termed  tragico-comico-historical ;  but  in  spite  of  the 
harshness  of  the  drawing,  and  the  thousand  defects 
of  style  and  taste,  they  fix  the  attention  by  th« 
vigor  of  the  coloring  and  the  expression  of  the 
heads,  many  of  which  are  evidently  firom  the  life 
The  story  is  told  in  a  very  complete  though  very 
inartificial  manner.  The  piunter,  Derick  Steueiv 
bout,  was  one  of  the  very  earliest  of  the  Flemish 
masters,  and  lived  about  1468,  many  years  before 
Albert  Durer  and  Holbein.  I  have  heard  that 
they  were  painted  for  the  city  of  Lorraine,  and 
until  the  invasion  of  the  French  they  remained 
ondisturbed,  and  ahnost  unnoticed,  in  the  Hotel- 
de-Ville. 

Medon.  Does  this  collection  of  the  Prince  of 
Orange  still  exist  at  Brussels  ? 

Alda.  I  am  told  that  it  does — ^that  the  whole 
palace,  the  furniture,  the  pictures,  remain  precisely 
%8  the  prince  and  his  family  left  them :  that  even 


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06  SKKTCHES   OF   ART, 

down  to  the  princess's  work-box,  and  the  portraits 
of  her  children,  which  hang  in  her  boudoir,  nothing 
has  been  touched.  This  does  not  speak  well  for 
King  Leopold's  gallantry ;  and,  in  his  place,  I  think 
I  would  have  sent  the  private  property  of  my  rival 
after  him. 

Medon.  So  would  not  I,  for  this  is  not  the  ag« 
01  chivalry,  but  of  conunon  sense.  As  to  the  pic- 
tures, the  Belgians  might  plead  that  they  were  pur 
chased  with  the  public  money,  therefore  justiy 
public  property.  No,  no;  he  should  not  have  a 
picture  of  them — ^**  If  a  Vandyke  would  save  his 
soul,  he  should  not ;  I'd  keep  them  by  this  hand  I  " 
that  is,  as  long  as  I  had  a  plausible  excuse  for  keep- 
ing them;  but  the  princess  should  have  had  her 
work-box  and  her  children  by  the  first  courier. 
What  more  at  Brussels  ? 

Alda.  I  can  recollect  no  more.  The  weather 
was  sultry ;  we  dressed,  and  dined,  and  ate  ices, 
and  drove  up  and  down  the  Allee  Verte,  and  saw, 
I  believe,  all  that  is  to  be  seen — churches,  palaces, 
hospitals,  and  so  forth.  We  went  from  thence  to 
Aix-la-Chapelle  and  Spa.  As  it  was  the  height 
of  the  season,  and  both  places  were  crowded  with 
gay  invalids,  perhaps  I  ought  to  have  been  very 
much  amused,  but  J  confess  I  was  ennuyie  to 
death. 

Medon.  This  I  can  hardly  conceive ;  for  thougb 
there  might  have  been  little  to  amuse  one  of  your 
turn  of  mind,  there  should  have  boen  much  If 
observe. 


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LITERATURF,  AND   CH ABACI ER.  81 

Alda.  There  might  have  been  matter  for  ob> 
f^rvation,  or  ridicule,  or  reflection  at  the  moment^ 
but  nothing  that  I  remember  with  pleasure.  Spa 
I  disliked  particularly.*  I  believe  I  am  not  in  my 
nature  cold  or  stem ;  but  there  was  something  in 
the  shallow,  tawdry,  vicious  gayety  of  this  place 
which  di^usted  me.  In  all  watering-places  ex- 
tremes meet;  sickness  and  suffering,  youth  and 
dissipation,  beggary  and  riches,  collect  together; 
but  Spa  being  a  very  small  town,  a  mere  village, 
tlie  approximation  is  brought  immediately  under 
the  eye  at  every  hour,  every  moment;  and  the 
beauty  of  the  scenery  around  only  rendered  it 
more  disagreeable :  to  me,  even  the  hill  of  Annette 
and  Lubin  was  polluted.  Our  Chef  de  voyage, 
who  had  visited  Spa  fifty  years  before,  when  on  his 
grand  tour^  walked  about  with  great  complacency, 
recalling  his  youthful  pleasures,  and  the  days  when 
he  used  to  gallant  his  beautiful  cousin,  the  Duchess 
of  Rutland,  of  divine  memory.  While  the  rest  of 
the  party  were  amused,  I  fell  into  my  old  habit  of 
thinking  and  observing,  and  my  contemplations 
were  not  agreeable.  But,  instead  of  dealing  in 
these  general  remarks,  I  will  sketch  you  one  or  two 
pictures  which  have  dwelt  upon  my  memory.  We 
had  a  well-dressed  laquais-de-place,  whose  honesty 
and  good-humor  rendered  him  an  especial  favor- 
^f5.  His  wife  being  ill,  1  went  to  see  her ;  to  my 
j(reat  surprise  he  conducted  me  to  a  little  mud 
hovel,  worse  than  the  worst  Irish  cabin  I  ever  heard 
iescribei,  where  his  wife  lay  stretched  upon  some 


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38  iMCXTCHES   OF  ABT, 

9traw,  covered  with  a  rug,  and  a  little  neglecteil 
ragged  child  was  crawling  about  the  floor,  and 
hhori,  her  bed.  It  seems,  then,  that  this  poor  man, 
who  every  day  waited  at  our  luxurious  table,  dressed 
in  smiles,  and  must  habitually  have  witnessed  the 
wasteful  expenditure  of  the  rich,  returned  every 
night  to  his  miserable  home,  if  home  it  could  be 
called,  to  feel  the  stings  of  want  with  double  bitter- 
ness. He  told  me  that  he  and  his  wife  lived  the 
greater  part  of  the  year  upon  water-gruel,  and  that 
the  row  of  wretched  cabins  of  which  his  own 
formed  one  was  inhabited  by  those  who,  like  him- 
self, were  dependent  upon  the  rich,  extravagant, 
and  dissipated  strangers  for  the  little  pittance  which 
was  to  support  them  for  a  twelvemonth.  Was  not 
this  a  fearful  contrast  ?  I  should  tell  you  that  the 
benevolence  of  our  Chef  rendered  this  poor  couple 
independent  of  change  or  chance  for  the  next  year. 
My  other  picture  is  in  a  different  style.  You  know 
that  at  Spa  the  theatre  inunediately  joins  the  ball- 
room. As  soon  as  the  performances  are  over,  the 
parterre  is  laid  down  with  boards,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  metamorphosed  into  a  gambling  saloon. 
One  night  curiosity  led  me  to  be  a  spectator  at 
one  of  the  rouge  et  noir  tables.     While  I  was  there, 

a  Flemish  lady  of  rank,  the  Baroness  B ,  came 

n,  hanging  on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman ;  she  was 
not  young,  but  still  handsome.  I  had  oflen  met 
her  in  our  walks,  and  had  been  struck  by  her  fint 
eyes,  and  the  amiable  expression  of  her  counte- 
nance.   Afler  one  or  two  turns  up  and  down  the 


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UTERATURE,  AKD  CHARACTER.  81 

room,  laughing  and  talking,  she  carelessly,  and  ai 
if  from  a  sudden  thought,  seated  herself  at  the 
table.     By  degrees  she  became  interested  in  the 
game,  her  stakes  became  deeper,  her  countenance 
became  agitated,  and  her  brow  clouded.    I  left  her 
playing.    The  next  evening  when  I  entered,  I  found 
her  already  seated  at  the  table,  as  indeed  I  had 
anticipated.    I  watched  her  for  some  time  with  a 
painful  interest    It  was  evident  that  she  was  not 
an  habitual  gambler,  like  several  others  at  the  same 
table,  whose  hard  impassive  features  never  varied 
with  the  variations  of  the  game.    There  was  onr 
little  old  withered  skeleton  of  a  woman,  like  a 
death's  head  in  artificial  flowers,  who  stretched  out 
her  harpy  claws  upon  the  rouleaus  of  gold  and 
Bilv<»r  without  moving  a  muscle  or  a  wrinkle  of  her 
face, — with  hardly  an  additional  twinkle  in  her  dull 
gray  eye.     Not  so  my  poor  baroness,  who  became 
every  moment  more  £^tated  and  more  eager :  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  an   unnatural   keenness,  her 
teeth  became  set,  and  her  lips,  dra\7n  away  from 
them,  wore,  instead  of  the  sweet  smile  which  had 
f»»  first  attracted  my  attention,  a  grin  of  despera< 
tion.     Gradually,  as  I  looked  at  her,  her  counte- 
nance assumed  so  hideous  and,  I  may  add,  so  vile 
an  expression,  that  I  could  no  longe**  endure  the 
ipectacle.    I  hastened  from  the  room — more  moved, 
more  shocked  than  I  can  express ;  and  often,  since 
that  time,  her  face  has  risen  upon  my  da}'  and 
night  dreams  like  a  horrid  supernatural  ma<^.   Her 
husband,  for  this  wretched  woman  was  a  wife  and 


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iO  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

i  mother,  came  to  meet  her  a  few  days  afterwarrt^ 
and  accompany  her  home ;  but  I  heard  that  in  the 
interval  she  had  attempted  self-destruction,  and 
failed. 

Medox.  TIjc  case  is  but  too  common ;  and  even 
)ou,  who  are  always  seeking  reasons  and  excusei 
for  the  delinquencies  of  your  sex,  would  hardly 
find  them  here. 

Alda.  And  unless  I  could  know  what  were  the 
previous  habits  and  education  of  the  victim,  through 
what  influences,  blest  or  unblest,  her  mind  had 
l)een  trained,  her  moral  existence  built  up — should 
1  condemn  ?  Who  had  taught  this  woman  self- 
knowledge  ? — who  had  instructed  her  in  the  ele- 
ments of  her  own  being,  and  guarded  her  against 
her  own  excitable  temperament? — what  friendly 
voice  had  warned  her  ignorance? — what  secret 
burden  of  misery — what  joyless  emptiness  ot  heart 
— what  fever  of  the  nerves — what  weariness  of 
spirit — what  "  thankless  husband  or  faithless  lover  ** 
had  driven  her  to  the  edge  of  the  precipice  ?  In 
this  particular  case  I  know  that  the  husband  bore 
the  character  of  being  both  negligent  and  dissi- 
pated ;  and  where  was  he, — what  were  his  haunts 
and  his  amusements,  while  his  wife  staked  with  her 
gold  her  honor,  her  reason,  and  her  life  ?  Tell  me 
all  this  before  we  dare  to  pass  judgment.  O  it  is 
pasy  to  compute  what  is  done !  and  yet,  who  bul 
the  Being  above  us  all  can  know  what  is  resisted  ? 

Medon.  You  would  plead  then  for  a  femaU 
9^moler  ? 


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MTERATURE,  AND   CHARACTKS.  41 

Ai.DA.  Why  do  you  lay  such  an  emphasis  upon 
female  gambler?  In  what  respect  is  a  ft  male 
gambler  worse  than  one  of  your  sex  ?  The  caw 
is  more  pitiable — ^more  rare— therefore,  perhaps, 
more  shocking ;  but  why  more  hatefiil  ? 

Medon.  You  pose  me. 

Alda.  Then  I  will  leave  you  to  think ;  or  shall 
I  go  on  ?  for  at  this  rate  we  shall  never  arrive  at 
the  end  of  our  journey.  1  was  at  Aix-la-Chapelle, 
was  I  not  ?  Well,  I  spare  you  the  relics  of  Charle- 
magne, and  if  you  have  any  dear  or  splendid  as- 
sociations with  that  great  name,  spare  your  imagina- 
tion the  shock  it  may  receive  in  the  cathedral  at 
Aix,  and  leave  "Yarrow  unvisited." ♦  Luckily 
the  theati*e  at  Aix  is  beautiful,  and  there  was  a  fine 
opera,  and  a  very  perfect  orchestra ;  the  singers 
tolerable.  It  was  here  I  first  heard  the  Don  Juan 
and  the  Freyschutz  performed  in  the  German 
fashion,  and  with  German  woi-ds.  The  Freyschutz 
gave  me  unmixed  pleasure.  In  the  Don  Juan  I 
missed  the  recitative,  and  the  soft  Italian  flow  of 
syllables,  from  which  the  music  had  been  divorced ; 
so  that  the  ear,  long  habituated  to  that  marriage  of 
sweet  sounds,  was  disappointed;  but  to  listen  with- 
out Dleasure  and  excitement  was  impossible.  I 
remember  that  on  looking  round,  after  Donna 
Anna's  sonc;-  I  was  surprised  to  see  our  Chef  de 
voyage  bathed  in  tears ;  but,  ro  whit  disconcerted, 
he  merely  wiped  them  away,  saying,  with  a  smilOj 

•  See  Wordsworth's  Poema. 


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12  SKETCHES   OF  ABT, 

''It  is  the  veiy  prettiest,  softest  thing  to  cr}  t6 
one's  self !"  Afterwards,  when  we  were  in  the  car- 
riage, he  expressed  his  surprise  that  any  man  should 
be  ashamed  of  tears.  "  For  my  own  part,**  he 
added,  "  when  I  wish  to  enjoy  the  very  high 
Bublime  of  luxury,  I  dine  alone,  order  a  mutton 
cutlet,  cuite  a  pointy  with  a  bottle  of  Bui^ndy 
on  one  side,  and  Ovid's  epistle  of  Penelope  to 
Ulysses  on  the  other ;  and  so  I  read,  and  eat,  and 
cry  to  myself."  And  then  he  repeated  with  en- 
thusiasm— 

"Hanc  tua  Peuelope  lento  tibi  mittit  Ulysse: 
Nil  raihi  resciijbas  attamen  ipse  veni ; " 

his  eyes  glistening  as  he  recited  the  lines ;  he  made 
me  feel  their  beauty  without  understanding  a  word 
of  their  sense.  "  Strangest  and  happiest  of  men !  *' 
I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him,  "  that  after  living 
seventy  years  in  this  world,  can  still  have  tears  to 
spare  for  the  sorrows  of  Penelope  1"  Well  our 
next  resting-place  was  Cologne. 

Medon.  You  pause :  you  have*  nothing  to  say 
of  Cologne?  No  English  traveller,  except  your 
professed  tourists  and  guide-book  makers,  ever  has 
of  the  crowds  who  pass  through  the  place,  on  theii 
way  up  or  down  the  Rhine,  how  few  spend  more 
than  a  night  or  a  day  there !  their  walk  is  betweer 
the  llheinberg  and  the  cathedral ;  they  look,  per- 
haps,  ^iih  a  sneering  curiosity  at  the  shrine  of  the 
Tlireo  Kings ;  cut  the  usual  jests  on  the  Leda  an4{ 


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LiTERATURB,  AKB  CHABACTEB.  43 

the  Cupid  and  Psyche  ;  ♦  glance  at  the  St  Petci 
»f  Bubens ;  lounge  on  the  bridge  of  boats ;  stock 
Ihemselves  with  £au  de  Cologne ;  and  then  away ! 
And  yet  this  strange  old  city,  which  a  bigoted 
priesthood,  a  jealous  magistracy,  and  a  variety  of 
historical  causes  have  30  long  kept  isolated  in  the 
midst  of  Europe,  with  its  Roman  origin,  its  clas- 
sical associations,  the  wild  gothic  superstitions  of 
which  it  has  been  the  theatre,  its  legion  of  martyrs, 
its  three  kings  and  eleven  thousand  virgins,  and 
the  peculiar  manners  and  physiognomy  of  the 
people,  strangely  take  the  fancy.  What  has  be- 
come of  its  three  hundred  and  fifty  churches,  and 
its  thirty  thousand  beggars  ? — Thirty  thousand  beg- 
gars !  Was  there  ever  such  a  splendid  establish- 
ment of  licensed  laziness  and  consecrated  rags  and 
wallets  1  What  a  magnificent  idea  does  it  give  one 
of  the  inexhaustible  charity  and  the  incalculable 
riches  of  the  inhabitants  !  But  the  French  came 
with  their  besom  of  purification  and  destruction ; 
and  lo  I  the  churches  were  turned  into  arsenals,  the 
convents  into  barracks ;  and  from  its  old-accustom- 
ed haunts,  "  the  genius  of  beggary  was  with  sighing 
lent"  I  really  believe,  that  were  I  again  to  visit 
Cologne,  I  would  not  be  content  with  a  meie 
iuperficial  glance,  as  heretofore. 

Alda.  And  you  would  do  well.  To  confess  the 
^mth,  our  first  impressions  of  the  place  were  ex- 
<;eedingly  disagreeable ;  it  appeared  a  huge,  ramb- 

*  Two  celebrated  antique  genu  which  adorn  the  relici  of  Um 
fliree  Kings. 


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14  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

ling,  gloomy  old  city,  whose  endless  narrow  dirty 
itreets,  and  dull  dingy-looking  edifices,  were  any 
thing  but  inviting.  Nor  on  a  second  and  a  third 
visit  were  we  tempted  to  prolong  our  stay.  Yet 
Cologne  has  since  become  most  interesting  to  me 
from  a  friendship  I  formed  with  a  Colonese,  a  de* 
ecendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  patrician  families  of 
the  place.  How  she  loved  her  old  city ! — how  she 
worshipped  every  relic  with  the  most  poetical,  if 
not  the  most  pious,  veneration ! — bow  she  looked 
iown  upon  Berlin  with  scorn,  as  an  upstart  city, 
*  une  viile,  ma  chere,  qui  n*a  ni  kistoire  ni  antitjuiie." 
The  cathedral  she  used  to  call  "  man  Berceau"  and 
the  three  kings  "m€«  trois  peres,**  Her  profound 
knowledge  of  general  history,  her  minute  acquaint- 
ance with  the  local  antiquities,  the  peculiar  customs, 
the  wild  legends,  the  solemn  superstitions  of  her 
l.U*thplace,  added  to  the  most  lively  imaginadoo 
and  admirable  descriptive  powers,  were  to  me  an 
inexhaustible  source  of  delight  and  information. 
It  appears  that  the  people  of  Cologne  have  a 
distinct  character,  but  little  modified  by  intercourse 
»dth  the  surrounding  country,  and  preserved  by 
continual  intermarriages  among  themselves.  They 
have  a  dialect,  and  songs,  and  ballads,  and  music, 
peculiar  to  their  city ;  and  are  remarkable  for  an 
original  vein  of  racy  humor,  a  Vengeful  spirit,  an 
exceeding  superstition,  a  blind  attachment  to  their 
native  customs,  a  very  decided  contempt  for  other 
people,  and  a  surpassing  hatred  of  all  innovationa 
They  never  admitted  the  jurisdiction  of  the  electorfi 


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LITERATUHE,   AND   CHARACTER.  4S 

i»f  Cologne,  and,  although  the  most  bigoted  people 
in  the  world,  were  generally  at  war  with  their  arch- 
bishops. Even  Napoleon  could  not  make  them 
conformable.  The  city  is  now  attju^hed  to  Prussia, 
but  still  retains  most  of  its  ancient  privileges,  and 
all  its  ancient  spirit  of  insubordination  and  inde- 
pendence. When,  in  1828,  the  King  of  Prusna 
wished  to  force  upon  them  an  unpopular  magistrate, 
the  whole  city  rose,  and  obliged  the  obnoxious  pres- 
ident to  resign ;  the  government,  armed  with  aU 
its  legal  and  military  terrors,  could  do  nothing 
against  the  determined  spirit  of  this  half-civilized, 
fearless,  reckless,  yet  merry,  good-humored  popu- 
lace. A  history  of  this  grotesque  revolution,  which 
had  the  same  duration  as  the  celebrated  trots  Joun 
de  Parisj  and  exhibited  in  its  progress  and  iss^e 
iKHne  of  the  most  striking,  most  characteristic,  most 
farcical  scenes  you  can  imagine,  were  worthy  of  a 
Colonese  Walter  Scott.  How  I  wish  I  could  give 
you  some  of  my  friend's  rich  graphic  sketches  and 
humorous  pictures  of  popular  manner !  but  I  feel 
that  their  peculiar  spirit  would  evaporate  in  my 
bands.  The  event  is  celebrated  in  their  local  his- 
tory as  "  la  Revolution  du  Carnavcd  :**  and  this  re- 
minds me  of  another  peculiarity  of  Cologne.  The 
carnival  is  still  celebrated  there  with  a  degree  of 
splendor  and  fantastic  humor  exceeding  even  the 
I'estivities  of  Rome  and  Naples  in  the  present  day 
tmt  as  the  season  of  the  carnival  is  not  the  season 
tor  flight  with  our  English  birds  of  passage,  fen 
tiave  ever  witnessed  thes^.  extraordinary  saturnalia 


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Id  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

Such  is  the  general  ignorance  or  indifferenwj  re- 
lative to  Cologne,  that  I  met  the  other  day  with  a 
very  accomplished  man,  and  a  lover  of  art,  who 
had  frequently  visited  the  place,  and  yet  he  had 
never  seen  the  Medusa. 

Medon.  Nor  I,  by  this  good  light ! — I  never 
even  heard  of  it  1 

Alda.  And  how  shall  I  attempt  to  describe  it? 
Unless  I  had  the  "large  utterance  of  the  early 
gods,"  or  could  pour  forth  a  string  of  Greek  or 
(rerman  compounds,  I  know  not  in  what  words  I 
could  do  justice  to  the  effect  it  produced  upon  me 
This  wondrous  mask  measures  about  two  feet  and 
a  half  in  height ;  *  the  colossal  features  and,  I  may 
add,  the  colossal  expression, — grand  without  exag- 
geration— so  awfully  vast,  and  yet  so  gloriously 
beautiful ;  the  full  rich  lips  curled  with  disdsdn — 
the  mighty  wings  overshadowing  the  knit  and  tor- 
tured brow — the  madness  in  the  large  dilated  eyea 
— the  wreathing  and  recoiling  snakes, — came  upon 
me  like  something  supernatural,  and  impressed  me 
at  once  with  astonishment,  horror,  and  admiration. 
I  was  quite  unprepared  for  what  I  beheld.  As  1 
stood  before  it  my  mind  seemed  to  elevate  and  en- 
large itself  to  admit  this  new  vision  of  grandeur. 
Nothing  but  the  two  Fates  in  the  Elgin  marbles, 
and  the  Torso  of  the  Vatican,  ever  affected  me 
with  the  same  inexpressible  sense  of  the  sublime : 
Rnd  this  is  not  a  fragment  of  some  grand  mystery 

*  It  b  nearly  twice  the  sLee  of  the  fitmons  and  well-known  M« 
lusa  Rondanini.  now  in  the  Glyptothck  at  Munich. 


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LITLilATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  47 

of  wluch  the  remainder  has  been  *^  to  night  and 
chaos  hurled ;  **  it  is  entire,  in  admirable  preserva- 
tion, and  the  workmanship  as  perfect  as  the  con- 
ception is  magnificent  I  know  not  if  it  would  have 
affected  another  in  the  same  manner.  For  me,  the 
ghastly  allegory  of  the  Medusa  has  a  peculiar  fasci- 
nation. I  confess  that  I  have  never  wholly  under- 
stood it,  nor  have  any  of  the  usual  explanations 
satisfied  me ;  it  appears  to  me  that  the  Greeks,  io 
thus  blending  the  extremes  of  loveliness  and  terror, 
had  a  meaning,  a  purpose,  more  than  is  dreamt  of 
by  our  philosophy. 

Medon.  But  how  came  this  wonderful  relic  to 
Cologne,  of  all  places  in  the  world  ? 

Alda.  It  stopped  there  on  its  road  to  Eng- 
land. 

Medon.  By  what  perverse  destiny? — ^waa  it 
ivarice  on  our  part,  or  force  or  fraud  on  that  of 
others  ? 

Alda.  It  was,  as  Desdemona  says,  "our 
wretched  fortune :  **  but  the  story,  with  all  its  cir- 
cumstances, does  so  much  honor  to  human  nature, 
that  it  has  half-reconciled  me  to  our  loss.  Yoa 
must  have  heard  of  Professor  Wallraf  of  Cologne, 
one  of  the  canons  of  the  cathedral,  who,  with  his 
professorship  and  his  canonship  together,  may  have 
possessed  from  five  to  seven  hundred  francs  a  year. 
He  was  one  of  those  wonderful  and  universal 
scholars  of  whom  we  read  in  former  times — men 
who  concentrated  all  their  powers,  and  passions, 
uid  intc^llectual  faculties  in  the  acquirement  and 


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IB  SKETCHES   OF  AKT, 

advancement  of  knowledge,  without  any  selfish  aim 
or  object,  and  from  the  mere  abstract  love  of 
science.  Early  in  life,  this  man  formed  the  resolu- 
tion to  remove  from  his  native  city  the  reproach  of 
self-satisfied  ignorance  and  monastic  prejudiced 
which  had  hitherto  characterized  it;  and  in  the 
course  of  a  long  existence  of  labor  and  privation, 
as  professor  and  teacher,  he  contrived  to  collect 
together  books,  manuscripts,  pictures,  gems,  works 
of  art,  and  objects  of  natural  history,  to  an  im- 
mense amount  In  the  year  1818,  on  recovering 
from  a  dangerous  illness,  he  presented  his  whole 
collection  to  his  native  city ;  and  the  magistracy,  in 
return,  bestowed  on  him  a  pension  of  three  thou- 
sand francs  for  the  remainder  of  his  life.  He  wa? 
then  more  than  seventy.  About  the  same  time 
a  dealer  in  antiquities  arrived  from  Rome,  bringing 
with  him  this  divine  Medusa,  with  various  othei 
busts  and  fragments :  he  was  on  his  way  to  Eng- 
land, where  he  hoped  to  dispose  of  them.  He  asked 
for  his  whole  collection  twelve  thousand  francs,  and 
refused  to  sell  any  part  of  it  separately.  The  city 
refused  to  make  the  purchase,  thinking  it  too  dear, 
and  Wallraf,  in  despair  at  the  idea  of  this  glorious 
relic  being  consigned  to  other  lands,  mortgaged  liia 
yearly  pension  in  order  to  raise  the  money,  pur- 
chased the  Medusa,  presented  it  to  the  city,  and 
then  cheerfully  resumed  his  accustomed  life  of  self- 
denial  and  frugality.  His  only  dread  was  lest  h» 
should  die  before  the  period  was  expired.  He 
Kved,  however,  to  pay  off  his  debt,  and  in  thre# 


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LITEBATUBB,  AND   CHABACTEB.  49 

inouths  afterward  he  died.*  Was  not  thit  admi- 
rable ?  The  first  time  J  saw  the  Medusa  I  d>d  not 
know  this  anecdote ;  the  second  time,  as  I  looked 
at  it,  I  thought  of  Wallraf,  and  felt  how  much  a 
moral  interest  can  add  to  the  charm  of  what  is  in 
itself  most  perfect 

Medon.  I  will  certainly  make  a  pilgrimage  to 
tliis  Medusa.  She  must  be  worth  all  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins  together.     What  next  ? 

Alda.  Instead  of  embarking  in  the  steamboat, 
we  posted  along  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine,  spend- 
ing a  few  days  at  Bonn,  at  Grodesberg,  and  at  £h 
renbreitstein ;  but  I  should  tell  you,  as  you  allow 
me  to  diverge,  that  on  my  second  journey  I  owed 
much  to  a  residence  of  some  weeks  at  Bonn. 
There  I  became  acquainted  with  the  celebrated 
Schlegel,  or,  I  should  rather  say,  M.  le  Chevalier 
de  Schlegel,  for  I  believe  his  titles  and  his  "  starry 
honors  **  are  not  indifferent  to  him ;  and,  in  truth, 
he  wears  them  very  gracefully.  I  was  rather  sur- 
prised to  find  in-  this  sublime  and  eloquent  critic, 
this  awful  scholar,  whose  comprehensive  mind  has 
grasped  the  whole  universe  of  art,  a  most  agree- 
able, lively,  social  being.  Of  the  judgments  passed 
on  him  in  his  own  country  I  know  little  and  under- 
ftand  less ;  I  am  not  deep  in  German  literary  po- 
lemics. To  me  he  was  the  author  of  the  lecturet 
on  "  Dramatic  Literature,**  and  the  translator  of 
Shakspeare,  and,  moreover,  all  that  was  amiable 
Rud  polite  :  and  was  not  this  enough  ? 

*  Profeasor  Wallraf  died  on  the  18th  jf  Marcth   1834 


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%0  8KB1CHES   OF  ART, 

•  Medon.  Enougli  for  you,  certainlv ;  but,  I  b^ 
tieve  that  at  this  time  Schlfgel  would  rather  found 
bis  fame  on  being  one  of  the  greatest  oriental 
critics  of  the  age,  than  on  being  the  interpreter  of 
the  beauties  of  Calderon  and  Shakspeare. 

Alda.  I  believe  so ;  but  for  my  own  part,  1 
would  rather  hear  him  talk  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
and  of  Madame  de  Stael,  than  of  the  Ramayana, 
the  Bhagvat-Gita,  or  even  the  "  eastern  Con-fut- 
zee."  This,  of  course,  is  only  a  proof  of  my  own 
ignorance.  Conversation  may  be  compared  to  a 
lyre  with  seven  chords — philosophy,  art,  poetry, 
politics,  love,  scandal,  and  the  weather.  There 
are  some  professors  who,  like  Paganini,  "  can  dis- 
course most  eloquent  music  **  upon  one  string  only ; 
and  some  who  can  grasp  the  whole  instrument, 
and  with  a  master's  hand  sound  it  from  the  top  to 
the  bottom  of  its  compass.  Now,  Schlegel  is  one 
of  the  latter :  he  can  thunder  in  the  bass  or  caper 
in  the  treble ;  he  can  be  a  whole  concert  in  him- 
self. No  man  can  triile  hke  him,  nor,  like  him, 
blend  in  a  few  hours*  converse,  the  critic,  philolo- 
gist, poet,  philosopher,  and  man  of  the  world — no 
man  narrates  more  gracefully,  nor  more  happil;^ 
illustrates  a  casual  thought.  He  told  me  many  in- 
teresting tilings.  "  Do  you  know,**  said  he  on<j 
morning,  as  I  was  looking  at  a  beautiful  edition  of 
Corinne,  bound  in  red  morocco,  the  gift  of  Madam« 
de  Stael,  "  do  you  know  that  I  figure  in  tha/ 
book  ?  **  I  askeil  eagerly  in  what  character  ?  He 
bid  me   guess.     I  guessed   playfully,  the   Comtf 


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LITERATURE,   AND  CHARACTER.  51 

rErfeuil.  **No!  no!"  said  he,  laughing,  *<I  am 
immortalized  in  the  Prince  Castel-Forte,  the  faith- 
ful, humble,  unaspiring  friend  of  Corinne.'' 

Medon.  To  any  man  but  Schlegel  such  an  iiii> 
mortality  were  worth  a  life.  Nay,  there  is  no  man, 
(hough  his  fame  extended  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
whom  the  pen  of  Madame  de  Stael  could  not  honor. 

Alda.  He  seemed  to  think  so,  and  I  liked  him 
for  the  self-complacency  with  which  he  twined  her 
little  myrtle  leaf  with  his  own  palmy  honors.  Nor 
did  he  once  refer  to  what  I  believe  everybody 
knows,  her  obligations  to  him  in  her  De  TAlle- 
magne. 

Medon.  Apropos— do  tell  me  what  is  the  gen 
eral  opinion  of  that  book  among  the  Crermand 
themselves. 

AxDA.  I  tlunk  they  do  not  judge  it  fairly. 
Some  speak  of  it  as  eloquent,  but  superficial:* 
others  denounce  it  altogether  as  a  work  full  of 
mistakes  and  flippant,  presumptuous  criticism :  oth- 
ers again  afiect  to  speak  of  it,  and  even  of  Madame 
de  Stael  herself,  as  things  of  another  era,  quite  gone 
by  and  forgotten ;  this  appeared  to  me  too  ridic- 
ulous. They  forget,  or  do  not  know,  what  wt 
know,  that  her  De  I'Allemagne  was  the  first  book 
which  awakened  in  France  and  England  a  lively 
and  general  interest  in  Grerman  art  and  literature. 
It  is  now  five-and-twenoy  years  since  it  was  pub* 
r«hed.    The  march  of  opinion,  and  criticism,  and 

*  Amongst  others,  Jean  Paul,  in  the  '*  Heidelberger  JahrbUolMf 
Vst  Uteratur/'  1815. 


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$2  ttKBTCHKB  OF   ABT, 

knowledge  of  every  kind,  has  been  so  rapid,  thik 
much  has  become  old  which  then  was  new;  but 
this  does  not  detract  from  its  merit  Once  or  twio€ 
I  tried  to  convince  my  Grerman  friends  that  they 
were  exceedingly  ungrateful  in  abusing  Madame 
dt;  Stael,  but  it  was  idl  in  vain ;  so  I  sat  swelling 
with  indignation  to  hear  my  idol  traduced,  and 
called — O  profanation  I — "  cette  StaeL" 

Medox.  But  do  you  think  tihe  Grermans  could 
at  all  appreciate  or  understand  such  a  phenome- 
non as  Madame  de  Stael  must  have  appeared  in 
those  days  ?  She  whisked  through  their  skies  like 
a  meteor,  before  they  could  bring  the  telescope  of 
their  wits  to  a  right  focus  for  observation.  How 
she  must  have  made  them  open  their  eyes  I — and 
you  see  in  the  correspondence  between  Groethe 
and  Schiller  what  they  thought  of  her. 

Alda.  Yes,  I  know  that  with  her  lively  ^otUm 
and  Parisian  volubility,  she  stunned  Schiller  and 
teased  Goethe ;  but  while  our  estimate  of  manner 
is  relative,  our  estimate  of  character  should  be 
poffltive.  Madame  de  Stael  was  in  manner  the 
French  woman,  accustomed  to  be  the  cynosure  of 
a  salon,  but  she  was  not  ridiculous  or  egoiste  in 
character.  She  was,  to  use  Schlegel's  expression, 
**femme  grande  et  magnanime  jusque  dans  lej 
replis  de  son  ftme."  The  best  proof  is  the  very 
spirit  in  which  she  viewed  Germany,  in  spite  of  ali 
her  natural  and  national  prejudices.  To  apply 
your  own  expression,  she  went  forth,  in  the  spiril 
•f  peace,  and  brought  back,  not  only  an  olive  leaf 


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LITSBATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  58 

vnt  A  whole  tree,  and  it  has  floarished.  She  had  a 
ftnivorsal  mind.  I  believe  she  never  thought,  and 
itill  less  made  any  one  ridiculous  in  her  life.* 

At  Bonn  much  of  my  time  was  spent  in  intimate 
and  almost  hourly  intercourse  with  two  friends, 
one  of  whom  I  have  already  mentioned  to  you  — a 
rare  creature! — the  other,  who  was  herseK  the 
daughter  of  a  distinguished  authoress,!  was  one  of 
the  most  generally  accomplished  women  I  evei 
met  with.  Opposed  to  each  other  in  the  constito- 
tion  of  their  minds — in  all  their  views  of  literature 
and  art,  and  all  their  experience  of  life — in  their 

*  ffinoe  the  abofe  passage  wm  written,  Mrs.  Austin  has  flk> 
vjred  me  with  the  foUowing  note:  '*  Oolftbe  admired,  bat  did  not 
nice,  still  less  esteem,  Madame  df  Stajfl.  He  begins  a  sentenee 
about  her  thus — *  As  she  had  no  idea  what  dnty  meant,'  &c. 

"  HoweTer,  after  relating  a  scene  which  toolc  place  at  Weimar, 
lie  adds,  *  wtiateTor  we  may  say  or  think  of  her,  her  visit  was 
eertainly  followed  l^  ferj  impwtant  lesnlts.  Bm  work  upon 
Germany,  which  owed  its  rise  to  social  conversations,  is  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  mighty  engine  which  at  once  made  a  wide  breach  in 
that  Chinese  wall  of  antiquated  pntjndioes  which  divided  ru 
from  France;  so  that  the  people  across  the  Rliine,and  afterwards 
those  across  the  channel,  at  length  came  to  a  nearer  knowledge 
of  ns ;  whence  we  may  look  to  obtain  a  living  iofluence  over  th« 
distant  west.  Let  ns,  therefore,  bless  that  conflict  of  national 
peeoUarities  which  annoyed  ns  at  the  time,  and  seemed  by  no 
Bieans  profitable.'  "—Tag^imd  Johns  HefU,  vol.  81,  last  edit. 

To  that  WOMAN  who  had  sniSeient  strength  of  mind  to  brea^ 
Quongh  a  *^  Chinese  wall  of  antiquated  pn(judioes,"  surely 
lometliinf  may  be  forj^en. 

t  Johanna  Schopenliauer,  w^U  known  in  Germany  for  her  ro> 
IMUioes  and  her  works  on  art.  Her  little  book,  *'  Johan  vai 
Byk  and  seine  Nachfolger  "  has  bec<Mne  the  mani/il  of  ttos 
vhc  stady  the  old  German  schools  of  painting. 


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54  R  KETCHES   OF    ABT, 

lastes,  and  habits,  and  feelings — ^yet  mutuallj  a|i> 
predating  each  other :  both  were  distinguished  b^ 
talents  of  the  highest  order,  and  b^  great  originalitjf 
of  character,  and  both  were  Grerman,  and  verir 
essentially  German:  English  society  and  English 
education  would  never  have  produced  two  such 
women.  Their  conversation  prepared  me  to  form 
correct  ideas  of  what  I  was  to  see  and  hear,  and 
guarded  me  against  the  mistakes  and  hasty  conclu- 
sions of  vivacious  travellers.  At  Bonn  I  also  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  a  specimen  of  the  fresco  painting, 
lately  revived  in  Germany  with  such  brilliant  suc- 
cess. By  command  of  the  Prussian  Board  of  Ed- 
ucation the  hall  of  the  university  of  Bonn  is  to  be 
painted  in  fresco,  and  the  work  has  been  intrusted 
to  C.  Hermann,  Gotzenberger,  and  Forster — ^all,  ] 
believe,  pupils  of  Cornelius.  The  three  sides  of 
the  hall  are  to  represent  the  three  faculties — The- 
ology, Jurisprudence,  and  Philosophy ;  the  first  of 
these  is  finished,  and  here  is  an  engraving  of  it 
You  see  Theology  is  throned  in  the  centre.  The 
four  evangelists,  with  St  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  stand 
on  the  steps  of  the  throne ;  around  her  are  the  fa- 
thers and  doctors  of  the  church,  and  (which  is  the 
chief  novelty  of  the  composition)  grouped  togethei 
mth  a  very  liberal  disregard  to  all  religious  differ^ 
ences ;  for  there  you  see  Pope  Gregory,  and  Ignatiuf 
Loyola,  and  St  Bernard,  and  Abelard,  and  Dante 
and  here  we  have  Luther,  and  Melancthon,  and 
Calvin,  and  Wiclifie,  and  Huss.  On  the  opposite 
Ude  of  thn  hall.  Philosophy,  under  which  head  arr 


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LITKRATUKE,  AND    CHABACTER.  M 

lompiised  all  science,  poetry,  and  art,  is  represented 
•OiTOunded  by  the  great  poets,  philosophers,  and 
artists,  from  Homer,  Aristotle,  and  Phidias,  down 
to  Shakspeare,  Raffaelle,  Groethe,  and  Kant  Ju- 
risprudence, which  is  not  begun,  is  to  occupy  the 
third  side.  The  cartoons  pleased  me  better  than 
the  paintings,  for  the  drawing  and  grouping  are 
really  fine ;  but  the  execution  struck  me  as  some- 
what hard  and  mannered.  I  shall  have  much  to 
say  hereafter  of  the  fresco  painting  in  Germany : 
for  the  present,  proceed  we  on  our  journey. 

Tell  me,  had  you  a  full  moon  while  you  were  on 
the  Rhine  ? 

Mkdon.  Truly,  I  forget 

Alda.  Then  you  had  not;  for  it  would  so  have 
blended  with  your  recollections,  that  as  a  circum- 
stance it  could  not  have  been  forgotten  ;  and  take 
my  advice,  when  next  you  are  off  on  your  annual 
flight,  consult  the  calendar,  and  propitiate  the  fair- 
est of  all  the  fair  Existences  of  heaven  to  give  you 
the  light  of  her  countenance.  If  you  never  took 
a  solitary  ramble,  or,  what  is  better,  a  tete^-tile^ 
anve  through  the  villages  and  vineyards  between 
Bonn  and  Plittersdorf,  when  the  moon  hung  ovei 
the  Drachenfels,  when  the  undulating  outlines  of 
the  Seven  Mountains  seemed  to  dissolve  into  thf" 
ikies,  and  the  Rhine  was  spread  out  at  their  feet 
like  a  lake— so  ample,  and  so  still ; — if  you  havii 
never  seen  the  stars  shine  through  the  ruined  arch 
sf  the  Rolandseck,  and  the  height  of  Godesber);. 
^th  its  8in<Tle  giant  tower  stand  out  of  the  plain.—* 


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S6  SKETCHES    OF    ART, 

black,  and  frowning  against  the  silvery  distance- 
then  you  have  not  beheld  one  of  the  loveliest  land- 
ecapes  ever  presented  to  a  thought^l  worshippei 
of  nature.  There  is  a  story,  too,  connected  with 
the  ruins  of  Godesberg : — one  of  those  fine  trage- 
dies of  real  life,  which  distance  all  fiction.  It  is  not 
so  popular  as  the  celebrated  legend  of  the  brave 
Roland  and  his  cloistered  love ;  but  it  is  at  least  a» 
authentic.  You  know  that,  according  to  tradition, 
the  castle  of  Grodesberg  was  founded  by  Julian 
the  Apostate ;  another,  and  a  more  interesting 
apostate,  was  the  cause  of  its  destruction. 

Gerard  *  de  Truchses,  Count  Waldbourg,  who 
was  archbishop  and  elector  of  Cologne  in  1588, 
scandalized  his  see,  and  all  the  Roman  Catholic 
powers,  by  turning  Protestant.  According  to  him- 
self, his  conversion  was  owing  to  "  the  gootlness  of 
God,  who  had  revealed  to  him  the  darkness  and  the 
errors  of  popery  ;"  but  according  to  his  enemies,  it 
was  owing  to  his  love  for  the  beautiful  Agnes  de 
Mansfeld,  canoness  of  Gersheim ;  she  was  a  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  greatest  Protestant  houses  in 
Germany ;  and  her  two  brothers,  bigoted  Calvin- 
ists,  and  jealous  of  the  honor  of  their  family,  con- 
ceived themselves  insulted  by  the  public  homage 
which  a  Catholic  priest,  bound  by  his  vows,  dared 
to  pay  to  their  sister.  They  were  yet  more  incensed 
on  discovering  that  the  love  was  mutual,  and  loudly 
threatened  vengeance  to  both.  Gerard  renounced 
the  Catholic  faith,  and  the  lovers  were  united.    H« 

•  Or  0«bhaM.  for  so  the  name  ii  spelt  in  the  airman  hLstorten 


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LITERATURE,  AM]>  CHARACTER.  A7 

WHB  excommunicated  and  degraded,  of  course ;  but 
he  insisted  on  his  right  to  retain  his  secular  domin- 
ions and  privileges,  and  refused  to  resign  the  elec- 
torate, which  the  emperor,  meantime,  had  awarded 
to  Ernest  of  Bavaria,  Bishop  of  Liege.  The  con 
test  became  desperate.  The  whole  of  that  beauti 
ful  and  fertile  plain,  from  the  walls  of  Cologne  to 
the  Grodesberg,  grew  "  familiar  with  bloodshed  af 
the  mom  with  dew ;  **  and  Grerard  displayed  quali- 
ties which  showed  him  more  fitted  to  win  and  wear 
a  bride  than  to  do  honor  to  any  priestly  vows  of 
sanctity  and  temperance.  Attacked  on  all  sides,— 
by  his  subjects,  who  had  learned  to  detest  him  as 
an  apostate,  by  the  infuriated  clergy,  and  by  the 
Duke  of  Bavaria,  who  had  brought  an  army  to 
enforce  his  brother's  claims, — he  carried  on  the 
struggle  for  five  years,  and  at  last,  reduced  to  ex- 
tremity, threw  himself,  with  a  few  faithful  friends, 
into  the  castle  of  Godesberg.  Afler  a  brave  de- 
fence, the  castle  was  stormed  and  taken  by  the 
Bavarians,  who  left  it  nearly  in  the  state  we  now 
see  it — a  heap  of  ruins. 

Gerard  escaped  with  his  wife,  and  fled  to  Hol- 
land, where  Maurice,  Prince  of  Orange,  granted 
^m  an  asylum.  Thence  he  sent  his  beautiful  and 
devoted  wife  to  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  to 
claim  a  former  promise  of  protection,  and  suppli- 
tate  her  aid,  as  the  great  support  of  the  Protestant 
eause,  for  the  recovery  of  his  rights.  He  could 
lot  have  chosen  a  more  luckless  ambassadress ;  for 
AgTies,  though  her  beauty  was  somewhat  impaired 


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(8  8K£TCHE8  OF  ART, 

by  the  persecations  and  anxieties  which  had  fol 
lowed  her  ill-fated  union,  was  yet  most  lovely  and 
ftately,  in  all  the  pride  of  womanhood ;  and  her 
misfortunes  and  her  charms,  as  well  as  the  peculiar 
circumstances  of  her  marriage,  excited  the  enthu- 
Eiasm  of  all  the  English  chivalry.  Unhappily,  the 
Earl  of  Essex  was  among  the  first  to  espouse  her 
cause  with  all  the  generous  warmth  of  his  charac- 
ter ;  and  his  visits  to  her  were  so  frequent,  and  his 
admiration  so  indiscreet,  that  Elizabeth's  jealousy 
was  excited  even  to  fury.  Agnes  was  first  driven 
from  the  court,  and  then  ordered  to  quit  the  king- 
dom. She  took  refuge  in  the  Netherlands,  where 
she  died  soon  af^orward ;  and  Grerard,  who  never 
recovered  his  dominions,  retired  to  Strasbourg, 
where  he  died.  So  ends  this  sad  eventful  history, 
which,  methinks,  would  make  a  very  pretty  ro- 
mance. The  tower  of  Grodesberg,  lasting  as  their 
love  and  ruined  as  their  fortunes,  still  remains  one 
of  the  most  striking  monuments  in  that  land,  where 
almost  every  hill  is  crowned  with  its  castle,  and 
every  castle  has  its  tale  of  terror  or  of  love.* 

Another  beautiful  picture,  which,  merely  as  a 
picture,  has  dwelt  on  my  remembrance,  was  the 
city  of  Coblentz  and  the  fort  of  Ehrenbreitstein, 
as  viewed  from  the  bridge  of  boats  under  a  cloud* 
less  moon.  The  city,  with  its  fantastic  steeples  and 
masses  of  building,  relieved  against  the  clear  deep 

*  For  the  story  of  Aivhbishop  (Jebhard  and  Ag^^es  de  MansM4 
Me  ?ehiller^8  History  of  the  Thirty  Tears*  War,  and  Coxe's  Hit 
%irf  at  the  House  of  Aostrir 


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LirRRATUBS,  AND   CHABACrSB.  5» 

nlae  of  the  summer  sky — the  lights  wliich  spaiiled 
IB  the  windows  reflected  in  the  broad  river,  and 
the  yarioos  forms  and  tall  masts  of  the  craft  an- 
chored above  and  oppo^te — ^the  huge  hill,  with  it« 
tiara  of  fortifications,  which,  in  the  sunshine  and  in 
the  broad  day,  had  disappointed  me  by  its  formality, 
now  seen  under  the  soft  moonlight,  as  its  long  lines 
of  architecture  and  abrupt  angles  were  projected 
in  brightness  or  receded  in  shadow,  had  altogether 
a  most  sublime  effect  But  apropos  to  moonlight 
and  pictures— of  all  the  enchanted  and  enchanting 
scenes  ever  lighted  by  the  full  round  moon,  g^ve 
me  Heidelberg !  Not  the  Colosseum  of  Rome^ 
neither  in  itself,  nor  yet  in  Lord  Byron's  descrip- 
tion, and  I  have  both  by  heart— can  be  more 
grand;  and  in  moral  interest,  in  poetical  associa- 
tions, in  varying  and  wondrous  beauty,  the  castle 
of  Heidelberg  has  the  advantage.  In  the  course 
of  many  visits,  Heidelberg  became  to  me  familiar 
as  the  face  of  a  friend,  and  its  remembrance  still 
^  haunts  me  as  a  passion."  I  have  known  it  under 
every  changeful  aspect  which  the  seasons,  and  the 
hours,  and  the  changeful  moods  of  my  own  mind 
eoidd  lend  it.  I  have  seen  it  when  the  sun,  rising 
tver  the  Geisberg,  first  kindled  the  vapors  as  they 
iloatfd  away  from  the  old  towers,  and  when  the 
ivy  and  the  wreathed  verdure  on  the  walls  sparkled 
mth  dewy  light :  and  I  have  seen  it  when  its  huge 
black  masses  stood  against  the  flaming  sunset ;  and 
its  enormous  shadow,  flung  down  the  chasm  be- 
^ath,  made  it  night  there,  while  daylight  lingered 


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10  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

around  and  above.  I  have  seen  it  when  mantleU 
in  all  the  bloom  and  foliage  of  summer,  and  when 
the  dead  leaves  were  heaped  on  the  paths,  and 
choked  the  entrance  to  many  a  favorite  nook.  J 
have  seen  it  when  crowds  of  gay  visitors  flitted 
along  its  ruined  terraces,*  and  music  sounded  near ; 
and  with  friends,  whose  presence  endeared  every 
pleasure ;  and  I  have  walked  alone  round  its  deso> 
late  precincts,  with  no  companions  but  my  own 
sad  and  troubled  thoughts.  I  have  seen  it  when 
clothed  in  calm  and  glorious  moonlight  I  have 
seen  it  when  the  winds  rushed  shrieking  through 
its  sculptured  halls,  and  when  gray  clouds  came 
rolling  down  the  mountains,  folding  it  in  their  am- 
ple skirts  from  the  view  of  the  city  below.  And 
what  have  I  seen  to  liken  to  it  by  night  or  by  day, 
in  storm  or  in  calm,  in  summer  or  in  winter!  Then 
its  historical  and  poetical  associations — 

Medon.  There  now! — will  you  not  leave  the 
picture,  perfect  as  it  is,  and  not  forever  seek  in 
every  object  something  more  than  is  there  ? 

Alda.  I  do  not  seek  it — I  find  it.  You  will 
say — I  have  heard  you  say — that  Heidelberg  wants 
no  beauty  unborrowed  of  the  eye ;  but  if  history 
had  not  clothed  it  in  recollections,  fancy  must  have 
invested  it  in  its  own  dreams.  It  is  true,  that  it  if 
a  mere  modem  edifice  compared  with  all  the  clas« 
we,  and  most  of  the  gothic  ruins ;  yet  over  Heidel> 

*  The  gardens  ani  plantations  round  the  castle  are  a  ftiTOilfei 
pnnnenade  of  the  dtiaens  of  Heidelbeig,  and  there  are  in  sum  me* 
Undi!  of  music,  &e. 


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LITBBATUBB,  AND  CHARACTBB.  61 

berg  there  haugs  a  terror  and  a  mystery  peculiat 
ko  itself:  for  the  mind  which  acquiesces  in  deca) 
recoils  firom  destruction.  Here  ruin  and  desol^ 
tion  make  mocks  with  luxurious  art  and  gay  mag> 
oificence.  Here  it  is  not  the  equal,  gradual  power 
of  time,  adorning  and  endearing  what  yet  it  spares 
not,  which  has  wrought  this  devastation,  but  savage 
war  and  elemental  rage.  Twice  blasted  by  the 
thunderbolt,  thr<ee  times  consumed  by  fire,  ten 
times  ravaged,  plundered,  desecrated  by  foes,  and 
at  last  dismantled  and  abandoned  by  its  own 
princes,  it  is  still  strong  to  endure  and  mighty  to 
resist  all  that  time,  and  war,  and  the  elements  may 
do  against  it — and,  mutilated  rather  than  decayed, 
may  still  defy  centuries.  The  very  anomalies  of 
architecture  and  fantastic  incongruities  of  this 
tbrtress-palace  are  to  me  a  fascination.  Here  are 
startling  and  terrific  contrasts.  That  huge  round 
tower — ^the  tower  of  Frederic  the  Victorious — now 
"  deep  trenched  with  thunder  fires,** — looks  as  if 
built  by  the  Titans  or  the  Huns ;  and  those  delicate 
•culptures  in  the  palace  of  Otho-Henry,  as  if  the 
genius  of  Rafiaelle  or  Correggio  had  breathed  on 
Jie  stone.  What  flowing  grace  of  outline  I  what 
'uxuriant  life  I  what  endless  variety  and  invention 
ui  those  half-defaced  fragments!  These  are  the 
work  of  Italian  artists,  whose  very  names  have  per- 
«bed ; — all  traces  of  their  existence  and  of  theii 
destinies  so  utterly  lost,  that  one  might  almost 
believe,  with  the  peasant,  that  these  exquisite 
^m^uns  are  not  the  work  of  mortal  hands,  but  of 


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13  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

Fairies  aiid  spirits  of  air,  evoked  to  do  the  trill  of  an 
enchanter.  The  old  palatines,  the  loi-ds  of  Heidel* 
berg,  were  a  magnificent  and  magnanimous  race. 
Louis  III.,  Frederic  the  Victorious,  Frederic  11., 
Otho-Henry,  were  all  men  who  had  stepped  in  ad- 
vance of  their  age.  They  could  think  as  well  ai 
fight,  in  days  when  fighting,  not  thinking,  was  the 
established  fashion  among  potentates  and  people. 
A  liberal  and  enlightened  spirit,  and  a  love  of 
all  the  arts  that  humanize  mankind,  seem  to 
have  been  hereditary  in  this  princely  family. 
Frederic  I.  lay  under  the  suspicion  of  heresy  and 
sorcery,  in  consequence  of  his  tolerant  opinions, 
and  his  love  of  mathematics  and  astronomy.  His 
personal  prowess,  and  the  circumstance  of  his  never 
having  been  vanquished  in  battle,  gave  rise  to  the 
report  that  he  was  assisted  by  evil  demons ;  and 
for  years,  both  before  and  after  his  accession,  he 
was  under  the  ban  of  the  secret  tribunal.  Heidel- 
berg was  the  scene  of  some  of  the  mysterious 
attacks  on  his  life,  but  they  were  constantly  frus- 
trated by  the  fidelity  of  his  friends,  and  the  watch- 
ful lov*.  of  his  wife. 

It  was  at  Heidelberg  this  prince  celebrated  a 
festival,  renowned  in  Grerman  history ;  and  for  the 
age  in  which  it  occurred,  most  extraordinary.  He 
invited  to  a  banquet  all  the  factious  barons  whom 
he  had  vanquished  at  Seckingen,  and  who  ha<} 
previously  ravaged  and  laid  waste  great  part  of  the 
palatinate.  Among  them  were  the  Bishop  of  Meta 
%nd  the  Margrave  of  Baden.      The  rp.past  wai 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHA&.1CTER.  6S 

plentiful  and  luxurious,  but  there  was  no  bread 
The  warrior  guests  looked  round  with  surprise  and 
inquiry.  "  Do  you  ask  for  bread  ?  "  said  Frederic, 
sternly ;  "  you,  who  have  wasted  the  fruits  of  the 
tarth,  and  destroyed  those  whose  industry  culti- 
vates  it  ?  There  is  no  bread.  Eat,  and  be  satis* 
fied ;  and  learn  henceforth  mercy  to  those  who  put 
the  bread  into  your  mouths."  A  singular  lesson 
from  the  lips  of  an  iron-clad  warrior  of  the  middle 
ages. 

It  was  Frederic  IL  and  his  nephew  Otho-Henry, 
who  enriched  the  library,  then  the  first  in  Europe 
next  to  the  Vatican,  with  treasures  of  learning, 
and  who  invited  painters  and  sculptors  from  I^ly 
to  adorn  their  noble  palace  with  the  treasures  of 
art  In  less  than  one  hundred  years  those  beauti- 
M  creations  were  defaced  or  utterly  destroyed, 
and  all  the  memorials  and  records  of  their  authors 
are  supposed  to  have  perished  at  the  time  when  the 
ruthless  Tilly  stormed  the  castle ;  and  the  archives 
4nd  part  of  the  library  of  precious  MSS.  were 
taken  to  litter  his  dragoons'  horses,  during  a  tran- 
ident  scarcity  of  straw.* — ^You  groan  1 

Mbdon.  The  anecdote  is  not  new  to  me ;  but  1 
was  thinking,  at  the  moment,  of  a  pretty  phrase  in 
the  letters  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne,  "  la  guerre — 

•  When  Gustayns  Adolphus  took  Mayeoee,  during  the  iamv 
irar,  he  presented  the  whole  ot  the  Taloahle  library  to  his  chan> 
wllor,  Oxenstiern;  the  chancellor  sent  it  to  Sweden,  intending 
k>  b«;8tow  it  on  one  of  the  <  olleges ;  hut  the  ressel  in  which  it 
iraf>  embarked  foundered  in  che  Baltic  Sea,  and  the  whole  went 
o  the  bottom. 


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G4  SKETCHES   OF  AJEtl, 

c'est  un  malheur — ^mais  c'est  le  plus  beau  des  nu  1- 
heui*s." 

Alda.  O,  if  there  be  any  thing  more  terrifi* , 
more  disgusting,  than  war  and  its  consequences,  i  I 
Ls  that  perversion  of  all  human  intellect — that  de  • 
pravation  of  all  human  feeling — that  contempt  o: 
misconception  of  every  Chnstian  precept,  which 
has  permitted  the  great,  and  the  good,  and  the 
tender-hearted,  to  admire  war  as  a  splendid  game — 
a  part  of  the  poetry  of  life — and  to  defend  it  as  a 
glorious  evil,  which  the  very  nature  and  passioni 
of  man  have  ever  rendered,  and  will  ever  render, 
necessary  and  inevitable!  Perhaps  the  idea  of 
human  suffering — though  when  we  think  of  it  in 
detail  it  makes  the  blood  curdle — ^is  not  so  bad  as 
the  general  loss  to  humanity,  the  interruption  to 
the  progress  of  thought  in  the  destruction  of  the 
works  of  wisdom  or  genius.  Listen  to  this  magnify 
icent  sentence  out  of  the  volume  now  lying  open 
beiore  me — "  Who  kills  a  man  kills  a  reasonable 
creature — God's  image;  but  he  who  destroys  a 
good  book,  kills  reason  itself.  Many  a  man  lives  a 
burthen  to  the  earth,  but  a  good  book  is  the  precious 
life-blood  of  a  master-spirit  embalmed  and  treas- 
ured up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life.  It  is  true, 
no  age  can  restore  a  life,  whereof  perhaps  there  is 
ni  great  loss:  and  revolutions  of  ages  do  not  oft 
recover  the  loss  of  rejected  truth,  for  the  want  of 
which  whole  nations  fare  the  worse ;  therefore  w# 
should  be  wary  how  we  spill  the  seasoned  life  of 
sian  preserved  and  stored  up  in  books." 


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J^ITERATUBB,  AND  CHABACTER.      M 

Mebon.  '*  Methinks  we  do  know  the  fiac/  Romai 
hand."    Milton,  is  it  not  V 

Alda.  Yes ;  and  after  this,  think  of  lifilton'f 
Areopagitica,  or  his  Paradise  Lost,  under  the  hoofi 
of  mi/s  dragoon  horses,  or  feeding  the  fishes  in 
the  Baltic  I  It  might  have  happened  had  he  written 
in  Germany  instead  of  England. 

Medon.  Do  you  forget  that  the  cause  of  the 
thirty  years'  war  was  a  woman  ? 

Alda.  A  woman  and  religion ;  the  two  best  or 
worst  things  in  the  worid^  according  as  they  are 
understood  and  felt,  used  and  abused.  You  allude 
to  Elizabeth  of  Bohemia,  who  was  to  Heidelberg 
what  Helen  was  to  Troy  ? 

One  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  of  Hei- 
delberg, at  least  to  an  English  traveller,  is  the  ele- 
gant triumphal  arch  raised  by  the  Palatine  Fred- 
eric V.  in  honor  of  his  bride — ^this  very  Elizabeth 
Stuart.  I  well  remember  with  what  self-compla- 
cency and  enthusiasm  our  Chef  walked  about  in  a 
heavy  rain,  examining,  dwelling  upon  every  trace 
of  this  celebrated  and  unhappy  woman.  She  had 
been  educated  at  his  country-seat,  and  one  of  the 
avenues  of  his  magnificent  park  yet  bears  her 
name.  On  her  fell  a  double  portion  of  the  miseries 
of  her  fated  family.  She  had  the  beauty  and  the 
wit,  the  gay  spirits,  the  elegant  tastes,  the  kindly 
d3q)oation  of  her  grandmother,  Mary  of  Scotiand. 
Her  very  virtues  as  a  wife  and  a  woman,  not  less 
than  her  pride  and  feminin*^  prejudices,  ruined  hei^ 
self,  her  husband,  and  her  people.    When  Frederic 


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S6  SKETCHES  OF  ARl, 

hesitated  to  accept  the  crown  of  Bohemia,  his  higL- 
hearted  wiie  exclaimed — ^^  Let  me  rather  eat  dry 
bread  at  a  king's  table  than  feast  at  the  board  of  av 
elector ; "  and  it  seemed  as  if  some  avenging  demor 
hovered  in  the  air,  to  take  her  literally  at  her 
word,  for  she  and  her  family  lived  to  eat  dry  bread- 
ay,  and  to  beg  it  before  they  ate  it ;  but  she  uDould 
be  a  queen.  Blest  as  she  was  in  love,  in  all  good 
gifts  of  nature  and  fortune,  in  all  means  of  hap- 
piness, a  kingly  crown  was  wanting  to  complete 
her  felicity,  and  it  was  cemented  to  her  brow  with 
the  blood  of  two  millions  of  men.  And  who  was 
to  blame?  Was  not  her  mode  of  thinking  the 
fashion  of  her  time,  the  effect  of  her  education  ? 
Who  had 

"  Put  in  her  tender  heart  the  aspiring  flame 
Of  golden  sovereignty?" 

For  how  many  ages  will  you  men  exclaim  agains* 
the  mischiefs  and  miseries  caused  by  the  influence 
of  women ;  thus  allowing  the  influence,  yet  taking 
no  thought  how  to  make  that  influence  a  means  of 
good,  instead  of  an  instrument  of  evil  I 

Elizabeth  had  brought  with  her  from  England 
some  luxurious  tastes,  as  yet  unknown  in  the  pala- 
tinate ;  she  had  been  familiarized  with  the  drama? 
of  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher,  and  she  had  figured 
in  the  masques  of  Ben  Jonson.  To  gratify  her 
Frederic  added  to  the  castle  of  Heidelberg  th« 
theatre  and  banqueting-room,  and  all  that  beaati- 
^\\  group  of  buildings  at  the  western  angle,  the 


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LTTERATURB,   AND  CHARACTBB.  99 

rains  of  which  are  still  called  the  English  palace 
She  had  inherited  from  her  grandmother,  or  had 
early  imbibed  from  education,  a  love  of  nature  and 
of  amusements  in  the  open  air,  and  a  passion  for 
gardening ;  and  it  was  to  please  her,  and  under 
her  auspices,  that  Frederic  planned  those  magnif- 
icent gardens,  which  were  intended  to  unite  within 
their  bounds,  all  that  nature  could  contribute  or  art 
devise ;  had  they  been  completed,  they  would  have 
rendered  Heidelberg  a  pleasure-palace,  fit  for&iry- 
land.  Nor  were  those  designs  unworthy  of  a  pros- 
perous and  pacific  sovereign,  whose  treasury  was 
full,  whose  sway  was  just  and  mild,  whose  people 
had  long  enjoyed  in  tranquillity  the  fruits  of  their 
own  industry.  When  I  had  the  pleasure  of  spend- 
ing a  few  days  with  the  Schlossers,  at  their  beauti- 
ful seat  on  the  Necker,  (Stift  Neuburg,)  I  went 
9Ter  the  ground  with  Madame  de  Schlosser,  who 
had  seen  and  studied  the  original  plans.  Her 
description  c£  the  magnitude  and  the  sumptuous 
taste  of  these  unfinished  designs,  while  we  stood 
togedier  amid  a  wilderness  of  ruins,  was  a  com- 
mentary on  the  vicissitudes  ci  this  world,  worth 
fifly  moral  treatises,  and  as  many  sermons. 

**  For  in  the  wreck  of  is  and  was, 
Things  incomplete  and  purposes  betray*df 
Make  sadder  transits  o*er  Trath*8  mystio  glass. 
Than  noblest  objects  ntter\v  decayed.** 

Ckbe  to  the  nuns  of  poor  Elizabeth's  palace,  then 
where  the  effigies  of  he*  handsome  husband,  anc 


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<9  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

his  bearded  ancestor  Louis  V.  look  down  from  Um 
ivy-mantled  wall,  you  remember  the  beautiful  ter- 
race towards  the  west  ?  It  is  still, — after  four  cen- 
turies of  changes,  of  disasters,  of  desolation, — ^the 
garden  of  Clara.  When  Frederic  the  Victorious 
assumed  the  sovereignty,  in  a  moment  of  danger 
and  faction,  he  took,  at  the  same  lime,  a  solemn 
TOW  never  to  marry,  that  the  rights  of  his  infant 
nephew,  the  son  of  the  late  palatine,  should  not  be 
prejudiced,  nor  the  peace  of  the  country  endan- 
gered by  a  disputed  succession.  He  kept  his  oath 
religiously,  but  at  that  very  lime  he  loved  Clara 
Dettin  de  Wertheim,  a  young  girl  of  plebeian 
origin,  and  a  native  of  Augsburg,  whose  musica' 
talents  and  melody  of  voice  had  raised  her  to  a 
high  situation  in  the  court  of  the  late  princess  pala- 
tine. Frederic,  with  the  consent  of  his  nephew, 
was  united  to  Clara  by  a  left-hand  marriage,  an 
expedient  still  in  use  in  Grermany,  and,  I  believe, 
peculiar  to  its  constitution;  such  a  marriage  is 
valid  before  Grod  and  man,  yet  the  wife  has  no 
acknowledged  rights,  and  the  offspring  no  supposed 
existence.  Clara  is  celebrated  by  the  poets  and 
chroniclers  of  her  time,  and  appears  to  have  been 
a  very  extraordinary  being  in  her  way.  In  that 
age  of  ignorance,  she  had  devoted  herself  to  study — 
the  could  sympathize  in  her  husband's  pursuits, 
and  share  the  toils  of  government — she  collected 
aromd  her  the  wisest  and  most  learned  men  of  th« 
time — she  continued  to  cultivate  the  beautilul  toicc 
which  had  won  the  heart  of  Frederic,  and  liei 


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UTERATURB,  AND  CHARACTER.      M 

9ong  and  her  ]ate  were  always  ready  to  soothe  hit 
cares.  Tradition  points  out  the  spot  where  it  ifc 
laid  she  loved  to  meditate,  and,  looking  down  upon 
the  little  hamlet,  on  the  declivity  of  the  hill,  to  re 
caU  her  own  humble  ori^n ;  that  little  hamlet,  em- 
bowered in  foliage,  and  the  remembrance  ci  Clara, 
have  survived  the  glories  of  Heidelberg.  Her 
descendants  became  princes  of  the  empire,  and 
itill  exist  in  the  family  of  Lowenstein. 

Then,  for  those  who  love  the  marvellous,  there 
is  the  wild  legend  of  the  witch  Jetta,  who  still  flits 
among  the  ruins,  and  bathes  her  golden  tresses  in 
the  Wolfsbnmnen ;  but  why  should  I  tell  you  of 
these  tales — ^you,  whose  head  is  a  sort  of  black- 
letter  library  ? 

Medon.  True ;  but  it  is  pleasant  to  have  one's 
old  recollections  taken  down  from  their  shelves 
and  dusted,  and  placed  in  a  new  light;  only  do  not 
require,  even  if  I  again  visit  Heidelberg,  that  1 
should  see  it  as  you  have  beheld  it,  with  your  quick 
spirit  of  association,  and  clothed  in  the  hues  of 
your  own  individual  mind.  While  you  speak,  it  is 
not  so  much  the  places  and  objects  you  describe, 
as  their  reflection  in  your  own  fancy,  which  I  see 
before  me ;  and  every  difierent  mind  will  reflect 
them  under  a  difierent  aspect  Then,  where  is 
truth?  you  say.  If  we  want  information  as  to 
mere  ^ts — ^the  situation  of  a  town  the  measure- 
ment of  a  church,  the  date  of  a  ruin,  the  catalogue 
of  A  gallery — we  can  go  to  our  dictionaries  and 
tmr  guides  des  royageurs.    But  i^  bendes  form  and 


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70 


outline^  we  must  have  coloring  too,  we  should  to 
membei  that  every  individual  mind  will  paint  the 
M^ene  with  its  own  proper  hues ;  and  if  we  judge 
of  the  mind  and  the  objects  it  represents  relatively 
to  each  other,  we  may  come  at  the  truth,  not 
otherwise.  I  would  ask  nothing  of  a  traveller,  but 
accuracy  and  sincerity  in  the  expression  of  hii 
opinions  and  feelings.  I  have  then  a  page  out  of 
die  great  book  of  human  nature — ^the  portrait  of  a 
particular  mind ;  when  that  is  fairly  before  me  I 
have  a  standard  by  which  to  judge :  I  can  draw  my 
own  inferences.  Will  you  not  allow  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  visit  Heidelberg,  and  to  derive  the  most 
intense  pleasure  from  its  picturesque  beauty,  with- 
out dreaming  over  witches  and  warriors,  palatines 
and  princes  ?  Can  we  not  admire  and  appreciate 
the  sculpture  in  the  palace  of  Otho-Henry,  without 
losing  ourselves  in  vague,  wondering  reveries  over 
the  destinies  of  the  sculptors  ? 

Alda.  Yes;  but  it  is  amusing,  and  not  less  in- 
structive, to  observe  the  manner  in  which  the  indi- 
vidual character  and  pursuits  shall  modify  the 
mipressions  of  external  things ;  only  we  should  be 
prepared  for  this,  as  the  pilot  makes  allowance 
hr  the  variation  of  the  needle,  and  directs  his 
course  accordingly.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
hose  who  cannot  see  the  imaginative  aspect  of 
things,  see,  therefore,  the  only  true  aspect ;  they 
only  see  one  aspect  of  the  truth.  Vans  etes  orfSvre^ 
Monsieur  Josse,  is  as  applicable  to  travellers  as  U 
every  other  species  of  egotist 


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LITERATURB,   AAD   CHARACTBE.  7\ 

Once,  in  an  excursion  to  the  nortli,  I  fell  into 
lonrersalion  with  a  Sussex  farmer,  one  of  that  race 
•f  sturdy,  rich,  and  independent  English  yeomen,  of 
which  I  am  afi*aid  few  specimens  remain :  he  wai 
quite  a  'character  in  his  way.  I  must  sketch  him 
for  you :  but  only  Miss  Mitford  could  do  him  justice. 
His  coat  was  of  the  finest  broad-cloth ;  his  shirt-frill, 
in  which  was  stuck  a  huge  agate  pin,  and  his  neck- 
cloth were  both  white  as  the  snow ;  his  good  beaver 
shone  in  all  its  pristine  gloss,  and  an  enormous 
bunch  of  gold  seals  adorned  his  watch-chain ;  hii 
voice  was  loud  and  dictatorial,  and  his  language 
surprisingly  good  and  flowing,  though  tinctured 
with  a  httle  coarseness  and  a  few  provincialisms. 
Ue  had  made  up  his  mind  about  the  Reform  Bill— 
the  Catholic  Question — ^the  Com  Laws — and  about 
things  in  general,  and  things  in  particular;  he  had 
doubts  about  nothing :  it  was  evident  that  he  wai 
accustomed  to  lay  down  the  law  in  his  own  vills^ 
— that  he  was  the  tyrant  of  his  own  fireside— that 
his  wife  was  '^  his  horse,  his  or,  his  ass,  his  any 
thing,"  while  his  sons  went  to  college,  and  hii 
daughters  played  on  the  piano.  London  was  to 
him  merely  a  vast  congregation  of  pestilential 
vapours — a  receptacle  of  thieves,  cut-throats,  and 
profligates — a  place  in  which  no  sensible  man,  who 
had  a  care  for  his  life,  his  health,  or  his  pockets, 
would  willingly  set  his  foot ;  he  thanked  God  that 
he  never  8j>ent  but  two  nights  in  the  metropolis, 
and  at  intervals  of  twenty-seven  years :  the  first 
-ight  he  had  passed  in  the  streets,  in  dread  of  fir^ 


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r2  SKETCHES   OF  ART,   KTG. 

And  yennin ;  and  on  the  last  occasion,  he  had  not 
ventured  beyond  Smithfield.  What  he  did  not 
know,  was  to  him  not  worth  knowing;  and  the 
word  French,  which  comprised  all  that  was  foreign, 
he  used  as  a  term,  expressing  the  most  unbounded 
abhorrence,  pity,  and  contempt  I  should  add, 
that  though  rustic,  and  arrogant,  and  prejudicedi 
he  was  not  vulgar.  We  were  at  an  inn,  on  the 
borders  of  Leicestershire,  through  which  we  had 
both  recently  travelled;  my  farmer  was  enthu- 
siastic in  his  admiration  of  the  country.  *^A  fine 
country,  madam — a  beautiful  country — a  splendid 
country  I  ** 

"  Do  you  call  it  a  fine  country  ?  **  sjdd  I,  ab- 
sently, my  head  full  of  the  Alps  and  Apennines, 
the  PjTenean,  and  the  river  Po. 

"  To  be  sure  I  do ;  and  where  would  you  see  a 
finer?" 

"I  did  not  see  any  thing  very  picturesque," 
said  I. 

"  Picturesque  I  **  he  repeated  with  some  con* 
tempt ;  "  I  don't  know  what  you  call  picturesque  • 
but  1  say,  give  me  a  soil,  that  when  you  turn  it  up 
you  have  something  for  youi  p^ns ;  the  fine  bo9 
makes  the  fine  country,  madam  I " 


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SKETCHES    OF    ART,   LITEHAIUBR. 
AND  CHARACTER. 


n. 

Medon.  I  OBSERVED  the  other  erening,  that  in 
making  a  sort  of  imaginatiye  bound  from  Coblents 
to  Heidelberg,  you  either  skipped  over  Frankfort, 
or  left  it  on  one  side. 

Alda.  Did  I? — if  I  had  done  either,  in  my 
heart  or  my  memory,  I  had  been  most  ungrateful ; 
but  I  thought  you  knew  Frankfort  well. 

Medon.  I  was  there  for  two  days,  on  my  way 
to  Switzerland,  and  it  rained  the  whole  time  from 
morning  till  night.  I  have  a  vision  in  my  mind  of 
dirty  streets,  chilly  houses,  dull  shops,  dingy-looking 
Jews,  dripping  umbrellas,  luxurious  hotels,  and 
exorbitant  charges, — and  this  ia  all  I  can  recollect 
of  Frankfort 

Alda.  Indeed  I — ^I  pity  you.  To  me  it  was 
associated  only  with  pleasant  feelings,  and,  in  truth, 
It  is  &  pleasant  place.  Life,  there,  appears  in  a 
very  attractive  costume  :  not  in  a  half-holiday, 
half-beggarly  garb,  as  at  Rome  and  Naples ;  nor  ii 
a  thin  undress  of  superficial  decency,  as  at  BeHiu 


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7A  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

nor  in  a  court  domino,  hiding,  we  know  not  what— 
as  at  Vienna  and  Munich ;  nor  half  motley,  half 
military,  as  at  Paris ;  nor  in  rags  and  embroidery 
as  in  London ;  but  at  Frankfort  all  the  outside  ai 
least  is  fair,  substantial,  and  consistent  The  shopi 
vie  in  splendor  with  those  of  London  and  Paris ;  the 
principal  streets  are  clean,  the  houses  spacious  and 
airy,  and  there  is  a  general  appearance  of  cheer- 
fulness  and  tranquillity,  mingled  with  the  luxuiy 
of  wealth  and  the  bustle  of  business,  which,  aftei 
the  miser}%  and  murmuring,  and  bitterness  of  fac- 
tion, we  had  left  in  London,  was  really  a  relief  to 
the  spirits.  It  is  true,  that  during  my  last  two 
visits,  this  apparent  tranquillity  concealed  a  good 
deal  of  political  ferment.  The  prisons  were  filled 
ivith  those  unfortunate  wretches  who  had  endeav- 
ored to  excite  a  popular  tumult  against  the  Prus- 
sian and  Austrian  governments.  The  trials  were 
going  forward  every  day,  but  not  a  syllable  of  the 
result  transpired  beyond  the  walls  of  the  Romei 
Saal.  Although  the  most  reasonable  and  liberal 
of  the  citizens  agreed  in  condemning  the  rashness 
and  folly  of  these  young  men,  the  tide  of  feeling 
was  evidently  in  their  favor :  for  instance,  it  was 
not  the  fashion  to  invite  the  Prussian  officers,  and 
I  well  remember  that  when  Goethe's  Egmont  was 
announced  at  the  theatre,  it  was  forbidden  by  the 
magistracy,  from  a  fear  that  certain  scenes  and 
passages  in  that  play  might  call  forth  some  open 
and  decided  expression  of  the  public  feeling ;  in 
fact,  only  a  few  evenings  before,  some  passages  in 


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UTBBATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  71 

hie  Massaniello  had  been  applied  and  applauded 
hj  the  audience,  in  a  manner  so  ill-ln-ed,  that  the 
wife  of  the  Prussian  minister  rose  and  lef\  her  box, 
followed  by  some  other  old  women, — male  and 
female.  The  theatre  is  rather  commodious  than 
q>lendid;  the  established  company,  both  for  the 
f^ra  and  the  x^ular  drama,  excellent,  and  oflen 
varied  by  temporary  visits  of  great  actors  and 
singers  from  the  other  theatres  of  Germany.  On 
my  first  visit  to  Frankfort,  which  was  during  the 
fair  of  1829,  Paganini,  then  in  the  zenith  of  his 
gl<My,  was  giving  a  series  of  concerts ;  but  do  not 
ask  me  any  thing  about  him,  for  it  is  a  worn-out 
subject,  and  you  know  I  am  not  one  of  the  enthu- 
siastic, or  even  the  orthodox,  with  regard  to  hii 
merits. 

Medox.  You  do  not  mean — you  will  not  tell 
me — ^that  with  all  your  love  of  music,  you  were 
insensible  to  the  miraculous  powers  of  that  man  ? 

Alda.  I  suppose  they  were  miraculous,  as  I 
heard  every  one  say  so  round  me ;  but  I  listened 
to  him  as  to  any  other  musician,  for  the  sake  of 
the  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  music,  not  for  the 
lake  of  wondering  at  difficulties  overcome,  and 
impossibilities  made  possible — ^they  might  have  re- 
mained impossibilities  for  me.  But  insensible  I 
was  not  to  the  wondrous  charm  of  his  tone  and 
expression.  I  was  thrilled,  melted,  excited,  at  the 
moment,  but  it  lefl  no  relish  on  the  palate,  if  I  may 
use  the  expression.  To  throw  me  into  such  con* 
vtdsions  of  enthusiasm  as  I  saw  this  man  exci^ 


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f6  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

here  and  on  the  continent,  I  must  havb  tli€ 
orchestra  with  all  its  various  mingling  world  of 
Bound,  or  the  divine  human  voice  breathing  music 
and  passion  t(^ther;  but  this  is  a  matter  of  feel- 
mg,  habit,  education,  like  all  other  tastes  in  art 

I  think  it  was  during  our  third  visit  to  Frankfort 
that  Madame  Haitsinger-Neumaqn  was  playing 
the  gast-rolles^  for  so  they  courteously  denominate 
the  parts  filled  by  occasional  visitors,  to  whom,  as 
guests,  the  precedence  is  always  given.  Madame 
Haitsinger  is  the  wife  of  Haitsinger,  the  tenor 
singer,  who  was  in  London,  and  sung  in  the  Fidelio, 
with  Madame  Devrient-Schroeder.  She  is  one  of 
the  most  celebrated  actresses  in  Germany  for  light 
comedy,  if  any  comedy  in  Germany  can  be  called 
light,  in  comparison  with  the  same  style  of  acting 
in  France  or  England.  Her  figure  is  rather 
large — 

Medon.  Like  most  of  the  German  actresses — 
for  I  never  yet  saw  one  who  had  attained  to  celeb- 
rity, who  was  not  much  too  embonpoint  for  our  ideas 
of  a  youthful  or  sentimental  heroine — 

Alda.  Not  Devrient-Schroeder  ? 

Medon.  Devrient  is  all  impassioned  grace ;  but 
I  think  that  in  time  even  she  will  be  in  danger  ot 
becoming  a  little— -how  shall  I  express  it  with  soi 
ficient  delicacy  ? — a  little  too  substantial. 

Alda.  No,  not  if  a  soul  of  music  and  fire,  in 
forming  a  feverish,  excitable  temperament,  which 
b  to  the  mantling  spirit  within,  what  the  high-pitched 
iDttrumert  is  to  the  breeze  which  sweeps  over  itf 


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L/TEAArUBB,  AKD   CHARACTEB.  /I 

chords, — ^not  if  these  can  avert  the  catasttophe; 
but  what  if  you  had  seen  Mademoiselle  Lindner, 
with  a  figure  like  Mrs.  Listen's — all  but  spherical- 
enacting  Fenella  and  Clarchen  'c 

Medon.  I  should  hare  said,  that  only  a  German 
ima^ation  could  stand  it  1  It  is  one  of  Madame 
de  Stael's  clever  aphorisms,  that  on  the  stage,  ^  H 
faut  menager  les  caprices  des  yeux  avec  le  plus 
grand  scrupule,  car  ils  peuvent  detruire,  sans  appel 
tout  effet  sdrieux ;  **  but  the  Germans  do  not  ap- 
pear to  be  subject  to  these  caprices  des  yeux ;  and 
have  not  these  fastidious  scruples  about  corporeal 
grare ;  for  them  sentiment,  however  clumsy,  is  stiU 
sentiment.    Perhaps  they  are  in  the  right. 

Alda.  And  Mademoiselle  Lindner  has  senti- 
ment ;  she  must  have  been  a  fine  actress,  and  is 
evidently  a  favorite  with  the  audience.  But  to  r^ 
turn  to  Madame  Haitsinger; — she  is  handsome, 
with  a  fair  complexion,  and  no  very  striking  ex- 
pression ;  but  there  is  a  heart  and  soul,  and  mel- 
lowness in  her  acting,  which  is  delicious.  I  could 
Bot  give  you  an  idea  of  her  manner  by  a  compari- 
son with  any  of  our  English  actresses,  for  she  is 
essentially  German;  she  never  aimed  at  making 
points;  she  was  never  hroadly  arch  or  comic,  but 
the  general  effect  was  as  rich  as  it  was  true  to  na- 
ture. I  saw  her  in  some  of  her  favorite  parts :  in 
Qie  comedy  of  "  Stille  Wasser  sind  ile^^Q\**  (ouf 
Kule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,  admirably  adapted 
to  the  German  stage  by  Schrceder;)  in  the  "Mi 
"andolina,"  (the  famous  Locandiera  of  Goldoni,) 


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78  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

and  lu  the  pretty  lively  vaudeville  eom|K>s6d  for 
her  by  Holtei,  "  Die  Wiener  in  Berlin,**  in  which 
the  popular  waltzes  and  airs,  sung  in  the  genuine 
national  spirit,  and  enjoyed  by  the  audience  with  a 
true  national  zest,  delighted  us  foreigners.  Herr 
Becher  is  an  excellent  actor  in  tragedy  and  high 
comedy.  Of  their  singers  I  could  not  say  so  much 
—there  were  none  I  should  account  first-rate,  ex- 
cept  Dobler,  whom  you  may  remember  in  Eng 
land. 

One  of  the  most  delightfU  peculiarities  of  Frank- 
fort, one  that  most  struck  my  fancy,  is  the  public 
garden,  planted  on  the  site  of  the  ramparts ;  a  gir^ 
die  of  verdure  and  shade— of  trees  and  flowers 
circling  the  whole  city;  accessible  to  all  and  on 
every  side, — the  promenade  of  the  rich,  the  solace 
of  the  poor.  Fifty  men  are  employed  to  keep  it 
in  order,  and  it  is  forbidden  to  steal  the  flowers,  or 
to  kill  the  singing  birds  which  haunt  the  shrub- 
beries. 

Medon.  And  does  this  prohibition  avail  much  in 
a  population  of  sixty  thousand  persons  ? 

Alda.  It  does  generally.  A  short  time  before 
we  arrived  some  mischievous  wretch  had  shot  9 
nightingale,  and  was  caught  in  the  fact  Hb  pun- 
ishment was  characteristic;  his  hands  were  tied 
behind  him,  and  a  label  sbtting  forth  his  crime  was 
fixed  on  his  breast :  in  this  guise,  with  a  police  offi- 
cer on.  each  side,  he  was  marched  all  round  the 
gardens,  and  made  the  circuit  of  the  city,  pursue<i 
oy  the  hisses  of  the  populace  and  the  abhorrcn 


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LITERATIIKE,   AND   CHARACTER.  Tj 

ax>ks  of  the  upper  classes ;  he  was  not  otherwifitf 
punished,  but  he  never  again  made  his  appearand  u 
within  the  waUs  of  thtf  city.  This  was  the  oAy 
instance  which  I  could  learn  of  the  infraction  of  a 
law  which  might  seem  at  least  nugatory. 

Of  the  spacious,  magnificent,  well-arranged  cem- 
etery, its  admirable  apparatus  for  restoring  sus- 
pended animation,  and  all  its  beautiful  accompani- 
ments and  memorials  of  the  dead,  there  was  a  long 
account  published  in  London,  at  the  tame  that  a 
cemetery  was  planned  for  this  great  overgrown 
city ;  and  in  truth  I  know  not  where  we  could  find 
a  better  model  than  the  one  at  Frankfort ;  it  ap- 
peared to  me  perfection. 

The  institutions  at  Frankfort,  both  for  charity 
and  education,  are  numerous,  as  becomes  a  rich 
and  free  city ;  and  those  I  had  an  opportunity  o* 
examining  appeared  to  me  admirably  managed. 
Besides  the  orphan  schools,  and  the  Burger  schule, 
and  the  school  for  female  education,  established 
and  maintained  by  the  wives  of  the  citizens,  there 
are  several  infant  schools,  where  children  of  a  year 
old  and  upwards  are  nursed,  and  fed,  and  kept  out 
of  mischief  and  harm,  while  their  parents  are  at 
work.  These  are  also  maintained  by  subscription 
among  the  ladies,  who  take  upon  them  in  turns  the 
task  of  daily  superintendence ;  and  I  shall  not  easi- 
ly forget  the  gentle-looking,  elegant,  well-dressed 
|iri,  who,  defended  from  the  encroachments  of  dirt} 
little  paws  by  a  large  apron,  sat  in  the  midst  of  « 
iwarm  of  thirty  or  forty  babies,  (the  eldest  not  fout 


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80  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

years  old,)  the  very  personification  of  feminine 
charily !  But  the  hospital  for  the  infirm  poor — 
Das  Versorgung  Haus — pleased  me  particularly 
'tis  true,  that  the  cost  was  not  a  third — what  do  1 
Bay  ?  not  a  sixth  of  the  expense  of  some  of  our  in- 
stitutions for  the  same  purpose.  There  was  no 
luxury  of  architecture,  no  huge  gates  shutting  in 
wretchedness,  and  shutting  out  hope ;  nor  grated 
windows ;  nor  were  the  arrangements  on  so  large  a 
scale  as  in  that  splendid  edifice,  the  Hopital  des 
Vieillards,  at  Brussels ; — a  house  for  the  poor  need 
not  be  either  a  prison  or  a  palace.  But  here,  ] 
recollect,  the  door  opened  with  a  latch ;  we  entered 
unannounced,  as  unexpected.  Here  there  was  per- 
fect neatness,  abundance  of  space,  of  air,  of  light, 
of  water,  and  also  of  occupation.  1  found  that, 
besides  the  inmates  of  the  place,  many  poor  old 
creatures,  who  could  not  have  the  facilities  or  ma- 
terials for  work  in  their  own  dwellings,  or  whose 
relatives  were  busied  in  the  daytime,  might  find 
here  employment  of  any  kind  suited  to  their 
strength  or  capacity, — ^for  which,  observe,  they 
were  paid ;  thus  leaving  them  to  the  last  possible 
moment  the  feeling  of  independence  and  useful- 
ness. I  observed  that  many  of  those  who  seemed 
in  the  last  stage  of  decrepitude,  had  hung  round 
their  beds  sundry  little  prints  and  pictures,  and 
slips  of  paper,  on  which  were  written  legibly  texts 
from  scripture,  moral  sentences,  and  scraps  of  poe^ 
try.  The  ward  of  the  superannuated  and  the  siclr 
Iras  at  a  distance  from  the  working  and  eating 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  81 

foonw,  and  all  breathed  around  that  peace  and 
quiet  which  should  accompany  old  age,  instead  of 
that  "life-consuming  din"  I  have  heard  m  such 
places.  On  the  pillow  of  one  bed  there  was  laid 
by  some  chance  a  bouquet  of  flowers. 

In  this  ward  there  was  an  old  man  nearly  blind 
and  lethargic ;  another  old  man  was  reading  to 
him.  I  remarked  a  poor  bed-ridden  woman,  utter- 
ly helpless,  but  not  old,  and  with  good  and  even 
refined  features ;  and  another  poor  woman,  seated 
by  her,  was  employed  in  keeping  the  flies  from  set- 
tling on  her  face.  To  one  old  woman,  whose  coun- 
tenance struck  me,  I  said  a  few  words  in  English — 
I  could  speak  no  German,  unluckily.  She  took  my 
hand,  kissed  it,  and  turning  away,  burst  into  tears. 
No  one  asked  for  any  thing  even  by  a  look,  nor 
apparently  wanted  any  thing ;  and  I  felt  that  from 
the  unaffected  good-nature  of  the  lady  who  accom- 
panied us,  we  had  not  so  much  the  appearance  of 
coming  to  look  at  the  poor  inmates  as  of  paying 
them  a  kind  visit ; — and  this  was  as  it  should  be. 
The  mild,  open  countenances  of  the  two  persons 
who  managed  the  establishment  pleased  me  partic- 
ularly ;  and  the  manner  of  the  matron  superintend- 
ent, as  she  led  us  over  the  rooms,  was  so  simple  and 
kind,  that  I  was  quite  at  ease :  I  experienced  none 
of  that  awkward  shyness  and  reluctance  I  have 
felt  when  ostentatiously  led  over  such  places  in 
England, — ^feeling  ashamed  to  stare  upon  the  mise- 
ry I  could  not  cure.  In  such  ca«es  I  have  probably 
attributed  to  the  8uff<»rer&  a  delicacy  or  a  sensibility 


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62  SKETCHES   OF   AKT, 

long  blunted,  if  ever  possessed ;  but  I  was  in  jmub 
for  them  and  for  myself. 

One  thing  more :  there  was  a  neat  chapel ;  and 
we  were  shown  with  some  pride  the  only  piece  of 
iplendor  in  the  establishment  The  communion 
plate  of  massy  silver  was  the  gift  of  two  brothers^ 
who  had  married  on  the  same  day  two  sisters;  ard 
these  two  sisters  had  died  nearly  at  the  same  time 
— I  believe  it  was  actually  on  the  same  day.  Tne 
widowed  husbands  presented  this  plate  in  memory 
of  their  loss  and  the  virtues  of  their  wives ;  and  I 
am  sorry  I  did  not  copy  the  simple  and  affecting 
inscription  in  which  this  is  attested.  There  was 
also  a  silver  vase,  which  had  been  presented  as  an 
offering  by  a  poor  miller  whom  an  unexpected  leg- 
acy had  raised  to  independence. 

I  might  give  you  similar  sketches  of  other  insti- 
tutions, here  and  elsewhere,  but  I  did  not  bestow 
sufficient  attention  on  the  practical  details,  and  the 
comparative  merits  of  the  different  methods  adopt- 
ed, to  render  my  observations  useful.  Though 
deeply  interested,  as  any  feeling,  thinking  being 
must  be  on  such  subjects,  I  have  not  studied  them 
•ufficiently.  There  are  others,  however,  who  are 
doing  this  better  than  I  could; — ^blessings  be  on 
them,  and  eternal  praise  I  My  general  impression 
was,  pleasure  from  the  benevolence  and  simplicity 
of  heart  with  which  these  institutions  were  conduct- 
id  and  superintended,  and  wonder  not  to  be  ex« 
pressed  at  their  extreme  cheapness. 

The  day  preceding  my  visit  to  the  Versorgiin^ 


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l^TEBATURI.,   AND   CUARACTEIU  83 

Bails,  I  had  been  in  a  fever  of  indignation  at  tlie 

&te  of  poor  R ,  one  of  the  conspirators,  who 

had  become  insane  from  the  severity  of  his  confine- 
ment. I  had  descanted  with  great  complacency  on 
our  open  tribunals,  and  our  trials  by  jury,  and  yet 
I  could  not  help  thinking  to  myself,  "  Well,  if  toe 
have  not  their  state-prisons,  neither  have  they  our 
poor^ouses ! " 

Medon.  It  is  plain  that  the  rich,  charitable, 
worldly  prosperous,  self-seeking  Frankfort,  would 
be  your  chosen  residence  after  all  I 

Alda.  No — ^as  a  fixed  residence  1  should  not 
prefer  Frankfort  There  b  a  little  too  much  of  the 
pride  of  purse — too  much  of  the  aristocracy  of 
wealth — too  much  dressing  and  dinnering — and 
society  is  too  much  broken  up  into  sets  and  circles 
to  please  me ;  besides,  it  must  be  confessed,  that 
the  arts  do  not  flourish  in  this  free  imperial 
city. 

The  Stadel  Museum  was  opened  just  before  our 
last  visit  to  Frankfort.  A  rich  banker  of  that  name 
bequeathed,  in  1816,  his  collection  of  prints  and 
pictures,  and  nearly  a  million  and  a  half  of  florins, 
for  the  commencement  and  mmntenance  of  this  in- 
ititution,  and  they  have  certainly  begun  on  a  splendid 
scale.  The  edifice  in  which  the  collection  is  ar- 
rmiged  is  spacious,  fitted  up  with  great  cost,  and 
generally  with  great  taste,  except  the  ceilings, 
vrhich,  being  the  glory  and  admiration  of  the  good 
people  of  Frankfort,  I  must  endeavor  to  describe 
\o  you  particularly.    The  elaborate  beauty  of  the 


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B4  .  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

irabesque  ornaments^  their  endless  variety^  and  tht 
vivid  coloring  and  gilding,  reminded  me  of  some 
of  the  illuminated  manuscripts ;  but  I  was  rathei 
amused  than  pleased,  and  rather  surprised  to  set 
art  and  ornament  so  misplaced — invention,  lalxHr 
money,  time,  lavished  to  so  little  purpose.  No  eC 
feet  was  aimed  at — none  produced.  The  strained 
and  wearied  eye  wandered  amid  a  profusion  of  un- 
meaning forms  and  of  gorgeous  colors,  which  never 
harmonized  into  a  whole ;  and  after  I  had  hal^ 
broken  my  neck  by  looking  up  at  them  through  au 
opera  glass,  in  order  to  perceive  the  elegant  inter- 
lacing of  the  minute  patterns  and  exquisite  finish 
of  the  workmanship,  I  turned  away  laughing  and 
provoked,  and  wondering  at  such  a  strange  perve]> 
sion,  or  rather  sacrifice,  of  taste. 
Medon.  But  the  collection  itself? — 
Alda.  It  is  not  very  interesting.  It  contsdna 
some  curious  old  German  pictures :  Stadel  having 
been,  like  others,  smitten  with  the  mania  of  bu}'ing 
Van  Eyks,  and  Hemlings,  and  Schor^els.  Here, 
however,  these  old  masters,  as  part  of  a  school  or 
history  of  art,  are  well  placed.  There  are  a  few  fine 
Flemish  psuntings — and,  in  particular,  a  wondrous 
portrait  by  Flinck,  which  you  must  see.  It  is 
a  lady  in  black,  on  the  lefl  side  of  the  door — of— I 
forget  which  room — ^but  you  cannot  miss  it :  those 
•Q(ft  eyes  will  look  out  at  you,  till  you  will  feel  in- 
;;lined  to  ask  her  name,  and  wonder  the  lips  do  not 
anclose  to  answer  you.  Of  first-rate  pictures  thert 
ire  none — ^I  mean  none  of  the  historical  and  Italijtt 


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UTSRATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  81 

ichools .  the  collection  of  casts  from  the  antique  it 
q>lendid  and  well  selected. 

Medon.  But  Bethmann,  the  banker,  had  already 
let  an  example  of  munificent  patronage  of  art ; 
when  he  shamed  kings,  for  instance,  hy  purcha*- 
mg  Danrecker's  Ariadne— one  of  the  chief  lioDi 
of  Frankibrt,  if  fame  says  true. 

Alda.   How  I  have  you  not  seen  it  ? 

Medon.  No— unhappily.  The  weather,  as  I 
hare  told  you,  was  dreadfuL  I  was  discouraged — 
I  procrastinated.  That  flippant  observation  I  had 
read  in  some  English  traveller,  that  **  Dannecker's 
Ariadne  looked  as  if  it  had  been  cut  out  of  old 
Stilton  cheese,**  was  floating  in  my  mind.  In  short, 
I  was  careless,  as  we  often  are,  when  the  means  of 
gratifying  curiosity  appear  secure,  and  within  our 
reach.  I  repent  me  now.  I  wish  I  had  settled  to 
my  own  satisfaction,  and  with  mine  own  eyes,  the 
disputed  merits  of  this  famous  statue ;  but  I  will 
trust  to  you.  It  ought  to  be  something  admirable. 
I  do  not  know  much  of  Dannex;ker,  or  his  works, 
but  by  all  accounts  he  has  not  to  complain  of  the 
want  of  patronage.  To  him  cannot  be  applied  the 
pathetic  common-place,  so  familiar  in  the  mouths 
of  our  young  artists,  about  "chill  penury,"  the 
struggle  to  live,  the  cares  that  "  freeze  the  genial 
current  of  the  soul,"  the  efforts  of  unassisted  gemus, 
and  so  forth.  Want  never  came  to  him  since  he 
devoted  himself  to  art  He  appears  to  have  had 
iMsure  and  fr*eedom  to  give  full  scope  to  his  powers, 
Ind  to  work  out  his  own  creations. 


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16  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

Aid  A.  Had  he?  Had  he,  indeed  ?  His  own 
itory  would  be  different,  I  fancy.  Dannecker,  like 
every  patronized  artist  I  ever  met  with,  would 
execrate  patronage,  if  he  dared.  Grood  old  man 
The  thought  of  what  he  might  have  done,  and 
could  have  done,  breaks  out  sometimes  in  the  midsi 
of  all  his  self-complacent  naive  exultation  ovei 
what  he  has  done.  I  will  endeavor  to  give  you  a 
correct  idea  of  the  Ariadne,  and  then  I  will  tell 
you  something  of  Dannecker  himself.  His  history 
is  a  good  commentary  upon  royal  patronage. 

I  had  heard  so  much  of  this  statue,  that  my 
curiosity  was  strongly  excited.  A  part  of  its  fame 
may  be  owing  to  its  situation,  and  the  number  of 
travellers  who  go  to  visit  Bethmann's  Museum,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  I  used  to  observe  that  all  travel- 
lers, who  were  on  the  road  to  Italy,  praised  it ;  and 
all  who  were  on  their  way  home,  criticized  it  As 
I  ascended  the  steps  of  the  pavilion  in  which  it  it 
placed,  the  enthusiasm  of  expectation  faded  away 
from  my  mind :  I  said  to  myself,  **  I  shall  be  disap* 
pointed  I  *'    Yet  I  was  not  disappointed. 

The  Ariadne  occupied  the  centre  of  a  caHnet, 
hung  with  a  dark  gray  color,  and  illuminated  by  a 
high  lateral  window,  so  that  the  light  and  shade, 
and  the  relief  of  the  figure  were  perfectly  well 
managed  and  efiecdve.  Dannecker  has  not  rep- 
resented Ariadne  in  her  more  poetical  and  pictur- 
esque character,  as,  when  betrayed  and  forsaken 
by  Theseus,  she  stood  alone  on  the  wild  shore  of 
Kaxos,  '^her   haxr  blown  by  the  winds,  and  J. 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHAKACTER.  87 

ibuoi  her  expressing  desoladon."  It  is  Ariadne, 
immortal  and  triumphant,  as  the  bride  of  Bacchui. 
The  figure  is  larger  than  life.  She  is  seated,  or 
rather  reclined,  on  the  back  of  a  panther.  Th* 
right  arm  is  carelessly  extended :  the  left  arm  rests 
on  the  head  of  the  animal,  and  the  hand  supports 
the  drapery,  which  appears  to  have  just  dropped 
from  her  limbs.  The  head  is  turned  a  little  up- 
wards, as  if  she  already  anticipated  her  starry 
home ;  and  her  tresses  are  br^ded  with  the  vine 
leaves.  The  grace  and  ease  of  the  attitude,  so 
firm,  and  yet  so  light ;  the  flowing  beauty  of  the 
form,  and  the  position  of  the  head,  enchanted  me. 
Perhaps  the  features  are  not  sufficiently  Greek: 
for,*tho'igh'I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think  all 
beauty  comprised  in  the  antique  models,  and  that 
nothing  can  be  orthodox  but  the  straight  nose  and 
short  upper  lip,  still  to  Ariadne  the  pure  classical 
ideal  of  beauty,  both  in  form  and  face,  are  properly 
in  character.  A  cast  from  that  divine  head,  the 
Greek  Anadne,  is  placed  in  the  same  cabinet,  and 
I  confess  to  you  that  the  contrast  being  immediately 
brought  before  the  eye,  Dannecker*s  Ariadne 
seemed  to  want  refinement,  in  comparison.  It  is 
true,  that  the  moment  chosen  by  the  German 
sculptor  required  an  expression  altogether  differ- 
ent In  the  Greek  bust,  though  already  circled  by 
the  viny  crown,  and  though  all  heaven  seems  U 
repose  on  the  noble  arch  of  that  expanded  brow, 
fet  the  head  is  declined,  and  a  tender  melanchoh 
ingers  round  the  all-perfect  mouth,  as  if  the  it^ 


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B8  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

membrance  of  a  mortal  love — a  mortal  sorrow — 
yet  shaded  her  celestial  bridal  hours,  and  made 
pale  her  immortality.  But  Dannecker's  Ariadne 
is  the  flushed  Queen  of  the  Bacchante,  and  in  the 
clash  of  the  cymbals  and  the  mantling  cup,  she  has 
already  forgotten  Theseus.  There  is  a  look  of  life, 
an  individual  truth  in  the  beauty  of  the  form, 
which  distinguishes  it  from  the  long-limbed  vapid 
pieces  of  elegance  called  nymphs  and  Venusea, 
which 

••  Stretch  their  white  arms,  and  bend  their  marble  necks," 

m  the  galleries  of  our  modern  sculptors.  One  ob- 
jection struck  me,  but  not  till  after  a  second  or 
third  view  of  the  statue.  The  panther  seemed  to 
me  rather  too  bulky  and  ferocious.  It  is  true,  it  is 
not  a  natural,  but  a  mythological  panther,  such  as 
we  see  in  the  antique  basso-relievos  and  the 
arabesques  of  Herculaneum ;  yet,  methinks,  if  he 
appeared  a  little  more  conscious  of  his  lovely  bur- 
then, more  tamed  by  the  influence  of  beauty,  it 
would  have  been  better.  However,  the  sculptor 
may  have  had  a  design,  a  feeling,  in  this  very 
point,  which  has  escaped  me :  I  regret  now  that  1 
did  not  ask  him.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  the 
extreme  massiveness  of  the  panther's  limbs  servea 
to  give  a  firmness  to  the  support  of  the  figure,  and 
sets  off  to  advantage  its  lightness  and  delicacy.  It 
i8  etiually  certain  that  if  the  head  of  the  animal 
Jiad  been  ever  so  slightly  turned,  the  pose  of  the 
right-arm,  and  with  it  tK3  whole  attitude,  mu^ 
bare  h^on  alterod 


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LI11CR.A.TUKE,  AND  CHARACTER.  S& 

The  window  of  the  cabinet  is  so  contriyed^  that 
bj  drawing  up  a  blind  of  stained  glass,  a  soil  crim- 
ion  tint  is  shed  over  the  figure,  as  if  the  marble 
blushed.  This  did  not  please  me :  partly  from  a 
dislike  to  all  trickery  in  art ;  partly  because,  to  my 
taste,  the  pale,  colorless  purity  of  the  marble  is  one 
of  the  beauties  of  a  fine  statue. 

It  is  true  that  Dannecker  has  been  unfortunate 
in  his  material.  The  block  from  which  he  cut  hif 
figure  is  imperfect  and  streaky ;  but  how  it  could 
possibly  have  suggested  the  idea  of  Stilton  cheese  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  conceive.  It  is  not  worse  than  Ca- 
nova's  Venus,  in  the  Pitti  palace,  who  has  a  ter- 
rible black  streak  across  her  bosom.  M.  Pass- 
avant,  *  who  was  standing  by  when  I  paid  my  last 
visit  to  the  Ariadne,  assured  me,  that  when  the 
Ftatue  was  placed  on  its  pedestal,  about  sixteen 
years  ago,  these  black  specks  were  scarcely  visible, 
and  that  they  seemed  to  multiply  and  grow  dari^er 
with  time.  This  is  a  lamentable,  and,  to  me,  an 
unaccountable  fact 

Medon.  And,  I  am  afraid,  past  cure :  but  now 
tell  me  something  of  the  sculptor  himself.  Afler 
looking  on  a  grand  work  of  art,  we  naturally  turn 
to  look  into  the  mind  which  conceived  and 
created  it 

Alda.    Dannecker,  like  all  the  great  modem 

*  M.  PassaTant  is  a  landscape-painter  of  Fnnklbrt,  an  Intel 
Vgent,  accomplished  man,  and  one  of  the  few  German  artlsti 
«ho  had  a  tolerably  correct  idea  of  the  state  of  art  in  England. 
Be  is  the  author  of  "  Kunstreise  durch  England  nnd  Belgium.' 


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K  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

BCiil]>tors,  sprung  from  the  people.  Thorwaldsoo 
Flaxman,  Chantrey,  Canova,  Schadow,  Rauch — 1 
believe  we  may  go  farther  back,  to  Cellini,  Bandi- 
nelli,  Bernini,  Pigalle — all  I  can  at  this  moment 
recollect,  were  of  plebeian  origin.  When  I  was  at 
Dresden,  I  was  told  of  a  young  count,  of  noble 
family,  who  had  adopted  sculpture  as  a  profession 
This,  I  think,  is  a  solitary  instance  of  any  persoD 
of  noble  birth  devoting  himself  to  thb  noblest  of 
the  arts. 

Medon.  Do  you  forget  Mrs.  Damer  and  Lady 
Dacre? 

Alda.  No  ;  but  I  do  not  think  that  either  the 
exquisite  modelling  of  Lady  Dacre,  or  the  merited 
rious  attempts  of  Mrs.  Damer,  come  under  the 
head  of  sculpture  in  its  grand  sense.  By-the-by, 
when  Horace  Walpole  said  that  Mrs.  Damer  waa 
the  first  female  sculptor  who  had  attained  any 
celebrity,  he  forgot  the  Greek  girl,  Lala,*  and  the 
Properzia  Rossi  of  modem  times. 

Dannecker  was  born  at  Stuttgard  in  1 758.  On 
him  descended  no  hereditary  mantle  of  genius ;  i' 
was  the  immediate  gift  of  Heaven,  and  apparently 
heaven-directed.  His  father  was  a  groom  in  the 
duke's  stable,  and  appears  to  have  been  merely  an 
ill-tempered,  thick-headed  boor.  How  young  Dan- 
lecker  picked  up  the  rudiments  of  reading  and 

*  She  ms  ooatemporary  with  Cleopatra,  (6.  C.  33,)  &nd  was  par 
tictilarly  celebrated  for  her  busts  In  ivory.  The  Romans  raised 
I  statue  to  her  honor,  wliich  was  in  the  Quistiniani  collection.— 
t.Pust. 


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LITKRATUBE,  AXD  CUARACTKK.  91 

writing,  he  does  not  bimself  remember ;  nor  bj 
what  circumstances  the  bent  of  his  fancy  and 
genius  was  directed  to  the  fine  arts.  Like  other 
great  men,  who  have  been  led  to  trace  the  progress 
of  their  own  minds,  he  attributed  to  his  mother  th« 
first  promptings  to  the  fair  and  good,  the  first  sofV- 
ening  and  elevating  influences  which  his  mind  ac* 
knowledged.  He  had  neither  paper  nor  pencils ; 
but  next  door  to  his  father  there  lived  a  stone- 
cutter, whose  blocks  of  marble  and  free-stone  were 
every  day  scrawled  over  with  rude  imitations  of 
natural  objects  in  chalk  or  charcoal — the  first  es- 
says of  the  infant  Dannecker.  When  he  was 
beaten  by  his  father  for  this  proof  of  idleness,  his 
mother  interfered  to  protect  or  to  encourage  him. 
As  soon  as  he  was  old  enough,  he  assisted  his  father 
in  the  stable ;  and  while  running  about  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  palace,  ragged  and  bare-foot,  he  ap- 
pears to  have  attracted,  by  his  vivacity  and  alert* 
ness,  the  occasional  notice  of  the  duke  himself. 

Duke  Charles,  the  grandfather  of  the  present 
king  of  Wurtemburg,  had  founded  a  military  school, 
called  the  Karl  Schiile,  (Charles*  School,)  annexed 
to  the  Hunting  Palace  of  the  Solitude.  At  this 
academy,  music  and  drawing  were  taught  as  well 
M  military  tactics.  One  day,  when  Dannecker 
was  about  thirteen,  his  father  returned  home  in  a 
very  ill-humor,  and  informed  his  family  that  the 
dake  intended  to  admit  the  children  of  his  domes- 
lies  into  his  new  military  school.  The  boy,  with 
joyful  eagerness,  declar<^d  his  intention  of  going 


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92  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

immediately  to  present  himself  as  a  candidate 
The  father,  with  a  stare  of  astonishment,  desired 
him  to  remain  at  home,  and  mind  his  business, 
on  his  persisting,  he  resorted  to  blows,  and  ende<l 
by  locking  him  up.  The  boy  escaped  by  jumping 
out  of  the  window ;  and,  collecting  several  of  hii 
comrades,  he  made  them  a  long  harangue  in  praisi* 
of  the  duke's  beneficence,  then  placing  himself  at 
their  head,  marched  them  up  to  the  palace,  where 
the  whole  court  was  assembled  for  the  Easter  fes- 
tivities. On  being  asked  their  business,  Dannecker 
replied,  as  spokesman, — "  Tell  his  highness  the  duke 
we  want  to  go  to  the  Karl  Schiile."  One  of  the 
attendants,  amused,  perhaps,  with  this  juvenile 
ardor,  went  and  informed  the  duke,  who  had  just 
risen  from  table.  He  came  out  himself  and  mus- 
tered the  little  troop  before  him.  He  first  darted 
a  rapid,  scrutinizing  glance  along  the  line,  then  se- 
lecting one  from  the  number,  placed  him  on  his  right 
hand ;  then  another,  and  another,  till  only  young 
Dannecker  and  two  others  remsuned  on  his  left. 
Dannecker  has  since  acknowledged  that  he  suffer- 
ed for  a  few  moments  such  exquisite  pain  and  shame 
at  the  idea  of  being  rejected,  that  his  first  impulse 
was  to  run  away  and  hide  himself;  and  that  hit 
nirprise  and  joy,  when  he  found  that  he  and  hia 
two  companions  were  the  accepted  candidates,  had 
nearly  overpowered  him.  The  duke  ordered  then 
to  go  the  next  morning  to  the  Solitude,  and  then 
dismissed  them.  When  Dannecker  returned  home. 
His  father,  enraged  at  losing  the  servicer  of  his  soiv 


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UTEKATIMB,  AND  CHABACTEB.  %l 

turned  him  out  of  the  house,  and  forbade  him  ever 
more  to  enter  it;  but  his  mother  (mother^like) 
packed  up  his  little  bundle  of  necessaries,  accompa- 
nied him  for  some  distance  on  his  road,  and  parted 
from  him  with  blessings  and  tears,  and  words  of  en- 
courage ment  and  love. 

At  the  Karl  Schlile  Dannecker  made  but  little 
progress  in  his  studies.  Nothing  could  be  worse 
managed  than  this  royal  establishment  The  in* 
ferior  teachers  were  accustomed  to  employ  the 
poorer  boys  in  the  most  servile  offices,  and  in  thif 
so  called  academy  he  was  actually  obliged  to  learn 
by  stealth :  but  here  he  formed  a  friendship  with 
Schiller,  who,  like  himself,  was  an  ardent  genius 
pining  and  writhing  under  a  chilling  system  ;  and 
the  two  boys,  thrown  upon  one  another  for  con- 
solation, became  friends  for  life.  Dannecker  must 
have  been  about  fifteen  when  the  Karl  Schiile  was 
removed  from  the  Solitude  to  Stuttgard.  He  was 
then  placed  under  the  tuition  of  Grubel,  a  profes- 
sor of  sculpture,  and  in  the  following  year  he  pro- 
duced his  first  original  composition.  It  was  a  Milo 
of  Crotona,  modelled  in  clay,  and  was  judged 
worthy  of  the  first  prize.  Dannecker  was  at  this 
time  so  unfriended  and  litde  known,  that  the  duke, 
who  appears  to  have  forgotten  him,  learned  with 
astonishment  that  this  nameless  hoy»  the  son  of  his 
groom,  had  carried  off  the  highest  honors  of  the 
school  fr*om  all  his  competitors.  For  a  few  years 
%e  was  employed  in  the  duke's  service  in  carving 
eomices,  Cupids,  and  caryatides,  to  ornament  the 


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94  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

new  palaces  at  Stuttgard  and  Hohenheun;  tihit 
task-work,  over  which  he  often  sighed,  may  possi- 
bly have  assisted  in  giving  him  that  certainty  and 
mechanical  dexterity  in  the  use  of  his  tools  for 
which  he  is  remarkable.  About  ten  years  were 
thus  passed ;  he  then  obtained  permission  to  travel 
for  his  improvement,  with  an  allowance  of  three 
hundred  florins  a  year  from  the  duke.  With  these 
slender  means  Dannecker  set  off  for  Paris  on  foot 
There,  for  the  first  time,  he  had  opportunities  of 
stud^'ing  the  living  model.  £Qs  enthusiasm  for  hia 
art  enabled  him  to  endure  extraordinary  privaticms 
of  every  kind,  for  out  of  his  little  pension  of 
twenty-three  pounds  a  year  he  had  not  only  to 
feed  and  clothe  himself,  but  to  purchase  all  the  ma- 
terials for  his  art,  and  the  means  of  instruction ; 
and  this  in  an  expensive  capital,  surrounded  with 
temptations  which  an  artist  and  an  enthusiastic 
young  man  finds  it  difiicult  to  withstand.  He  told 
me  himself,  that  day  after  day  he  has  studied  in 
the  Louvre  dinnerless,  and  dressed  in  a  garb  which 
scarce  retained  even  the  appearance  of  decency 
He  left  Paris,  after  a  two  years*  residence,  as  sim 
pie  in  mind  and  heart  as  when  he  entered  it,  and 
considerably  improved  in  his  knowledge  of  anat- 
omy and  in  the  technical  part  of  his  profession 
The  treasures  of  the  Louvre,  though  far  inferior  to 
what  they  nov7  are,  had  let  in  a  flood  of  ideas  upoti 
his  mind,  among  which  (as  he  described  his  own 
feelings)  he  groped  as  one  bewildered  and  intoxl 
cated,  amazed  rather  than  enlightened. 


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LITF.RATUBB,   Ax^D  CHARACTEK.  tft 

AIbdon.  But  Dannecker  must  have  been  pooi 
in  spirit  as  in  pocket — ^simple  indeed,  if  he  did  not 
profit  by  the  opportunities  ^hich  Paris  afforded  of 
Btud}ing  human  nature,  noting  the  passions  and 
their  physiognomy,  and  gaining  other  experieucet 
most  useful  to  an  artist 

Alda.  There  I  differ  from  you.  Would  you 
send  a  young  artist — more  particularly  a  young 
sculptor — to  study  the  human  nature  of  London  or 
Paris? — to  seek  the  ideal  among  shop-girls  and 
opera-dancers?  Or  the  sublime  and  beautiful 
among  the  frivolous  and  degraded  of  one  sex,  the 
money-making  or  the  brutalized  of  the  other  ?  Is 
it  from  the  man  who  has  steeped  his  youthful 
prime  in  vulgar  dissipation,  by  way  of  "  seeing  life," 
as  it  is  called,  who  has  courted  patronage  at  the 
convivial  board,  that  you  shall  require  that  union 
of  lofty  enthusiasm  and  patient  industry,  which 
are  necessary,  first  to  conceive  the  grand  and  the 
poetical,  and  then  consume  long  years  in  shaping 
out  his  creation  in  the  everlasting  marble  ? 

Medox.  But  how  is  the  sculptor  himself  to  live 
during  those  long  years  ?  It  must  needs  be  a  hard 
struggle.  I  have  heard  young  artists  say,  that  they 
have  been  forced  on  a  dissipated  life  merely  as  a 
means  of  "  getting  on  in  the  world,"  as  the  phrase  is. 

Alda.  So  have  I.  It  is  so  base  a  plea,  that 
when  I  hear  it,  I  generally  regard  it  as  the  excuse 
for  dispositions. already  perverted.  The  men  who 
talk  thus  are  doomed;  they  will  either  creep 
through  life  in  mediocrity  and  dependence  to  thcii 


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96  8KETCUE8  OF  ABT, 

grave ;  or,  at  the  best,  if  they  have  parts,  as  weU 
as  cunning  and  assurance,  they  may  make  then^ 
selves  the  fashion,  and  make  their  fortune ;  thej 
may  be  clever  portrait-painters  and  bust-makersi 
but  when  they  attempt  to  soar  into  the  historical  and 
ideal  department  of  their  art,  they  move  the  laugh- 
ter of  gods  and  men ;  to  them  the  higher,  holier 
fountains  of  inspiration  are  thenceforth  sealed. 

Medon.  But  think  of  the  temptations  of  so- 
ciety! 

Alda.  I  think  of  those  who  have  ovevcome 
them.  *^  Great  men  have  been  among  us,"  though 
they  be  rare.  Have  we  not  had  a  Flaxman  ?  but 
the  artist  must  choose  where  he  will  worship.  He 
cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  That  man  of 
genius  who  thinks  he  can  tamper  with  his  glorious 
gifb,  and  for  a  season  indulge  in  social  excesses, 
stoop  from  his  high  calling  to  the  dregs  of  earth, 
abandon  himself  to  the  stream  of  common  life,  and 
trust  to  his  native  powers  to  bring  him  up  again  ;— 
O,  believe  it,  he  plays  a  desperate  game!— one 
that  in  nearly  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred 
is  fatal. 

Medon.  I  begin  to  see  your  drift;  but  you 
would  find  it  difficult  to  prove  that  the  men  who 
executed  those  works,  on  which  we  now  look  with 
wonder  and  despair,  lived  like  anchorites,  or  were 
inexceptionable  moral  characters. 

Alda.  Will  you  not  allow  that  they  worked  in 
a  difierent  spirit  ?  Or  do  you  suppose  that  it  was 
by  the  possession  of  some  sleight-of-hand  that  these 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  H 

Ibings  were  performed? — that  it  was  hy  souM 
knack  of  chiselling,  some  secret  of  coloring  now 
lost,  that  a  Phidias  or  a  Correggio  still  remains  on- 
approached,  and,  as  people  will  tell  you,  unapr 
proachable  ? 

Medox.  They  had  a  different  nature  to  work 
from. 

Alda.  a  different  modification  of  nature,  but 
not  a  different  nature.  Nature  and  truth  are  one, 
and  immutable,  and  inseparable  as  beauty  and  love. 
I  do  maintain  that,  in  these  latter  times,  we  have 
artists,  who  in  genius,  in  the  power  of  looking  at 
nature,  and  in  manual  skill,  are  not  beneath  the 
great  ancients,  but  their  works  are  found  wanting 
in  comparison;  they  have  fallen  short  of  the 
modeb  their  early  ambition  set  before  them ;  and 
why  ? — ^because,  havmg  genius,  they  want  the 
moral  grandeur  that  should  accompany  it,  and 
have  neglected  the  training  of  their  own  mindi 
fix)m  necessity,  or  from  dissipation,  or  from  pride, 
BO  that,  having  imagination  and  skill,  they  have 
yet  wanted  the  materials  out  of  which  to  work. 
Recollect  that  the  great  artists  of  old  were  not 
mere  pidnters,  or  mere  sculptors,  who  were  nothing 
except  with  the  pencil  or  the  chisel  in  their  hand. 
They  were  philosophers,  scholars,  poets,  musicians, 
noble  beings  whose  eyes  were  not  ever  on  them- 
lelves,  but  who  looked  ab^ve,  before,  and  after. 
Our  modem  artists  turn  coxcombs,  and  then  fancy 
themselves  like  Rafaelle ;  >r  they  are  greedy  of 
present  praise,  or  greedy  of  gain ;  oi  they  will  not 
7 


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18  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

pay  the  price  for  immortality ;  or  they  have  Mid 
their  glorious  birthright  of  fame  for  a  mess  of  poi- 
tage. 

.  Poor  Dannecker  found  his  mess  of  pottage  bittei 
now  and  then,  as  you  shall  hear.  He  set  off  for 
Italy,  in  1783,  with  his  pension  raised  to  four 
hi:  ndred  florins  a  year,  that  is,  about  thirty  pounds. 
Ho  reached  Rome  on  foot,  and  he  told  me  that,  for 
some  months  after  his  arrival,  he  suffered  from  a 
terrible  depression  of  spirits,  and  a  painful  sense 
of  loneliness;  like  Thorwaldson,  when  he  too 
visited  that  city  some  years  afterwards  a  friendless 
youth,  he  was  often  home-sick  and  heart-sick.  At 
this  time  he  used  to  wander  about  among  the  ruins 
and  relics  of  ahnighty  Rome,  lost  in  the  sense  of 
their  grandeur,  depressed  by  his  own  vague  aspira- 
tions— ignorant,  and  without  courage  to  apply  him- 
self. Luckily  for  him,  Herder  and  Goethe  were 
then  residing  at  Rome ;  he  became  known  to  them, 
and  their  conversation  directed  him  to  higher 
sources  of  inspiration  in  his  art  than  he  had  yet 
contemplated — to  the  very  well-heads  and  mother- 
streams  of  poetry.  They  showed  him  the  distinc- 
tioti  between  the  spirit  and  the  form  of  ancient 
art  Dannecker  felt,  and  afterwards  applied  8(»ne 
of  the  grand  revelalions  of  these  men,  who  were 
at  once  profound  critics  and  inspired  poets.  He 
might  have  grasped  at  more,  but  that  his  early 
nuiture  was  here  against  him,  and  his  subsequent 
destinies  as  a  court  sculptor  seldom  left  him  sufB- 
eient  freedom  of  thought  or  action  to  follow  ou' 


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VJTERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  $9 

hht  own  conceptions.  While  at  Rome  he  also  be 
came  at^qnainted  with  Can  ova,  who,  although  onlj 
one  year  older  than  himself,  had  already  achieyed 
great  things.  He  was  now  at  work  on  the  monu- 
ment of  the  Pope  GanganeUi.  The  courteous, 
kind-hearted  Italian  would  sometimes  visit  the 
poor  German  in  his  studio,  and  cheer  him  by  his 
remarks  and  encouragement. 

Dannecker  remsuned  five  years  at  Rome ;  he  was 
then  ordered  to  return  to  Stuttgard.  As  he  had 
already  greatly  distinguished  himself,  the  Duke  of 
Wurtemberg  received  him  with  much  kindness, 
and  promised  him  his  protection.  Now,  the  pro- 
tection and  the  patronage  which  a  sovereign  ac- 
cords to  an  artist  generally  amounts  to  this : — he 
begins  by  carving  or  painling  the  portrait  of  hij 
patron,  and  of  some  of  the  various  members  of  his 
patron's  family.  If  these  are  approved  of,  he  if 
allowed  to  sticjc  a  ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  and  ii 
appointed  professor  of  fine  arts,  with  a  certain 
stipend,  and  thenceforth  his  time,  his  labor,  askd 
his  genius  belong  as  entirely  to  his  master  as  those 
of  a  hired  servant ;  his  path  is  marked  out  for  him. 
It  was  thus  with  Dannecker ;  he  received  a  pen* 
sion  of  eight  hundred  florins  a  year  and  his  pro 
f&ssorship ;  and  upon  the  strength  of  this  he  married 
Henrietta  Rapp.  From  this  period  his  Hfe  hax 
passed  in  a  course  of  tranquil  and  uninterrupte<l 
occupation,  yet,  tbongh  constantly  employed,  hit 
works  are  not  numerous;  almost  every  moment 
being  taken  up  wit>  <he  duties  of  his  profesiorship, 


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101  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

m  trying  to  teach  what  no  man  of  goniiu  can  teacU, 
Mid  in  making  drawings  and  designs  after  the  fan- 
cies of  the  grand  duke.  He  was  required  to  ccHooh 
pose  a  basso-relievo  for  the  duke's  private  cabinet 
The  subject  which  he  chose  was  as  appropriate  as 
it  was  beautiinlly  treated — Alexander  pressing  his 
Beal  upon  the  lips  of  Parmenio.  He  modelled  this 
in  bas-relief,  and  the  best  judges  pronounced  it  ex- 
quisite ;  but  it  did  not  please  the  duke,  and,  in- 
stead of  receiving  an  order  to  finish  it  in  marble, 
he  was  obliged  to  throw  it  aside,  and  to  execute 
some  design  dictated  by  his  master.  The  original 
model  remsuned  for  many  years  in  his  studio ;  but 
a  short  time  before  my  last  visit  to  him  he  had  pre- 
sented it  as  a  birthday  gift  to  a  friend.  The  first 
great  work  which  gave  him  celebrity  as  a  sculptor 
was  the  mausoleum  of  Count  Zeppelin,  the  duke's 
favorite,  in  which  the  figure  of  Friendship  has 
much  simplicity  and  grace ;  this  is  now  at  Louis- 
berg.  While  he  was  modelling  this  beautiful  figure, 
the  first  idea  of  the  Ariadne  was  suggested  to  his 
fancy,  but  some  years  elapsed  before  it  came  into 
form.  At  this  time  he  was  much  employed  in  exe- 
cuting busts,  for  which  his  fine  eye  for  living  nature 
and  manly  simplicity  of  taste  peculiarly  fitted  him. 
In  this  particular  department  of  his  art  he  has 
neither  equal  nor  rival,  except  our  Chantrey. 
rhe  best  I  have  seen  are  those  of  Schiller,  Gluck, 
and  Lavater.  Never  are  the  fine  arts,  never  are 
great  artists,  better  employed,  than  when  they  serve 
Vo  illustrate  and  to  immortalize  each  other  I  Abou^ 


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LIIERATUUB,   AMD   CHARACTBB.  191 

ihe  ysar  1808,  Dannecker  was  considered,  beyoiic 
dispute,  the  first  sculptor  in  Germanj;  for  as  yet^ 
Ranch,  Tieck,  and  Schwanthaler  had  not  worked 
their  waj  up  to  their  present  high  celebrity.  He 
received,  in  1811,  an  intimation,  that  if  he  would 
«nter  the  service  of  the  King  of  Bavaria,  he  should 
be  placed  at  the  head  of  the  school  of  sculpture  at 
Munich,  with  a  salary  three  times  the  amount  of 
that  which  he  at  present  enjoyed. — 

Medon.  Which  Dannecker  declined  ? 

Alda.   He  did. 

Medon.  I  could  have  sworn  to  it — extempore  J 
What  is  more  touching  in  the  history  of  men  of 
genius  than  that  deep  and  constant  attachment  they 
have  shown  to  their  early  patrons  I  Not  to  go  back 
to  the  days  of  Horace  and  Mecsenas,  nor  even  to 
those  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso  and  the  family  of  £ste,  or 
Cellini  and  the  Duke  of  Florence,  or  Lucas  Kra- 
nach  and  the  Elector  John  Frederic  ♦—do  you  re- 
member Mozart's  exclamation,  when  he  was  offered 
the  most  magnificent  remuneration  if  he  would  quit 
the  service  of  Joseph  H.  for  that  of  the  Elector  of 
Saxony — "  Shall  I  leave  my  good  Emperor  ?  "  In 
the  same  manner  Metastasio  rejected  every  in- 
ducement to  quit  the  service  of  Maria  Theresa — 

Alda.  Add  Groethe  and  the  Duke  of  Weimar, 
tnd  a  hundred  other  instances.     The  difficuU]^ 

*  LaoM  KimnMh  (1472)  wm  dim  of  th«  mott  oelebrated  of  tbi 
•M  German  painlen;  flrom  a  principle  of  gratitude  and  attaelii 
Bent,  lie  shared  the  imprisonment  of  the  eler^r  John  Fiederln 
luring  five  jeaxs. 


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102  SKRTCHfiS   OF  ART, 

would  be  to  find  otie,  in  which  the  patronage  of  thfl 
great  has  not  been  repaid  ten  thousand  fold  in 
gratitude  and  fame.  Dannecker's  love  for  his  na- 
tive  city,  and  his  native  princes,  prevailed  over  hu 
self-interest;  his  decision  was  honorable  to  his 
heart ;  but  it  is  hot  less  certain  that  at  Munich  he 
would  have  found  more  enlightened  patronage, 
and  a  wider  scope  for  his  talents.  Frederic,  the 
late  King  of  Wurtemberg,  who  had  married  our 
princess-royal,  was  a  man  of  a  coarse  mind  and 
profligate  habits.  Napoleon  had  gratified  his  vul- 
gar ambition  by  making  him  a  king,  and  thereupon 
he  stuck  a  huge,  tawdry  gilt  crown  on  the  top  of 
his  palace,  the  impudent  sign  of  his  subservient 
majesty,  I  never  looked  at  it  without  thinking  of 
an  overgrown  child  and  its  new  toy ;  he  also,  to 
commemorate  the  acquisition  of  his  kingly  titles, 
instituted  the  order  of  the  Wurtemburg  crown, 
and  Dannecker  was  gratified  by  this  new  order  of 
merit,  and  a  bit  of  ribbon  in  his  button-hole. 

But  in  the  mean  time  the  model  of  the  Ariadne 
remained  in  his  studio,  and  it  was  not  till  the  year 
1809  that  he  could  afford  to  purchase  a  block  of 
marble,  and  begin  the  statue  on  speculation.  It 
occupied  him  for  seven  years,  but  in  the  interval 
he  completed  other  beautiful  works.  The  king 
ordered  him  to  execute  a  Cupid  in  marble,  for  which 
he  gave  him  the  design.  It  was  a  design  whicli 
displeased  the  pure  mind  and  high  taste  of  Dan 
necker;  he  would  not  so  desecrate  his  divine  art 
■^  c'etait  travailler  pour  le  diable !  **  said  he  to  ma 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  101 

n  telling  the  stoiy.  He  therefore  only  half  ful- 
filled his  commission;  and,  changing  the  purpose 
and  sentiment  of  the  figure,  he  represented  the 
Greek  Cupid  at  the  moment  that  he  is  waked  bj 
the  drop  of  burning  oil  from  Psyche's  lamp.  An 
English  general,  I  believe  Sir  John  Murray,  saw 
this  charming  statue,  in  1814,  and  immediately  com- 
manded a  work  from  the  sculptor's  hands:  he 
wished,  but  did  not  absolutely  require,  a  duplicate 
of  the  statue  he  so  admired.  Dannecker,  instead 
of  repeating  himself,  produced  his  Psyche,  whom 
he  has  represented — not  as  the  Greek  allegorical 
Psyche,  the  bride  of  Cupid,  "with  lucent  fans, 
fluttering" — but  as  the  abstract  personification  of 
the  human  soul ;  or,  to  use  Dannecker's  own  words, 
"  Ein  rein,  sittlich,sinnige8  Wesen," — a  pure,  moral, 
intellectual  being.  As  he  had  an  idea  that  Love 
had  become  moral  and  sentimental  after  he  had 
been  waked  by  the  drop  of  burning  oil,  so  I  could 
not  help  asking  him  whether  this  was  Psyche,  grown 
reasonable  afler  she  had  beheld  the  wings  of  Love  ? 
He  has  not  in  this  beautiful  statue  quite  accom- 
plished his  own  idea.  It  has  much  girlish  grace  and 
rimplicity;  but  it  wants  elevation ;  it  is  not  sufii« 
ciently  ideal,  and  will  not  stand  a  companson  either 
with  the  Psyche  of  Westmacott  or  that  of  Canova. 
The  Ariadne  was  finished  in  1816,  but  the  sculp. 
Uu*  was  disappointed  in  his  hope  that  this,  hia 
Viasterpiece,  would  adorn  his  native  city.  The  king 
ihowed  no  desire  to  possess  it,  and  it  was  purchased 
by  M.  Bethmann,  of  Frankfort,  for  a  sum  equal  to 


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104  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

ftbout  one  thousand  pounds.  Soon  after  the  AriadD€ 
was  finished,  Dannecker  conceived,  in  a  moment 
of  pious  enthusiasm,  his  famous  statue  of  the  Be- 
d3emer,  which  has  caused  a  great  deal  of  discussion 
in  Germany.  This  was  standing  in  his  work-room 
when  we  paid  our  first  visit  to  him.  He  told  me 
what  I  had  often  heard,  that  the  figure  had  visited 
him  in  a  dream  three  several  times ;  and  the  good 
old  man  firmly  believed  that  he  had  been  divinely 
inspired,  and  predestined  to  the  work.  While  the 
visionary  image  was  fresh  in  his  ima^nation,  he 
first  executed  a  small  clay  model,  and  placed  it  be- 
fore a  child  of  *five  or  six  years  old; — ^there  were 
none  of  the  usual  emblematical  accompaniments — 
no  cross — no  crown  of  thorns  to  assist  the  fancy — 
nothing  but  the  simple  figure  roughly  modelled; 
yet  the  child  immediately  exclaimed,  "  The  Re- 
deemer I "  and  Dannecker  was  confirmed  in  his  de- 
sign. Gradually  the  completion  of  this  statue  be- 
came the  one  engrossing  idea  of  his  enthusiastic 
mind :  for  eight  years  it  was  his  dream  by  night, 
his  thought  by  day ;  all  things  else,  all  the  afiaire 
and  duties  of  life,  merged  into  this.  He  told  me 
that  he  frequently  felt  as  if  pursued,  excited  Y  y 
some  strong,  irresistible  power,  which  would  even 
visit  him  in  sleep,  and  impel  him  to  rise  fh)m  his 
bed  and  work.  He  explained  to  me  some  of  the 
difiiculties  he  encountered,  and  which  he  was  peiw 
luaded  that  he  had  perfectly  overcome  only  througb 
divine  aid,  and  the  constant  study  of  the  Scrip* 
tores.     They  were  not  few  nor  trifling.     Physica 


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I.ITBRAT.URK}  AND  CHARACTER.     lO« 

powe^,  majesty,  and  beauty,  formed  no  part  of  th« 
character  ol  the  Saviour  of  the  world :  the  glory 
that  was  around  him  was  not  of  thb  earth,  nor 
virible  to  the  eye ;  "  tiiere  was  nothing  in  him  that 
he  should  be  desired ; "  therefore  to  throw  into  the 
impersonation  of  exceeding  humility  and  benignity 
a  superhuman  grace,  and  from  material  elements 
work  out  a  manifestation  of  abstract  moral  gran- 
deur— this  was  surely  not  only  a  new  and  difficult, 
but  a  bold  and  sublime  enterprise. 

You  remember  Michael  Angelo's  statue  of  Christ 
in  the  church  of  Santa  Maria  sopra  Minerva  at 
Rome? 

Medox.  Perfectly;  and  I  never  looked  at  it 
without  thinking  of  Neptune  and  his  trident. 

Alda.  The  same  thought  occurred  to  me,  and 
must  inevitably  have  occurred  to  others.  Dan* 
necker  is  not  certainly  so  great  a  man  as  Michael 
Angelo,  but  here  he  has  surpassed  him.  Instead 
of  emulating  the  antique  models,  he  has  worked 
m  the  antique  spirit — the  spirit  of  faith  and  en- 
thusiasm. He  has  taken  a  new  form  in  which  to 
clothe  a  grand  poetical  conception.  Whether  the 
being  he  has  represented  be  a  fit  subject  for  the 
plastic  art,  has  been  disputed ;  but  it  appears  to 
me  that  Dannecker  has  more  nearly  approached 
the  Christian  ideal  than  any  of  his  predecessors ; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  compare*^  to  it,  except  Ti- 
tian's Christo  della  Men  eta,  and  that  is  a  head 
merely.  The  sentiment  chosen  by  the  sculptor  it 
expressed  in  the    inscription    or    the    pedsftal 


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<06  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

»*  Thn>ugb  me,  to  the  Father."  The  proportidm, 
of  the  ligure  are  exceedingly  slender  and  delicate 
the  attitude  a  little  drooping ;  one  hand  is  pressed 
nn  the  bosom,  the  other  extended ;  the  lips  are 
unclosed,  as  in  the  act  to  speak.  In  the  head  and 
facial  line,  by  carefully  throwing  out  every  indica- 
tion ef  the  animal  propensities,  and  giving  added 
importance  and  development  to  all  that  indicates 
the  moral  and  intellectual  faculties,  he  has  suc- 
ceeded in  imbodying  a  species  of  ideal,  of  which 
there  is  no  other  example  in  art.  I  have  heard 
(not  from  Dannecker  himself)  that,  when  the  head 
of  the  Jupiter  Tonans  was  placed  beside  the 
Christ,  the  merely  physical  grandeur  of  the  former, 
compared  with  the  purely  intellectual  expression 
of  the  latter,  reminded  every  one  present  of  a 
lion's  head  erect  and  himianized. 

Medon.  But  what  were  your  own  impressions  ? 
Af^r  all  this  eulogium,  which  I  believe  to  be  just, 
tell  me  frankly,  were  you  satisfied  yourself? 

Alda.  No— not  quite.  The  expression  of  the 
laouth  in  the  last  finished  statue  (he  has  repeated 
the  subject  three  times)  is  not  so  fine  as  in  the 
model,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  whole  bordered 
on  meagreness.  This,  I  think,  is  a  general  fault  in 
all  Dannecker's  works.  He  has,  of  course,  avoided 
nudity,  but  the  flowing  robe,  which  completely  en- 
velopes the  figure,  is  so  managed  as  to  disclose  the 
exac^  form  of  the  limbs.  One  little  circumstance 
will  give  you  an  idea  of  the  attention  and  accuracy 
with  which  he  seized  and  imbodied  every  touch  oi 


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UTEBATUKRy  AND  CHABAC1EE      101 

mdiTidiial  character  conveyed  in  holy  writ  In  Um 
•riginal  model  he  had  made  the  beard  rather  full 
ind  thick,  and  a  little  curled,  expressing  the  prime 
of  manhood ;  but  recollecting  that  in  the  gospel 
the  Saviour  is  represented  as  sinking  under  the 
weight  of  the  cross,  which  the  first  man  they  met 
accidentally  was  able  to  carry,  he  immediately 
altered  his  first  conception,  and  gave  to  the  beard 
that  soft,  flowing,  downy  texture  which  is  supposed 
to  indicate  a  feeble  and  delicate  temperament 

I  shall  not  easily  forget  the  countenance  of  the 
good  and  gifted  old  man,  as,  leaning  on  the  ped- 
estal, with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  his  long  gray 
hair  waving  round  his  face,  he  looked  up  at  his 
work  with  a  mixture  of  reverence  and  exultation, 
Raying,  in  his  imperfect  and  scarce  intelligible 
French,  "  Qui,  quand  on  a  fait  comme  cela,  on 
reste  sur  la  terre  1  **  meaning,  I  suppose,  that  this 
statue  had  insured  his  immortality  on  earth.  He 
added,  "  They  ask  me  (^n  where  are  the  models 
after  which  I  worked?  and  I  answer,  here  and 
here  f*  laying  his  hand  first  on  his  head,  then  on  his 
heart 

I  remember  that  when  we  first  entered  his  room 
he  was  at  work  on  one  of  the  figures  for  the  tomb 
of  the  late  Queen  Catherine  of  Wurtemburg.  Yon 
perhaps  recollect  her  in  Epgland  when  only 
Duchess  of  Oldenburg^ 

Medox.  Yes;  I  remember,  as  a  youngster, 
joining  the  mob  who  shouted  before  ihe  windowi 
of  the  Folteney-hotel   and   hailed  her  and  hei 


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108  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

brother  Alexander  as  if  they  had  beeu  a  newl} 
descended  Jupiter  and  Juno !  O  verily,  times  «rt 
changed ! 

Alda.  But  in  that  woman  there  were  the  ele- 
ments of  a  fine  nature.  She  had  the  talents,  the 
strength  of  mind,  and  far-reaching  ambition  of  her 
grandmother,  Catherine  of  Russia,  but  was  not  so 
perverted.  During  her  short  reign  as  Queen  <A 
Wurtemburg,  the  influence  of  her  active  mind  was 
felt  through  the  whole  government.  She  founded, 
among  other  institutions,  a  school  for  the  daughters 
of  the  nobility  connected  with  the  court, — ^in  plain 
English,  a  charity-school  for  the  nobility  of  Wui> 
temburg,  who  are  among  the  most  indigent  and 
most  ignorant  of  Germany.  There  are  a  few,  very 
few  brilliant  exceptions.  One  lady  of  rank  said  to 
me,  "  As  to  an  English  governess,  that  is  an  ad- 
vantage I  can  never  hope  to  have  for  my  daughters. 
The  princesses  have  an  English  governess,  but  we 
cannot  dream  of  such  a  thing."  The  late  queen 
really  deserved  the  regrets  of  her  people.  The 
king,  whose  sluggish  mind  she  ruled  or  stimulated, 
b  now  devoted  to  his  stables  and  hunting.  He  has 
married  another  wife,  but  he  has  erected  to  the 
honor  of  Catherine  a  splendid  mausoleum,  on  the 
peak  of  a  high  hill,  which  can  be  seen  from  almost 
every  part  of  the  city  ;  and  on  the  sununer  even- 
ings when  the  red  sunset  falls  upon  its  white  cd- 
nmns,  it  is  a  beautiful  object.  The  figure  3l 
which  Pannecker  was  occupied,  represented  prayer 
or  wliat  he  called,  "  La  triomphe  de  la  Pri^re ; "  il 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  10$ 

recalled  to  mj  mind  Flaxman's  lovelj  statae  of  the 
same  subject, — the  "  Our  Father  which  art  in 
Heayen,"  but  suffered  by  the  involuntary  compari* 
Bon.  On  the  rough  base  of  the  statue  he  had  tried  to 
spell  the  name  of  Chantrey,  but  not  very  success- 
fully. I  took  up  a  bit  of  chalk  and  wrote  under- 
neath in  distinct  characters,  Francis  Chantret. 

*^I  grow  old,"  said  he,  looking  from  his  work 
to  the  bust  of  the  late  queen,  which  stood  op- 
posite. *^I  have  carved  the  effigies  of  three 
generations  of  poets,  and  as  many  of  princes. 
Twenty  years  ago  I  was  at  work  on  the  tomb  of 
the  Duke  of  Oldenburg,  and  now  I  am  at  work 
upon  hers  who  gave  me  that  order.  All  die  away : 
Boon  I  shall  be  lefl  alone.  Of  my  early  friends 
ncMie  remain  but  Groethe.  I  shall  die  before  him, 
and  perhaps  he  will  write  my  epitaph.**  He  spoke 
with  a  smile,  not  foreseeing  that  he  would  be  the 
survivor. 

Three  years  after  *  I  again  paid  Dannecker  a  visit, 
but  a  change  had  ccnne  over  him ;  his  feeble,  tremb- 
ling  hand  could  no  longer  grasp  the  mallet  or  guide 
he  chisel ;  hb  eyes  were  dim ;  his  fine  benevolent 
countenance  wore  a  childish,  vacant  smile,  now  and 
then  crossed  by  a  gleam  of  awakened  memory  oi 
thought — and  yet  he  seemed  so  perfectly  happy !  He 
walked  backwards  and  forwards,  from  his  Christ  to 
his  bust  of  Schiller,  witn  an  unwearied  self-coD» 
>lacency,  in  which  there  was  something  nio*iniM 

•  In  September,  1888. 


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110  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

Aud  yet  delightfiil.  While  I  sat  looking  at  tlic 
magnificent  bead  of  Schiller,  the  original  of  thi 
multifarious  casts  and  copies  which  are  dispersed 
through  all  Germany,  he  sat  down  beside  me,  and 
taking  my  hands  between  his  own,  which  trembled 
with  age  and  nervous  emotion,  he  began  to  speak 
of  his  friend.  "  Nous  etions  amis  des  Tenfance , 
aussi  j'y  ai  travail!^  avec  amour,  avec  douleur— on 
ne  pent  pas  plus  faire."  He  then  went  on— 
"  When  Schiller  came  to  Louisberg,  he  sent  to  tell 
me  that  he  was  very  ill — that  he  should  not  live 
very  long,  and  that  he  wished  me  to  execute  hia 
bust  It  was  the  first  wish  of  my  own  heart  I 
went  inmiediately.  When  I  entered  the  house,  1 
found  a  lady  sitting  on  the  canape — it  was  Schiller's 
wife,  and  I  did  not  know  her ;  but  she  knew  me. 
She  said,  *  Ah  I  you  are  Dannecker ! — Schiller  ex- 
pects you ; '  then  she  ran  into  the  next  room,  where 
Schiller  was  lying  down  on  a  couch,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment after  he  came  in,  exclaiming  as  he  entered, 
'  Where  is  he  ?  where  is  Dannecker  ? '  That  was 
the  moment — the  expression  I  caught — ^you  see  it 
here — ^the  head  raised,  the  countenance  full  of  in- 
spiration, and  affection,  and  bright  hope !  I  told 
him  that  to  keep  up  this  expression  he  must  have 
some  of  his  best  Mends  to  converse  with  him  while 
I  took  the  model,  for  I  could  not  talk  and  work  too. 
O  if  I  could  but  remember  what  glorious  thingt 
then  fell  from  those  lips !  Sometimes  I  stopped  in 
•ny  work — ^I  could  not  go  on — I  could  only  listen." 
And  here  the  old  man  wept ;  then  suddenly  chang 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  Ill 

ag  bis  mood,  he  paid — **  But  I  must  cut  oJ*  that 
^ng  hair ;  he  never  ivore  it  so ;  it  is  not  in  the 
fashion,  you  know  I "  I  begged  him  for  Heaven*! 
sake  not  to  touch  it ;  he  then,  with  a  sad  smile, 
turned  up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  and  showed  me  his 
wrist,  swelled  with  the  continual  use  of  his  imple- 
ments — "  You  see  I  cannot  I "  And  I  could  not 
help  wishing,  at  the  moment,  that  while  his  mind 
was  thus  enfeebled,  no  transient  return  of  physical 
strength  might  enable  him  to  put  his  wild  threat  in 
execution.  What  a  noble  bequest  to  posterity  is 
the  effigy  of  a  great  man,  when  executed  in  such  a 
spirit  as  this  of  Schiller !  I  assure  you  I  could  not 
look  at  it  without  feeling  my  heart  "  overflow  in 
silent  worship "  of  moral  and  intellectual  power, 
till  the  deification  of  great  men  in  the  old  times  ap- 
peared to  me  rather  religion  than  idolatry.  I  have 
been  affected  in  the  same  manner  by  the  busts  of 
Goethe,  Scott,  Homer,  Milton,  Howard,  Newton ; 
never  by  the  painted  portraits  of  the  same  men, 
however  perfect  in  resemblance  and  admirable  in 
execution. 

Medon.  Painting  gives  us  the  material,  sculp- 
ture  the  abstract,  ethical  aspect  of  the  man-  In 
the  bust,  whatever  is  commonplace,  familiar,  and 
actual,  is  thrown  out  or  kept  down :  in  a  picture 
it  is  not  only  retained,  but  in  most  cases  it  is  neces- 
sarily obtrusive.  Goethe,  in  a  blue  coat  and  metal 
buttons,  and  a  white  neckcloth,  would  not  recall 
the  author  of  the  **  Ipblgenia ; "  still  less  does  thai 
•rrinkled,  decrepit-looking  face  in  the  gallery  a* 
llardwicke,  portray  Boyle,  the  philosopher. 


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112  SKETCHES   OF  ABT, 

Alda.  Dannecker  told  me  that  he  iin>t  mod- 
elled the  head  of  Schiller  the  exact  size  of  life, 
and  conscientiously  rendered  each,  even  tho 
slightest,  individual  trait ;  yet  this  head  appeared 
to  every  one  smaller  than  nature,  and  to  himself 
almost  mesquin,*  He  was  in  despair.  He  re- 
peated the  bust  in  a  colossal  size ;  and  the  develop- 
ment of  the  intellectual  organization  on  a  larger 
scale  immediately  gave  what  was  wanting :  it  ap- 
peared to  the  eye  or  to  the  mind*s  eye  as  only  the 
size  of  life.  He  showed  me  a  beautiful  basso- 
relievo  of  the  Muse  of  Tragedy,  Hstening  with  an 
inspired  look  to  the  revelations  of  the  Muse  of 
History.  This  admirable  little  group  struck  me 
the  more,  because  long  ago  I  had  clothed  nearly 
the  same  idea  in  imperfect  words. 

I  took  leave  of  Dannecker  with  emotion ;  I  shall 
never  see  him  again  I  But  he  is  one  of  those  who 
cannot  die ;  to  use  his  own  expression,  **  Quand  on 
a  fait  comme  cela^  on  reste  sur  la  terre."  When 
Canova,  then  a  melancholy  invalid,  paid  him  a  visit, 
he  was  so  struck  by  the  childlike  simplicity,  the 
pure  unworldly  nature,  the  genuine  goodness,  and 
lively  happy  temperament  of  the  Grerman  sculptor, 
that  he  gave  him  the  surname  of  il  Beato  ;  and  if 
the  epithet  blessed  can,  with  propriety,  be  bestowed 
on  any  mortal,  it  is  on  him  whose  long  life  has 
been  one  of  labor  and  of  love ;  who  has  left  behind 
him  lasting  memorials  of  his  genius ;  who  has  neve? 

*  His  own  ezpraudon. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  lit 

profaned  the  talents  which  God  has  given  him  to 
any  unworthy  purpose ;  but  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
beautiful  and  exciting  influences  of  poetry  and 
art,  has  kept  from  youth  to  age  a  soul  serene,  a 
conscience  and  a  life  pure  in  the  sight  of  God  and 
man.  Such  was  our  own  Flazman,  such  is  Dan- 
necker  I 

Medon.  Who  are  now  the  principal  sculptors 
in  Germany  ? 

Alda.  Rauch,  of  Berlin;  Christian  Frederic 
Tieck,  the  brother  of  the  celebrated  poet  and 
critic,  Ludwig  Heck ;  and  Schwanthaler,  of  Munich. 
Ranch  is  the  court  sculptor  of  Berlin.  He  has, 
like  Dannecker,*  his  professorship,  his  order  of 
merit,!  and,  I  believe,  one  or  two  places  under  the 
government,  besides  constant  employment  in  his 
art  He  works  hy  the  piece^  as  the  laborers  say- 
But  though  he,  too,  has  yoked  his  genius  to  the  car 
of  power  and  patronage,  he  has  done  great  things. 
The  statue  of  the  late  queen  of  Prussia  is  reck- 
oned his  chef-cTceuvre,  and  is  not,  perhaps,  ex- 
ceeded in  modem  sculpture.  It  was  conceived 
and  worked  out  in  all  the  inspiration  of  love  and 
pief;  as  Dannecker  would  say,  "Mit  Lieb  und 
Scbmerzen."  He  had  been  attached  to  the  queen's 


•Dannecker  hu  been  ennobled;  his  proper  titlee  ran  thm: 
/ohann  Heinrlch  von  Danneoker,  Hofrath,  (court  eonniellor,) 
Knight  of  the  orders  of  the  Wortembui^  erown,  and  of  Wladl* 
ftier,  and  professor  of  sculpture  at  Stuttgardt. 

t  Ranch  is  knight  of  the  Red  Eagle,  aad  member  of  tLi 


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il4  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

personal  service,  and  shared,  in  an  intense  degiee, 
the  enthusiastic,  devoted  affection  with  which  all 
her  subjects  regarded  that  beautiful  and  amiable 
woman.  This  statue  he  executed  at  Carrara ;  and 
a  living  eagle,  which  had  been  taken  captive 
unong  the  Apennines,  was  the  original  of  that 
magnificent  eagle  he  has  placed  at  her  feet: 
nothing,  you  see,  like  going  at  once  to  nature! 
In  the  '^ourse  of  twenty-five  years,  Bauch  has 
executed  sixty-nine  busts,  of  which  twenty  are 
colossal.  Among  his  numerous  other  works,  de- 
signed or  executed  within  the  same  time,  there  is 
the  colossal  statue  of  Blucher,  now  at  Breslau ; 
this  is  in  bronze,  upon  a  granite  pedestal.  There 
is  another  statue  of  Blucher  at  Berlin,  of  which 
the  pedestal,  rich  with  bas-reliefe,  is  also  in  bronze. 
Ranch  has  been  employed  for  the  last  twenty 
years  in  modelling  field-marshals  and  generals, 
and  has  devoted  his  best  powers  to  vanquish  the 
difficulties  presented  by  monotonous  faces,  drilled 
figures,  military  uniforms,  and  regimental  boots 
and  buttons;  and  all  that  man  can  do,  I  am  told, 
he  has  done.  I  have  seen  some  of  his  busts,  which 
are  quite  admirable.  At  Peterstein,  near  Munich, 
I  saw  his  statue  of  a  little  girl,  about  ten  years  old, 
which,  in  its  simplicity,  truth,  and  elegance  re- 
minded me  of  Chantrey's  Lady  Louisa  Russell 
though  in  conception  and  manner  as  distinct  aa 
possible.  The  full  length  of  Groethe,  in  his  dressing- 
gown,  of  which  there  is  such  an  infinitude  of  casta 
and  copies  throughout  Germany,  is  also  by  Ranch 


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UTERATUKB,  AND   CHARACTEB.  115 

Cltristian  Tieck  is  the  old  and  intimate  friend  of 
Ranch.  They  live,  or  did  live,  nnder  the  samfl 
roof,  and  it  is  not  known  that  a  moment  of  jealonsy 
or  rivalship  ever  disturbed  the  union  between 
ttiese  two  celebrated  and  gifted  men,  who,  starting 
nearly  at  the  same  time,*  have  run  their  brilliant 
career  together  in  the  self-same  path,  and,  what- 
ever judgment  the  world  or  posterity  may  form  of 
their  comparative  merits,  seem  determined  to  enter 
the  temple  of  immortality  hand  in  hand.  Tleck's 
works  are  dispersed  from  one  end  of  Germany  to 
the  other.  His  statue  of  Neckar,  his  busts  of  Ma- 
dame de  Stael,  of  her  second  husband  Rocca,  of 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  de  Broglie,  and  of  A.  W. 
Schlegel,  I  have  seen;  and  all,  particularly  the 
busts  of  Rocca  and  Schlegel,  are  exceedingly  fine. 
At  Munich,  at  Dresden,  and  at  Weimar,  I  saw 
many  of  his  works ;  and  at  Manheim  the  bust  of 
Madame  de  Heygendorf,f  full  of  beauty,  and  life, 

*  Christian  Baueh  was  born  In  1777,  and  Ohrlstfan  Vradnfe 
neck  In  1776. 

t  Fonnerly  Madame  Jageman,  the  prindpetl  actress  of  fh« 
theatre  at  Weimar.  Her  talents  were  dereloped  nnder  the 
anspices  of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  She  was  the  original  Thekla 
of  the  Wallenstein,  and  the  original  Prinoess  Leonora  of  the 
Tasso.  In  these  two  characters  she  has  never  jet  been  equalled. 
The  quietness,  amounting  to  passireness,  in  the  external  de- 
li::eation  of  the  Princess  In  Tasso  aflTords  so  little  material  for  the 
ilage,  tha#  Madame  Woltt,  then  the  first  actress,  preferred  the 
eharacter  of  Leonora  SauTitale,  and  Madame  Tageman  was  sup. 
posed  to  derogate  in  accepting  that  of  the  Princess.  Such  It 
Um  consummate,  but  eyanescent  delicacy  it  the  con<H>ptlon 
liat  Q(y)the  never  expected  to  see  it  deT^oped  on  the  stage 


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116  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

and  expression.  At  Berlin,  Tieck  has  been  em 
plojed  for  many  years  in  designing  and  executing 
the  sculptured  ornaments  of  the  new  theatre. 
There  is  a  colossal  Apollo ;  a  Pegasus,  striking  the 
fountain  of  Helicon  from  the  rock,  colossal  Muses, 
and  a  variety  of  other  heathen  perpetrations,  all, 
(as  I  am  assured,)  exceedingly  fine  in  their  way.  I 
believe  his  seated  statue  of  Iffland  (the  Garrick  of 
Germany)  is  considered  one  of  his  chef-doBuwrts. 
lie  also,  like  Bauch,  has  been  much  employed  in 
modelling  generals,  and  trophies  in  memory  of  the 
late  war. 

Schwanthaler,  the  son  of  a  statuary  of  Munich, 
is  still  a  young  man;  his  works  first  began  to 
create  a  sensation  in  Germany  in  the  year  1823. 
In  spirit  and  fire,  and  creative  talent,  in  a  fine 
classic  feeling  for  his  art,  he  appeared  to  me  to  be 
treading  in  the  steps  of  Flaxman,  and,  like  hvm^  he 
is  a  profound  and  accomplished  scholar,  who  has 
lought  inspiration  at  the  very  fountain  of  Greek 
poetry.  His  basso-relievo  of  the  battle  of  the  ships 
in  the  Hiad,  his  games  of  Greece,  his  designs  from 
the  theogony  of  Hesiod,  and  a  variety  of  other 

ind  at  Qie  reheanal  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  ehair  and 
tfint  laiB  eyes,  that  the  image  which  Ured  in  his  ima^natiOQ 
Bight  not  be  pro&ned  by  any  tasteless  exaggeration  of  action 
mr  expression.  He  soon  opened  them,  howerer,  and  before  the 
rehearsal  was  finished,  started  off  the  chair,  and  nearly  em- 
braced the  actress.  She  looked  and  felt  tiie  part  as  only  a 
woman  of  exceeding  taste  and  delicacy  would  have  done;  the 
very  tone  of  her  mind,  and  the  character  of  her  beauty  fitted 
tor  to  represent  the  ftijr,  gentle,  fragile,  but  dignified  Leonora. 


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UTEKATURE,  AND  OHABACTER.     119 

works  which  I  have  seen,  appeared  to  me  full  of 
[magination,  and  in  a  pure  and  vigorous  style  w 
art  Of  him,  and  some  other  sculptors,  you  will 
find  more  particulars  ill  the  note-book  I  kept  at 
Munich ;  we  will  look  over  it  together  one  of  these 
days. 

Medon.  Thank  you ;  but  I  must  needs  ask  you 
a  question.  In  the  works  you  hare  enumerated, 
nothing  has  struck  me  as  new,  or  in  a  new  spirit, 
except,  perhaps,  the  Christ  of  Dannecker,  and 
the  statue  of  the  queen  of  Prussia.  Now,  whj 
should  not  sculpture  have  its  Gothic  (or  romantic) 
school,  as  well  as  its  antique  or  classical  school? 

Alda.   And  has  it  not  ? 

Medon.  If  you  allude  to  the  sculpture  of  thi 
middle  ages,  that  has  not  become  a  school  of  art| 
like  their  architecture  and  their  painting ;  yet  can 
it  be  true  that  there  is  something  in  our  modem 
institutions,  our  northern  descent,  our  Christian 
faith,  inimical  to  the  spirit  of  sculpture?  and 
while  poetry  in  every  other  form  is  regenerate 
around  us,  that  in  sculpture  alone  we  are  doomed 
to  imitate,  never  to  create  ?  doomed  to  the  servile 
reproduction  of  the  same  ideas?  that  this  alone, 
of  all  the  fine  arts,  is  to  belong  to  some  peculiar 
mode  of  existence,  some  peculiar  mode  (^thinking, 
feeling,  and  believing?  **Qui  me  delivrera  des 
Grecs  et  des  Romains?" — who  will  deliver  me 
lh>m  gods  and  goddesses,  and  from  all  these 

•*  Repetitions,  wearisome  of  sense. 
Where  soul  is  dead,  and  f9«ling  hatk  w  place?** 


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118  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

Alda.  loii  are  little  better  than  a  heretic  in 
Aese  matters.  But  I  will  adoiit  thus  much —  that 
the  classical  and  m3rthological  sculpture  of  oiur 
nodern  artists  is  to  the  ancient  marbles  what  Ba- 
iine's  tragedies  are  to  those  of  Sophocles ;  that  we 
ire  so  far  condemned  to  the  "  repetition  wearisome 
af  forms  "  from  which  the  ancient  spirit  has  eTvpo^ 
/ated ;  but  that  is  not  the  fault  of  the  subjects,  but 
ihe  manner  of  treating  them,  for  never  can  the 
beautiful  mythology  of  ancient  Greece,  which  has 
woven  itself  into  our  earliest  dreams  of  poetry,  be- 
come a  *'  creed  outworn."  Its  forms,  and  its  S3rm- 
bols,  and  its  imagery,  have  mingled  with  everv 
branch  of  art,  and  become  a  universal  language. 
ft  is  the  deification  of  the  material  world;  and 
therefore  that  art,  which  in  its  perfection  may  be 
called  the  apotheosis  of  form,  finds  there  its  proper 
region  and  element 

Medon.  You  do  not  suppose  that,  with  all  my 
Gothic  tastes,  I  otA  such  a  Goth  as  not  to  feel  the 
truth  of  what  you  aay  ?  But  I  am  an  enemy  to  the 
exckisive  in  every  thing ;  and — ^pardon  me— your 
worskiip  of  the  Elgin  marbles  and  the  Niobe  is,  I 
think,  a  little  too  exclusive.  All  I  ask  is,  that 
modei^  sculpture  should  be  allowed,  like  painting 
and  poerify,  to  have  its  romantic  as  well  as  its  clas- 
ncal  8c&os>l. 

Alda.  It  has  leen  otherwise  decided. 

Medojci  But  it  has  not  been  otherwise  proved 
There  hat  been  ^luch  theoretical  eloquence  anc 
criticism  expen(i*%   tn  the  subject, but  I  deny  tha£ 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  11$ 

ttM  expenn.ent  has  been  fairly  and  practically 
bronglit  before  us.  I  know  very  well  you  are  ready 
with  a  thousand  instances  of  attempt  and  failures 
but  xiiay  we  not  seek  the  cause  in  the  mistaken  ap- 
plication of  certain  classical,  or  I  should  say  pe- 
dantic, ideas  on  the  subject  ?  If  I  ask  for  Milton's 
Satain,  standing  like  a  tower  in  his  spiritual  might, 
his  thunder-scarred  brow  wreathed  with  the  diaden 
of  Kidll,  why  am  I  to  be  presented  with  an  Athlete, 
or  an  Achilles  ?  Why  would  Canova  give  us  for 
the  head  of  Dante's  Beatrice  that  of  a  muse,  or  an 
Aspusia  ?  and  for  Petrarch's  Laura,  a  mere  tete  de 
nymphe  t  I  contend,  that  to  apply  the  forms  sug- 
gested by  the  modem  poetry  demands  a  different 
spint  from  that  of  classic  art.  How  to  apply  or 
modify  the  example  bequeathed  to  us  by  the  great 
masters  of  old,  Flaxman  has  shown  us  in  his  Dante. 
And  why  should  we  not  have  in  sculpture  a  Lear 
as  well  as  a  Laocoon  ?  a  Constance  as  well  as  a 
Ninbe  ?  a  Qj^unda  as  well  as  a  Cleopatra  ? 

Alda.  Or  a  Tam  O'Shanter  as  well  as  a  laugh- 
ing; Faun  ? 

Medon.  When  I  am  serious  and  poetical,  which 
is  not  often,  I  will  not  allow  yon  to  be  perverse  and 
ironical  I 

Alda.  See,  here  is  a  passage  which  I  have  just 
found  among  Mrs.  Austin's  beautiful  specimens  of 
translation :  '*  The  critic  of  art  ought  to  keep  in 
view,  not  only  the  capabilities,  but  the  proper  ob- 
jects of  art  Not  aJ  that  art  can  accomplish  ought 
ihe  to  attempt    It  is  from  this  cause  alone,  and 


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120  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

because  we  have  lost  sight  of  these  principles,  that 
art  among  us  has  become  more  extensive  and  diA 
ficult,  and  less  effective  and  perfect"  • 

Medon.  Very  well, — and  very  true :  but  who 
shall  bring  a  rule  and  compass  to  measure  the 
capabilities  of  art,  and  define  its  proper  objects  V 
May  there  not  exist  in  the  depths  or  heights  of 
philosophy  and  art  truths  yet  to  be  revealed,  as 
there  are  stars  in  heaven  whose  light  has  not  yet 
reached  the  naked  eye  ?  and  why  should  not  crit- 
icism have  its  telescope  for  truth,  as  well  as  its 
microscope  for  error  ?  Art  may  be  finite ;  but  who 
shall  fix  its  limits,  and  say,  *^  Thus  far  shalt  thou 
go  ?  "  There  are  those  who  regard  the  distant  as 
the  unattainable,  the  unknown  as  the  unexisting, 
the  actual  as  the  necessary ; — are  you  one  of  such, 
O  you  of  little  &ith !  For  my  own  part,  I  look 
forward  to  a  new  era  in  sculpture.  I  believe  that 
the  purely  natural  and  the  purely  ideal  are  one, 
and  susceptible  of  forms  and  modifications  as  yet 
untried.  For  Nature,  the  infinite,  sits  within  her 
tabernacle  not  made  by  human  hands,  and  Grenius 
and  Love  are  the  cherubim,  to  whom  it  is  permitted 
to  look  into  her  unveiled  eyes  and  reflect  their 
light  •,  Art  is  the  priestess  of  her  divine  mysteries, 
and  Criticism,  the  door-keeper  of  her  temple,  should 
be  Janus-headed,  looking  forward  as  well  as  back 
ward.  Reason  estimates  what  has  been  done 
Imagination  alone  divines  what  may  be  done,  Bnf 

•Lesshig. 


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LITERATUUF,  AND  CHARACTER.     *     121 

I  am  losing  myself  in  these  reveries.  To  attempt 
something  new, — ^perfectly  new  in  style  and  con- 
ception— and  spend,  like  Dannecker,  eight  years 
m  working  out  that  conception — ^and  then  perhaps 
eight  years  moi'e  waiting  for  a  purchaser,  and  this 
In  a  country  where  one  must  eat  and  pay 
Inily,  it  is  not  easy. 


# 


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SKETCHES  OF   ART,  LITERATURB, 
AND   CHARACTER. 


m. 


Medon.  You  have  been  frowning  and  musing 
in  your  chair  for  the  last  half-hour,  with  your  fore- 
finger between  the  leaves  of  your  book — where 
were  your  thoughts? 

Alda.  They  were  far — very  far !  I  am  afraid 
that  I  appear  very  stupid  ? 

Medon.  O  not  at  all  I  you  know  there  are  stars 
which  appear  dim  and  fixed  to  the  eye,  while  they 
are  taking  flights  and  making  revolutions,  which 
ima^nation  cannot  follow  nor  science  compute. 

Alda.  Upon  my  word,  you  are  very  sublimely 
ironical — ^my  thoughts  were  not  quite  so  far. 

Medon.  May  one  beg,  or  borrow  them  ? — What 
uf  your  book  ? 

Alda.  Mrs.  Austin's  "  Characteristics  of  Goethe  " 
I  came  upon  a  passage  which  sent  back  my  thoughts 
to  Weimar.  I  was  again  in  his  house ;  the  faces, 
the  voices  of  hb  grandchildren  were  around  me 
the  room  in  which  he  studied,  the  bed  in  which  he 
•lept,  the  old  chair  in  which  he  died, — and,  above 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  lit 

ill,  her  in  whose  arms  he  died — from  whose  lip*  I 
heard  the  detail  of  his  last  moments — 

•  •  •  •  • 

Medon.   What  I  all  this  emotion  for  Groethe  ? 

Alda.  For  Groethe ! — ^I  should  as  soon  think  of 
weeping  because  the  sun  set  yesterday,  which  now 
is  pouring  its  light  around  me  I  Our  tears  are  for 
those  who  suffer,  for  those  who  die,  for  those  who 
are  absent,  for  those  who  are  cold  or  lost — not  foi 
those  who  cannot  die,  who  cannot  suffer, — who  must 
be,  to  the  end  of  time,  a  presence,  and  an  existence 
among  us !    No. 

But  I  was  reading  here,  among  the  Characterift- 
tics  of  Goethe,  who  certainly  "  knew  all  qualities, 
with  a  learned  spirit  in  human  dealings,"  that  he 
was  not  only  the  quick  discemer  and  most  cordial 
hater  of  all  affectation ; — but  even  the  unconscious 
affectation — ^the  nature  de  canventionj — ^the  taught, 
the  artificial,  the  acquired  in  manner  or  character, 
though  it  were  meritorious  in  itself,  he  always  de- 
tected, and  it  appeared  to  impress  him  disagree- 
ably. Stay,  I  will  read  you  the  passage — here 
tcis. 

"Even  virtue,  laboriously  and  painfully  ac- 
quired, was  distasteAil  to  him.  I  might  ahnost 
affirm,  that  a  faulty  but  vigorous  character,  if  it 
bad  any  real  native  qualities  as  its  basis,  was  re- 
garded by  him  with  more  indulgence  and  respect 
Uian  one  which,  at  no  moment  of  its  existence,  is 
genuine ;  which  is  incessantly  under  the  most  un- 
imiable  con»i'j*aint,    3tnd  consequently  impose?  a 


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124  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

painful  constraint  on  others.  *  Oh/  said  he,  sigl- 
big,  on  such  occasions,  *  if  they  had  but  the  heart 
to  commit  some  absurdity,  that  would  be  something, 
and  they  would  at  least  be  restored  to  their  own 
natural  soil,  free  from  all  hypocrisy  and  acting: 
wherever  that  is  the  case,  one  may  entertain  the 
cheering  hope  that  something  will  spring  from  the 
germ  of  good  which  nature  implants  in  every  in- 
dividual. But  on  the  ground  they  are  now  upon 
nothing  can  grow.'  *  Pretty  dolls,'  was  his  common 
expression  when  speaking  of  them.  Another  phra8<^ 
was,  *  That's  a  piece  of  nature,'  (literally,  dcu  w 
eine  Natur,  that  is  a  nature,)  which  finom  Groethe*s 
lips  was  considerable  praise."* 

This  last  phrase  threw  me  back  upon  my  re- 
membrances. I  thought  of  the  daughter  in  law  of 
the  poet, — ^the  trusted  friend,  the  constant  com- 
panion, the  devoted  and  careful  nurse  of  his  last 
years.  It  accounted  for  the  unrivalled  influence 
which  apparently  she  possessed — I  will  not  say  over 
his  mind — ^but  in  his  mind,  in  his  affections ;  for  in 
her  he  found  truly  eine  Natur — a  piece  of  nature, 
which  could  bear  even  his  microscopic  examination. 
All  other  beings  who  approached  Groethe  either 
were,  or  had  been,  or  might  be,  more  or  less 
modified  by  the  action  of  that  universal  and  mas- 
ter spirit  Consciously,  or  unconsciously,  in  love 
•r  in  fear,  they  bowed  down  before  him,  and  gave 
tip  their  individuality,  or  forgot  it,  in  his  presence 

•  Ohaneteristlei  of  Goefhe,  Tol.  i  p.  29. 


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LITEttATUBB,   AND  CHARA.CTER.  135 

tliey  took  the  bent  he  chose  to  impress,  or  the  coloi 
he  chose  to  throw  upon  them.  Their  minds,  ic 
presence  of  his,  were  as  opake  bodies  in  the  son, 
absorbing  in  different  degrees,  reflecting  in  yarioui 
hues,  his  vital  beams ;  but  her's  was,  in  compaii- 
son,  like  a  transparent  medium,  through  which  the 
rays  oi  that  luminary  passed, — ^pervading  and*  en- 
lightening, but  leaving  no  other  trace.  Conceive  a 
woman,  a  young,  acccnnplished,  enthusiastic  woman, 
who  had  qualities  to  attach,  talents  to  amuse,  and 
capacity  to  appreciate,  Goethe  ;  who,  for  fourteen 
or  fifteen  years,  could  exist  in  daily,  hourly  com- 
munication with  that  ^gantic  spirit,  yet  retain, 
from  first  to  last,  the  most  perfect  simplicity  of 
character,  and  this  less  from  the  strength  than  from 
the  purity  and  delicacy  of  the  original  texture. 
Those  oft-abused  words,  naive^  naivete,  were  more 
applicable  to  her  in  their  fullest  sense  than  to  any 
other  woman  I  ever  met  with.  Her  conversation 
was  the  most  untiring  I  ever  enjoyed,  because  the 
stores  which  fed  that  flowing  eloquence  were  all 
native  and  unborrowed :  you  were  not  borne  along 
by  it  as  by  a  torrent — hongrd^  mcdgriy — nor  dazzled 
•8  by  an  artificial  jet  d*eau  set  to  play  for  your 
UDusement  There  was  the  obvious  wish  to  please 
—a  little  natural  coquetierie — ^vivacity  without  ef- 
fort, sentiment  without  affectation,  exceeding  mo- 
bility, which  yet  never  looked  like  caprice ;  and 
the  most  consummate  refinement  of  thought,  and 
feeling,  and  expression.  From  that  really  elegant 
«nd  highly-toned  mind,  nothitig  flippant  nor  harsh 


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k26  SKBTCHBS  OF  ART, 

eould  ever  proceed ;  slander  died  away  in  her  pret 
ence ;  what  was  evil  she  would  not  hear  of;  what 
was  malicious  she  would  not  understand ;  what  wai 
ridiculous  she  would  not  see.  Sometimes  there  was 
a  wild,  artless  fervor  in  her  impulses  and  feelings, 
which  might  have  become  a  feather-cinctured  In- 
dian on  her  savannah ;  then,  the  next  moment,  her 
bearing  reminded  you  of  the  court-bred  lady  of  the 
bed-chamber.  Quick  in  perception,  yet  femininely 
confiding,  uniting  a  sort  of  restless  vivacity  with 
an  indolent  gracefulness,  she  appeared  to  me  by 
far  the  most  poetical  and  genuine  being,  of  my  own 
sex,  1  ever  knew  in  highly-cultivated  life :  one  to 
whom  no  wrong  could  teach  mistrust ;  no  injur}*, 
bitterness;  one  to  whom  the  commonplace  reali- 
ties, the  vulgar  necessary  cares  of  existence,  were 
but  too  indifferent ; — who  was,  in  reality,  all  that 
other  women  try  to  appear,  and  betrayed,  with  a 
careless  independence,  what  they  most  wish  to  con- 
ceal. I  draw  from  the  life, — ^now,  what  would  you 
say  to  such  a  woman  if  you  met  with  her  in  the 
world  ? 

Mbdon.  I  should  say — she  had  no  businesn 
there. 

Alda.  How? 

Medon.  I  repeat  that  the  woman  you  have  just 
portrayed  b  hardly  fit  for  the  world. 

Alda.  Say  rather,  the  world  is  not  fitted  fo* 
her.  As  the  Sabbath  was  made  for  man,  not  man 
for  the  Sabbath,  so  the  world  was  made  for  man, 
tot  man  for  the  world — still  less  woman. 


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IJTKRATUBB,  AND  CHABACTER  127 

Med  ON.   Do  you  know  what  70a  mean  ? 

Alda.  1  think  I  do,  though  I  am  afraid  1  can 
but  ill-explain  m78el£  By  the  world,  I  mean  that 
lystem  of  social  life  in  all  its  complicate  beaiingi 
by  which  we  are  surrounded ;  which  was,  I  sup- 
pose, devised  at  first  with  a  reference  to  the  wants, 
the  happiness,  and  the  benefit  of  men,  but  for 
which  no  man  was  specifically  created;  his  being 
has  a  high  and  individual  purpose  beyond  the 
world.  Now,  it  seems  to  me  one  reason  of  the  low 
average  of  what  we  call  character^  that  we  judge  a 
human  soul,  not  as  it  is  abstractedly,  but  simply  in 
relation  to  others,  and  to  the  circumstances  around 
it.  If  it  be  in  harmony  with  the  world,  and 
worldly,  we  praise  it — it  is  a  very  respectable  soul 
if  so  constituted,  that  it  is  in  discord  with  a  world, 
(which,  observe,  all  our  philosophers,  our  pastors, 
and  our  masters,  unite  to  assure  us,  is  a  sad  wicked 
place,  and  must  be  reformed  or  renounced  forth- 
with,) then — ^I  pray  your  attention  to  this  point— 
then  the  fault,  the  bitter  penalty,  lies  not  upon  this 
said  wicked  world, — O  no ! — bat  on  that  unlucky 
"  piece  of  nature,"  which  in  its  power,  its  goodness, 
its  purity,  its  truth,  its  faith,  and  its  tenderness, 
stands  aloof  from  it.    Is  it  not  so  ? 

Medon.   Do  you  apply  this  personally  ? 

Alda.  No,  generally ;  but  I  return  to  her  who 
iuggested  the  thought,  and  whom  I  ought  not,  per- 
haps, to  have  made  the  subject  of  such  a  conversation 
•s  this :  it  is  against  all  my  principles,  contrary  to 
my  custom  ;  and,  in  truth,  I  speak  of  one  in  whom 


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128  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

there  Is  so  much  to  love,  that  we  cannot  praise 
without  being  accused  of  partiality ;  and  so  much 
to  admire,  that  we  could  not  censure  without  being 
suspected  of  envy.  I  might  as  well  be  silent 
therefore.  Yet  shall  such  a  woman  bear  such  a 
oame,  and  hold  such  a  position  as  the  mother  of 
Goethe's  posterity;* — shall  she  be  rendered  by 
both  a  mark  for  observation,  from  one  end  of 
Europe  to  the  other ; — shall  she  be  *<  condemned 
to  celebrity,"  and  shall  it  be  allowed  to  ignorance, 
or  ill-nature,  or  vanity,  to  prate  of  her ; — and  shall 
it  be  forbidden  to  friendship  even  to  speak  ? — ^that 
were  hardly  just  Of  those  effusions  of  her  crea- 
tive and  poetical  talents,  which  charm  her  firiends, 
I  say  nothing,  because  in  all  probability  neither 
you  nor  the  public  will  ever  benefit  by  them.  1 
met  with  several  other  women  in  Grermany  who 
possessed  striking  poetical  genius,  and  whose  com- 
positions were  equally  destined  to  remain  unknown 
except  to  the  circle  of  their  immediate  friends  and 
relatives. 

Medon.  Mr.  Hayward,  in  his  notes  to  his  trans- 
lation of  Faust,  remarks  on  the  strong  prejudice 
agaix^zit  female  authorship,  which  still  exists  in 
Germany ;  but  he  has  hopes  that  it  will  not  en- 
dure, and  that  something  may  be  done  "  to  unlock 
the  stores  of  fancy  and  feeling  which  the  Ottilies 
and  the  Addles  have  hived  up."    Tell  me— did 

*  I  believe  it  was  in  allusion  to  this  distinction,  and  her  owv 
noble  birth,  that  her  &ther-in-law  used  to  call  her  playftiUy 
<  die  Ueint  Ahn/rau,*^  (the  little  ancestress.) 


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jITERATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  Ii9 

ciDU  find  this  prejudice  entertained  by  the  women 
themselyes,  or  existing  chiefly  on  the  part  of  tb« 
men? 

Alda.  It  was  expressed  most  strongly  by  the 
women,  but  it  must  have  originated  with  the  men. 
All  your  prejudices  ycfu  instil  into  us;  and  then 
we  are  not  satisfied  with  adopting  them,  we  exag- 
gerate them — we  mix  them  up  with  our  fancies 
and  affections,  and  transmit  them  to  your  children. 
You  are  "  the  mirrors  in  which  we  dress  ourselves." 

Medon.   For  which  you  dress  yourselves ! 

Alda.  Psha  1 — ^I  mean  that  your  minds  and 
opinions  are  the  nurrors  in  which  we  form  our  own. 
You  l^islate  for  us,  mould  us,  form  us  as  you  wilL 
If  you  prefer  slaves  and  playthings  to  companions 
and  helpmates,  is  that  our  fault  ?  In  Germany  I 
met  with  some  men  who,  perhaps  out  of  compli- 
ment, descanted  with  enthusiasm  on  female  talent, 
and  in  behalf  of  female  authorship :  but  the  women 
almost  uniformly  spoke  of  the  latter  with  dread,  as 
something  formidable,  or  with  contempt,  as  of 
something  beneath  them:  what  is  an  unworthy 
prejudice  in  your  sex,  becomes,  when  transplanted 
into  ours,  a  feeling ; — ^a  mistaken,  but  a  genuine, 
and  even  a  generous  feeling.  Many  women,  who 
have  sufficient  sense  and  simplicity  of  mind  to  rise 
above  the  mere  prejudice^  would  not  contend  with 
the  feeling:  they  would  not  scruple  to  encounter 
the  public  judgment  in  a  cause  approved  by  their 
own  hearts,  but  they  have  not  courage  to  brave  oi 
to  oppose  the  opinions  of  friends  and  kindred^-— 


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180  SKBTCHES  OF  ART, 

Medon.  Or  risk  the  loss  of  a  lover.  You  re- 
Biember  the  axiom  of  that  clever  Frenchman,* 
who  certainly  spoke  the  existing  opinions  of  hia 
country  only  a  few  years  ago,  when  he  said — 
**  Imprimer,  pour  une  fenune  de  moins  de  cinquante 
ans  c'est  mettre  son  bonheur  k  la  plus  terrible  dei 
lotteries ;  si  elle  a  un  amant  elle  commencera  par 
le  perdre." 

Alda.  I  really  believe  that  in  Grermany  the 
latter  catastrophe  would  be  in  most  cases  inevit- 
able; and  where  is  the  woman  who  knowingly 
would  risk  it  ? 

Medon.  All,  however,  have  not  lovers  to  lose, 
or  husbands  to  displease,  or  friends  to  affront ;  and 
if  the  women,  in  compliance  with  our  self-revolving 
egotism,  affect  to  prostrate  themselves,  and  under- 
value one  another — do  the  men  allow  it  to  this 
extent  ?  Do  not  the  Germans  most  justly  boast, 
that  in  their  land  arose  the  first  feeling  of  venera- 
tion for  women,  the  result  of  the  christian  dispen- 
sation, grafted  on  the  old  German  manners  ?  Do 
they  not  point  to  their  literature  and  their  insti- 
tutions, as  more  favorable  to  your  sex  than  any 
other?  Does  not  even  Madame  de  Stael  exalt 
the  fine  earnestness  of  the  German  feeling  towards 
you,  infinitely  above  the  system  of  French  gal- 
lantry?— ^that  flimsy  veil  of  conventional  good- 
breeding,  under  which  we  seek  to  dbguise  the  de 
moralization  of  one  sex,  and  the  virtual  slavery  of 

*M.  Besle,  otherwise  the  Comte  de  Stendhal,  and,  I  beIieT««,  hi 
las  half  a  doaen  ither  aliases. 


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LITEBATURB,  AND  CHARACTBB.  131 

the  Other  ?  Have  I  not  heard  you  say,  that  it  if 
the  present  fashion  among  the  poets,  artists,  and 
writers  of  Germany,  to  defer  in  all  things  to  the 
middle  ages  ?  Are  not  the  maxims  and  sentimenti 
of  chivalry  ready  on  their  lips,  the  forms  and 
symbols  of  the  old  chivalrous  times  to  be  traced 
in  every  department  of  literature  and  art  among 
them? 

Alda.  All  this  is  true;  and  I  will  believe  that  all 
this  is  something  more  than  mere  theory,  when  I  see 
the  Grermans  less  slovenly  in  their  interior,  and  le» 
egotistical  in  their  domestic  relations.  The  theme 
is  unwelcome,  unpleasant,  ungraceful, — ^in  fact,  1 
can  scarcely  persuade  myself  to  say  one  word 
against  those  high-minded,  benevolent,  admirable, 
and  "  most-thinking  people ; "  so  I  will  not  dweU 
upon  it :  but  I  must  confess  that  the  personal  n^ 
ligence  of  the  men,  and  the  forbearance  of  the 
women  on  this  point,  astonished  me.  I  longed  to 
remind  these  worshippers  of  the  age  of  chivalry  of 
that  advice  of  St  Louis  to  his  son — ^  H  faut  ^tre 
toujours  propre  et  bien  proprement  habiU^  afin 
d'toe  mieux  aim^  de  sa  fsmme  ;  "  the  really  good- 
natured  and  well-bred  Grermans  will,  I  am  sure, 
forgive  this  passing  remark,  and  allow  its  truth; 
they  did  at  once  agree  with  me,  that  the  tavem- 
Kfe  of  the  men,  more  particularly  the  clever  pro- 
feosional  men  in  the  south  of  Grermany,  (anothei 
remnant,  I  presume,  either  of  the  age  of  chivaliy. 
9T  the  Biirschen-dtten — I  know  not  which,)  wai 
talented  to  retard  the  social  improvement  and 


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IZ2  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

refinement  of  both  sexes.  And,  apropos  to  ciuv- 
thy,  the  fact  is,  that  the  institutions  of  a  generoiis 
but  barbarous  period,  invented  to  shield  our  help- 
lessness, when  women  were  exposed  to  every^  hardr 
ship,  every  outrage,  have  been  much  abused,  and 
must  be  considerably  modified  to  suit  a  very  difiep- 
ent  state  of  societj.  That  afiectation  of  poetical 
homage,  which  your  strength  paid  to  our  weakness, 
when  the  laws  were  not  sufficient  to  defend  us,  we 
would  now  gladly  exchange  for  more  real  honor, 
more  real  protection,  more  equal  rights.  I  speak 
thus,  knowing  that,  however  open  to  perversion 
these  expresfflons  may  be,  you  will  not  misappre- 
hend me ;  you  know  that  I  am  no  vulgar,  vehe- 
ment arguer  about  the  '*  rights  of  women ;  **  and,  &cim 
my  habitual  tone  of  feeling  and  thought,  the  last  to 
covet  any  of  your  masculine  privileges. 

Medon.  I  do  perfectly  understand  you;  but, 
pray  what  are  our  strictly  masculine  privileges, 
that  you  should  covet  them?  Fighting!  getting 
drunk  I  and  keeping  a  mistress  1 — I  beg  your  par- 
don if  I  shock  your  delicacy ;  but  certainly,  upon 
the  score  of  masculine  privileges,  the  less  that  is 
said  the  better :  there  are  nations  in  which  it  is  a 
masculine  privilege  to  sit  and  smoke,  while  women 
draw  the  plough.  It  was  some  time  ago, — and 
now,  in  some  countries,  it  is  still  a  masculine  privi- 
lege to  cultivate  the  mind  at  all;  and  in  G^ermany, 
apparently,  it  is  still  a  masculine  privilege  to  pub> 
llsh  a  book  without  losing  caste  in  society ;  whereas 
lere,  in  England,  we  have  fallen  into  the  oppotiu 


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ZJTERATUBB,  AJXD  CHARACTKB.  131 

•xtreme ;  female  authorship  is  in  danger  of  beooimiig 
a  fashion, — ^which  Hearen  avert  I  I  shoold  be  sorry 
to  see  jou  women  taking  the  pen  yon  have  hitb- 
erio  so  honored,  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  yoQ 
nsed  to  make  filigree,  cobble  shoes,  and  paiat 
velret 

Alda.  It  is  too  true  that  mere  vanity  and 
fashion  have  lately  made  some  women  authoresses; 
— more  write  for  money,  and  by  this  employment 
of  their  talents  earn  their  own  independence,  add 
to  the  comforts  of  a  parent,  or  supply  the  extravft* 
gance  of  a  husband.  Some,  who  are  unhappy  in 
their  domestic  relations^  yet  endowed  with  all  that 
feminine  craving  afler  sympathy,  which  was  in- 
tended to  be  the  charm  of  our  sex,  the  blessing  of 
yours,  and  some  how  or  other  has  been  turned  to 
the  bane  of  both,  look  abroad  for  what  they  find 
not  at  home ;  fling  into  the  wide  world  the  irre- 
pressible activity  of  an  overflowing  mind  and  heart, 
which  can  find  no  other  unforbidden  issue,— and 
to  such  **fame  is  love  di^iuised.**  Some  write 
from  the  mere  energy  of  inteUect  and  will ;  some 
few  finom  the  pure  wish  to  do  good,  and  to  add  to 
the  stock  of  happiness  and  the  progress  of  thought ; 
and  many  from  all  these  motives  combined  in  dii^ 
fsrent  degrees. 

Medon.  And  have  none  of  these  motives  pro 
Inced  authoresses  in  Grermany  ? 

A]  DA.  Yes^  but  fashion  and  vanity,  and  the 
•ove  af  excitement,  have  not  as  yet  tempted  the 
Berman  women  to  print  their  effusions ;  their  most 


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IH  »KJ£TCUE&   OF  ART, 

disdnguisbed  authoresses  have  become  so,  eiibef 
frmn  real  entbasiasm  or  from  necessity;  and  in 
the  ligbter  departments  of  literature  tbey  boast  at 
present  some  brilliant  names.  I  will  run  over  a 
few. 

There  is  Helmina  von  Chezy — ^but  before  I 
speak  of  her,  I  should  tell  you  of  her  famous  grands 
mother,  Anna  Louisa  Karshin,  though  she  belonged 
to  the  last  century.  The  Earshin  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  poor  innkeeper  and  brewer,  in  a  little  vil- 
lage of  Silesia.  She  spent  her  early  years  in 
herding  cows.  She  learned  to  read  by  stealth,  bj 
stealth  she  beeame  a  poetess ;  was  first  married  to 
a  boorish  sulky  weaver,  secondly  to  a  drunken 
tailor,  and  suffered  for  years  every  extremity  of 
poverty  and  misery;  at  one  time  she  travelled 
about  the  neighboring  country,  the  first  example 
of  an  itinerant  poetess,  declaiming  her  own  verses, 
and  always  ready  with  an  ode  or  a  sonnet  to  cele- 
brate a  wedding,  or  hail  a  birthday.  In  this  strange 
profession  she  excited  much  astonishment>— went 
through  some  singular,  but  not  disreputable  adven- 
tures— and  earned  con^derable  sums  of  money, 
which  her  husband  spent  in  drink  and  profligacy, 
lifted  with  as  much  energy  as  genius,  she  strug- 
gled through  all,  and  gradually  became  known  to 
Mveral  of  the  critics  and  poets  of  the  last  century, 
particularly  Count  Stolberg  and  Gleim,  and  ob- 
ieuned  the  title  of  the  German  Sappho.  She  found 
moans  to  reach  Berlin,  where  she  worked  her  war 
ftp  to  distinction,  and  supported  herself,  two  chil 


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UTE&ATUBB,  AND   CHARACTER.  135 

li^-y  and  an  orphan  brother,  hj  her  talents.  She 
was  recommended  to  Frederick  the  Great  as 
worthy  of  a  pension,  and — would  yoa  believe  it  ?— 
that  munijicent  patron  of  his  country's  genius  sent 
her  a  gratuity  of  two  dollars,  in  a  piece  of  paper. 
This  extraordinary  and  spirited  woman,  who  had 
probably  subsisted  for  half  her  life  on  charity,  in- 
stantly returned  them  to  the  niggardly  despot, 
after  writing  in  the  envelop  four  lines  impromptu, 
which  are  yet  repeated  in  Germany.  I  am  not 
quite  sure  that  I  remember  them  accurately,  and  it 
is  no  matter,  for  they  have  not  much  either  of  poe- 
try or  point 

**  Zwei  Thaler  sind  zu  wenig, 

Zwei  Thaler  gibt  kein  Konig. 

Zwei  Thaler  machen  nichtmein  Gliiok; 

Fritz,  hier  sind  sie  zuriick.** 

She  died  in  1791,  and  a  selection  of  her  poemf 
was  published  in  the  following  year. 

The  granddaughter  of  the  Earshin,  the  more 
celebrated  Helmina  von  Chezy,  is  likewise  a  poet- 
ess ;  her  principal  work  is  a  tale  of  chivalry,  in 
verse,  Die  drei  Weissen  Rosen,  (The  Three  White 
Roses,)  which  was  published  in  18 — ,  and  she 
wrote  the  opera  of  Euryanthe,  for  Weber  to  set 
lo  music  Her  songs  and  lighter  poems  are.  X  am 
told,  exceedingly  beautiful. 

Caroline  Pichler,  of  Vienna,  I  need  only  men- 
tioD.  I  believe  her  historical  romances  have  been 
translated  into  half-a-dozen  languages.  The  SinQt 
of  V'«Tin<i  is  reckoned  her  best 


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iS6  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

Madame  Schopenhaur,  the  daughter  of  a  senator 
of  Dantzic,  is  celebrated  for  her  novels,  travels, 
ind  works  on  art.  She  resided  for  many  years  at 
Weimar,  where  she  drew  romid  her  a  brilliant  lit- 
erary circle,  which  the  talents  of  her  daughter  fiur 
ther  adorned.  Since  Goethe's  death  she  has  fixed 
her  residence  at  Bonn,  where  it  is  probable  the  re- 
mainder of  her  life  will  be  spent  One  of  the  best 
of  her  novels,  "  Die  Tante,"  has  been  translated 
by  Madame  de  Montolieu,  under  the  title  of  **  La 
Xante  et  la  Ni^ce."  Another  very  pretty  little 
book  of  hers,  **  Ausfiucht  an  dem  Rhein,"  I  should 
like  to  see  translated.  Besides  being  an  elegant 
writer  on  art,  Madame  Schopenhaur  is  herself  no 
mean  artist.  Moreover,  she  is  a  kind-hearted,  ex- 
cellent old  lady,  with  a  few  old  lady-like  prejudices 
about  England  and  the  English,  which  I  forgave 
her, — the  more  easily  as  I  had  to  thank  her  in  my 
own  person  for  many  and  kind  attentions. 

Madame  von  Helvig,  of  Weimar,  (bom  Amalia 
Ton  Imhoff,)  was  the  friend  of  Schiller,  under 
whose  auspices  her  first  poems  were  published. 
Her  rare  knowledge  of  languages,  her  learning  and 
critical  taste  in  works  of  art,  have  distinguished 
her  almost  as  much  as  her  genius  for  poetry. 

The  first  wife  of  the  Baron  de  la  Motte-Fouquet, 
was  a  very  accomplished  woman,  and  the  author  ol 
leveral  poems  and  romances. 

Frederica  Brun,  (bom  Miinter,)  the  daughter  d 
%  learned  ecclesiastic  of  Grotha,  is  celebrated  for 
lier  prose  writings,  %rd  particularly  her  travels  ir 


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LIT£RATIT&E,    AND  CHABACTBR.  iSl 

hhij,  wLere  she  resided  at  different  periods.  Mad- 
wue  Brun  was  a  friend  of  Madame  de  Stael,  who 
mentions  her  in  her  de  PAUemagne,  and  describes 
the  extraordinary  talents  for  classical  pantomime 
possessed  by  her  daughter  Ida  Brun. 

Louisa  Brachmann  is,  I  believe,  more  renowned 
for  her  melancholy  death  than  her  poetical  talents*, 
both  together  have  procured  her  the  name  of  the 
"  German  Sappho.**  The  wretched  woman  threw 
herself  into  the  river  at  Halle,  and  perished,  as  it 
was  said,  for  the  sake  of  some  faithless  Phaon. 
This  was  in  1822,  when  she  must  have  been  be- 
tween forty  and  fifty ;  and  pray  observe,  I  do  not 
notice  this  fact  of  her  age  in  ridicule.  A  woman's 
heart  may  overflow  inwardly  for  long,  long  years, 
\dSL  at  last  the  accumulated  sorrow  bursts  the  bounds 
of  reason,  and  then  all  at  once  we  see  the  result  of 
causes  to  which  none  gave  heed,  and  of  secret 
agonies  to  which  none  gave  comfort — ^in  folly,  mad- 
ness, destruction.  Whatever  might  have  been  the 
cause, — thus  she  died.  Her  works  in  prose  and 
verse  may  be  found  in  every  bookseller's  shop  in 
Germany.  There  is  also  a  life  of  this  unhappy 
and  gifted  woman  by  professor  Schutz. 

Fanny  Tamow  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
%nd  most  fertile  of  all  the  modem  German  author- 
esses. Her  genius  was  developed  by  misfortune 
and  suffering :  while  yet  an  infant,  she  fell  from  a 
window  two  stones  high,  and  was  taken  up,  to  the 
vnazement  of  the  assistants,  without  any  apparent 
njuiy,  except  a  few  bruise** ;  but  all  the  vital  fbno- 


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188  SKETCUES  OF  ART, 

tioiis  suffered,  and  during  ten  or  twelve  years  ^« 
was  extended  on  a  couch,  neither  joining  in  any  of 
the  amusements  of  childhood,  nor  subjected  to  the 
usual  routine  of  female  education.  She  educated 
herself.  She  read  incessantly,  and,  as  it  was  her 
only  pleasure,  books  of  every  description,  good  and 
bad,  were  furnished  her  without  restraint.  She 
was  about  eleven  years  old  when  she  made  her  first 
knotDti  poetical  attempt,  inspired  by  her  own  feel- 
ings and  situation.  It  was  a  dialogue  between  her- 
self and  the  angel  of  death.  In  her  seventeenth 
year  she  was  suflSiciently  recovered  to  take  charge 
of  her  father's  family,  after  he  had  lost,  by  some 
sudden  misfortune,  his  whole  property.  He  held 
subsequently,  a  small  office  under  government,  the 
duties  of  which  were  principally  performed  by  his 
admirable  daughter.  Her  first  writings  were  anony- 
mous, and  for  a  long  time  her  name  was  unknown. 
Her  most  celebrated  novel,  the  "  Thekla,"  was 
published  in  1815 ;  and  from  this  time  she  has  en- 
joyed a  high  and  public  reputation.  Fanny  Tar- 
now  resides,  or  did  reside,  in  Dresden. 

I  have  yet  another  name  here,  and  not  the  least 
interesting,  that  of  Johanna  von  Weissenthum, 
one  of  the  most  popular  dramatic  writers  in  Ger^ 
many.  She  was  educated  for  the  stage,  even  from 
infancy,  her  parents  and  relations  being,  I  believe, 
Itrolling  players.  She  lived,  for  many  years,  9 
various  life  of  toil,  and  adventure,  and  excitement 
rauh,  pt  rhaps,  as  Groethe  describes  in  the  Wilhelnu 
Hfeister;  a  life  which  does  sometime?  blun^  th« 


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UTEBATUltS,  AND  CHARACTER.  181 

licer  feelings,  but  is  sure  to  develop  talent  where 
it  exists.  Johanna  at  length  rose  through  all  the 
grades  of  hor  profession,  and  became  the  first  ac- 
tress at  the  principal  theatre  at  Vienna.  She 
played  in  the  "  Phcedra,"  before  Napoleon,  when 
he  occupied  the  Austrian  capital  in  1806,  and  the 
ccmqneror  sent  to  her,  after  the  performance,  a 
complimentary  message,  and  a  gratuity  of  three 
thousand  francs ;  but  her  lasting  reputation  is  found* 
ed  on  her  dramatic  works,  which  are  played  in 
every  theatre  in  Germany.  The  plots,  which,  I  am 
told,  are  remarkable  for  fancy  and  invention,  have 
been  borrowed,  without  acknowledgment,  both  by 
French  and  English  playwrights.  I  was  quite 
charmed  with  one  of  her  pieces  which  I  saw  at 
Munich,  (Die  Erden — ^the  Heirs,)  and  with  another 
which  was  represented  at  Frankfort  Johanna  von 
Weissenthum  has  also  written  poems  and  tales. 

I  have  come  to  the  end  of  my  memoranda  on 
this  subject,  and  regret  it  much.  I  might  easily 
give  you  more  names,  and  quote  second-hand  the 
opinions  I  heard  of  the  merits  and  characteristics 
of  these  authoresses ;  but  I  speak  of  nothing  but 
what  I  biowy  and  not  being  able  to  form  any  judg- 
ment myself,  I  will  give  none.  Only  it  appears  to 
me  that  the  Grermans  themselves  assign  to  no  female 
writer  the  same  rank  which  here  we  proudly  ^ve 
to  Joanna  Baillie  and  Mrs.  Hemans.  I  could  hear 
of  none  who  had  ever  3xercised  any  thing  like  the 
moral  influence  possessed  by  Maria  Edgeworth  and 
Harriet  Martineau,  in  their  respective  departments; 


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140  BK£TCHES  OF  ART, 

nor  could  learn  that  any  G^erman  woman  had  yel 
given  public  proof  that  the  most  feminine  quali- 
ties were  reconcilable  with  the  highest  scientifio 
attainments — ^like  Mrs.  Marcet  and  Mrs.  Some]> 
ville. 

Mbdon.  You  said  the  other  night,  that  you  had 
not  formed  any  opinion  as  to  the  moral  and  social 
position  of  the  women  in  Grermany ;  but  you  must 
have  brought  away  some  general  impressions  d 
manner  and  character ; — ^firankly,  were  they  fiivor- 
able  or  unfavorable  ? 

Alda.  Frankly,  they  were  most  favorable.  Ee- 
member  that  I  am  not  prepared  with  any  general 
sweeping  conclusions :  I  cannot  assure  you  from 
my  own  knowledge,  that  among  my  own  sex  the 
proportion  of  virtue  and  happiness  is  greater  in 
Germany  than  in  England.    On  the  contrary — 

In  every  land 

I  saw,  wherever  light  illnmineth, 

Beauty  and  angaish  walking  hand  in  hand 
The  downward  slope  to  death. 

In  every  land  I  thought  that,  more  or  less, 
The  stronger,  sterner  nature  overbore 

The  softer,  nncontroll*d  by  gentleness, 
And  selfish  evermore !  * 

—Why  do  you  smile  ? 

Medon.  You  amuse  me  with  the  perseverance 
with  which  you  ring  the  changes  on  your  favorite 
text,  in  prose  and  in  verse;  and  yet,  to  adopt 

*  Alfred  Tennyson. 


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LITEBATUBBy  AKD  CHABACTKB.  141 

Vbhaire's  wittjmetapbor,  we  are  the  hammen  and 
mm  the  anyils  all  the  world  oyer.  But  is  that  all  ? 
Tou  need  not  have  gone  to  Gvermanj  to  Terify 
khatl 

Alda.  No,  sir ;  it  is  not  oM,  In  the  first  place, 
yoa  know  I  have  a  sufficient  contempt  for  our 
English  intolerance,  with  regard  to  manners — 

Medon.  Why,  yes ;  with  reason.  The  influence 
of  mere  manner  among  our  fashionable  people, 
and  the  stress  laid  upon  it  as  a  distinction,  have 
become  so  vulgarized  and  abused,  that  I  should  be 
relieved  even  by  a  reaction  which  should  throw  us 
out  of  the  insipdity  <^  conventional  manner  into 
primeval  rudeness. 

Alda.  No,  no,  no ! — no  extremes ;  but  though 
so  sensible  to  the  ridicule  of  referring  the  social 
habits,  opinions,  customs,  of  other  nations,  to  the 
arbitrary  standard  of  our  own,  still  I  could  not 
help  falling  into  comparisons ;  certain  distinctions 
between  the  German  and  the  English  women 
struck  me  involuntarily.  In  the  highest  circles  a 
stranger  finds  society  much  alike  everywhere.  A 
court-ball — ^the  soirde  of  an  ambassadress— a  min* 
ister's  dinner — present  nearly  the  same  physiog- 
nomy. It  is  in  the  second  class  of  society,  which 
is  also  everywhere  and  in  every  sense  the  best, 
that  we  behold  the  stamp  of  national  character. 
I  was  not  condemned  to  see  my  German  friends 
always  en  grande  toilette;  I  had  better  opportii 
•lities  of  judging  and  appreciating  their  domestic 
aaknts  and  manners  than  most  travellers  enjoy. 


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142  SKETCHES   OF  AST, 

I  thought  the  German  women,  of  a  certain  rank, 
more  natural  than  we  are.  The  moral  education 
of  an  English  girl  is,  for  the  most  part,  negative, 
the  whole  system  of  duty  is  thus  presented  to  the 
mind.  It  is  not  "  this  you  must  do ;  **  but  always, 
**  you  must  not  do  this — you  must  not  say  that — 
you  must  not  think  so;  **  and  if  by  some  hardy, 
expanding  nature,  the  question  be  ventured, 
**  Why  ?  **  the  mamma  or  the  governess  are  ready 
with  the  answer,  "  It  is  not  the  custom — ^it  is  not 
lady-like — ^it  is  ridiculous  I  **  But  is  it  wrong  ? — 
why  is  it  wrong  ? — and  then  comes  answer,  pat — 
"  My  dear,  you  must  not  argue — ^young  ladies  never 

argue.**    "  But,  mamma,  I  was  thinking **  "  My 

dear,  you  must  not  think — go  write  your  Italian 
exercise,**  and  so  on  !  The  idea  that  certain  pas- 
sions, powers,  tempers,  feelings,  interwoven  with 
our  being  by  our  almighty  and  all-wise  Creator, 
are  to  be  put  down  by  the  fiat  of  a  governess,  or 
the  edict  of  fashion,  is  monstrous.  Those  who 
educate  us  imagine  that  they  have  done  every 
thing,  if  they  have  silenced  controversy,  if  they 
have  suppressed  all  external  demonstration  of  an 
excess  of  temper  or  feeling ;  not  knowing  or  not 
reflecting  that  unless  our  nature  be  self-governed 
and  self-directed  by  an  appeal  to  those  higher 
faculties  which  link  us  immediately  with  what  is 
divine,  their  labor  is  lost 

Now,  in  Germany  the  women  are  less  educated 
to  suit  some  particular  fashion  ;  the  cultivation  of 
khe  intellect,  and  the  forming  of  the  manners,  do 


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LITKBATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  14J 

aot  80  generally  supersede  the  training  of  the 
moral  sentiments,  the  afiecdous,  the  impulses ;  the 
latter  are  not  so  habitually  crushed  or  disguised ; 
consequently  the  women  appeared  to  me  more 
natural,  and  to  have  more  individual  character. 

Mkdon.  But  the  English  women  pique  them- 
selves  on  being  natural,  at  least  thej  have  the 
word  continually  in  their  mouths.  Do  you  know 
that  I  once  overheard  a  well-meaning  mother  in- 
structing her  daughter  how  to  be  natural  ?  You 
laugh,  but  I  assure  you  it  is  a  simple  fact  Now,  I 
really  do  not  object  to  natural  insipidity,  but  I  do 
object  to  conventional  insipidity:  I  object  to  a 
rule  of  elegance  which  makes  the  negative  the 
test  of  the  natural.  It  seems  hard  that  those  who 
have  hearts  and  souls  must  needs  put  them  into 
a  strait 'Waistcoat,  in  order  to  oblige  those  who 
choose  to  have  none ;  and  be  guilty  of  the  gross- 
est affectation,  to  escape  the  imputation  of  being 
affected  1 

Alda.  I  think  there  is  less  of  this  among  the 
Germans;  more  of  the  individual  character  is 
brought  into  the  daily  intercourse  of  society- 
more  of  the  poetry  of  existence  is  brought  to  bear 
on  the  common  realities  of  life.  I  saw  a  freshness 
of  feeling — a  genuine  (not  a  taught)  simplicity, 
which  charmed  me.  Sometimes  I  have  seen  affec- 
tation, but  it  amused  me ;  it  consisted  in  the  exag* 
geration  of  what  is  in  itself  good,  not  m  the  mean 
renunciation  of  our  indi^duality — ^the  immolation 
of  our  soul's  truth  to  a  mere  fashion  of  behavior 


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144  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

As  Rochefoucauld  called  hypocrisy,  (that  last  ex- 
fcreme  of  wickedness,)  "Mc  homage  which  vice 
pays  to  virtue ; "  so  the  nature  de  convention^  that 
last  and  worst  excess  of  affectation,  is  the  homage 
which  the  artificial  pays  to  the  natural. 

The  German  women  are  much  more  engrossed 
by  the  cares  of  housekeeping  than  women  of  a 
similar  rank  of  life  in  England.  They  carry  this 
too  far  in  many  instances,  as  we  do  the  opposite 
extreme.  In  England,  with  our  false,  conyentional 
refinement,  we  attach  an  idea  of  vulgarity  to  cer- 
tain cares  and  duties  in  which  there  is  nothing 
vulgar.  To  see  the  young  and  beautiful  daughter 
of  a  lady  of  rank  running  about,  busied  in  house- 
bold  matters,  with  the  keys  of  the  wine-cellar  and 
the  store-room  suspended  to  her  sash,  would  cer- 
tainly surprise  a  young  Englishwoman,  who,  mean- 
time, is  netting  a  purse,  painting  a  rose,  or  warbling 
iome  "  Dolce  mio  Bene,"  or  "  Soavi  Palpiti,"  with 
the  dr  of  a  nun  at  penance.  The  description  of 
Werther*s  Charlotte,  cutting  bread  and  butter, 
has  been  an  eternal  subject  of  laughter  among  the 
English,  among  whom  fine  sentiment  must  be  gar- 
nished out  with  something  finer  than  itself;  and  no 
princess  can  be  suffered  to  go  mad,  or  even  be  in 
love,  except  in  white  satin.  To  any  one  who  has 
lived  in  Germany,  the  union  of  sentiment  and 
bread  and  butter,  or  of  poetry  with  household 
cares,  excites  no  laughter.  The  wife  of  a  state 
minister  once  excused  herself  from  going  with  me 
k)  a  picture  gallery,  because  on  that  day  she  wai 


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UTKRATUBKy  AND   CHABACTER.  141 

ftoliged  to  reckon  up  the  household  Iiiicn.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  charming,  truly  elegant,  and 
accomplished  women  I  ever  met  with.  At  another 
time  I  remember  that  a  very  accomplished  woman, 
who  had  herself  figured  in  a  court,  could  not  do 
something  or  other — I  forget  what — because  it  wai 
the  "  grosse  Wasche,"  (the  great  wash,)  an  event, 
by  the  way,  which  I  often  found  very  mal-a-propos, 
and  which  never  failed  to  turn  a  German  house- 
hold upside  down.  You  must  remember  that  I  am 
not  speaking  of  tradesmen  and  mechanics,  but  ot 
people  of  my  own,  or  even  a  superior  rank  of  life. 
It  is  true  that  I  met  with  cases  in  which  the  women 
had,  without  necessity,  sunk  into  mere  domestic 
drudges — women  whose  souls  were  in  their  kitchen 
and  their  household  stuff — whose  talk  was  of  dishes 
and  of  condiments ;  but  then  the  same  species  of 
women  in  England  would  have  been,  instead  of 
busy  with  the  idea  of  being  useful,  frivolous,  and 
ally,  without  any  idea  at  alL 

Medon.  And  whether  a  woman  put  her  soul 
into  an  apple  tart,  or  a  new  bonnet,  signifies  little, 
if  there  be  no  capacity  there  for  any  thing  better. 
I  hate  mere  fine  ladies;  but  equally  avoid  those 
who  seem  bom  to  "  suckle  fools  and  chronicle  small 
beer."  The  accomplishments  which  embellish  social 
life — ^tbe  cultivation  which  raises  you  to  a  com- 
panionship with  men — ^I  cannot  spare  these  to  make 
mere  nursos  and  housewifes,  as  I  conceive  the  gen- 
erality of  the  German  women  aim  to  be,  and  whicli 
I  have  been  told  the  opinions  of  the  men  apj  rove 

10 


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146  8KBTCHE3   OF   ABT, 

Alda.  As  to  what  we  tenn  accompliihmentii 
ihere  was  certainly  much  less  exhibitioii  and  par- 
ade of  them  in  society ;  they  formed  less  an  estab- 
lished and  necessary  part  of  education  than  with 
as ;  but,  of  really  accomplished,  well-informed 
women,  believe  me  I  found  no  deficiency — ^far  other 
wise :  if  the  inclination  or  the  talent  existed,  meani 
and  opportunity  were  not  wanting  for  mental  cul- 
ture of  a  very  high  species.  I  met  with  fewer 
women  who  drew  badly,  sang  tolerably,  or  rather 
mtolerably,  scratched  the  harp,  and  quoted  Metas' 
tasio ;  but  I  met  with  quite  as  many  women  who, 
without  pretension,  were  finished  musicians,  painted, 
like  artists,  possessed  an  extensive  acquaintance 
with  their  own  literature,  and  an  uncommon  knowl- 
Bdge  of  languages ;  and  were,  besides,  very  good 
housewives  after  the  German  fashion.  More  or  less 
acquaintance  with  the  French  language  was- a 
matter  of  course,  but  English  was  preferred :  every 
where  I  met  with  women  who  had  cultivated  with 
success,  not  our  language  merely,  but  our  literature. 
Shakspedre,  whether  studied  in  English,  or  in  some 
of  their  excellent  translations,  I  found  a  species  of 
household  god,  whose  very  name  was  breathed  with 
reverence,  as  if  it  were  that  of  a  supernatural 
being.  Lord  Byron,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and 
Campbell,  are  familiar  names.  Wordsworth  and 
Shelley  are  bp.ginning  to  be  known,  but  they  are 
pronounced  more  difficult  of  comprehension  than 
Shakspeare  himself;  yet  I  met  with  a  Grerman 
lady  who  could  repeat  Coleridge's  "  Ancient  Mj^ 


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LITEBATURB,  AND   CHARACTiCIt  14f 

finer*  hj  heart  Of  our  great  modem  poeta, 
Crabbe  appeared  the  least  understood  and  appr»> 
elated  in  Germany,  for  the  obvious  reason,  that  hif 
lubjects  and  portraits  are  ahnost  exclusively  n»> 
tional.  There  are,  however,  several  Grerman  edi- 
tions of  his  works.  The  men  read  him  as  a  study. 
The  only  German  lady  I  met  with  who  had  read 
his  works  through,  pronounced  them  "  not  poetry." 
Bulwer  is  exceedingly  popular  among  the  women ; 
BO  is  Moore.  Some  of  those  who  most  admired  the 
latter,  gave  as  one  reason  that  "  his  English  st^de 
was  so  easy." 

Medon.  Of  all  our  poets,  Moore  should  seem 
the  least  allied  to  a  German  taste.  Shall  I  confess 
to  you  ?  He  reminds  me  perpetually  of  Prince 
Potemkin's  larder,  in  which  you  could  always  have 
petks'patds  and  champagne,  ad  libitum^  but  never 
a  morsel  of  bread  or  a  drop  of  water  I 

Alda.  The  simile  is  e'en  too  wickedly  just ;  but 
I  except  his  Irish  ballads :  by  the  way,  I  was  pleased 
to  find  some  of  our  beautiful  Irish  melodies  almost 
naturalized  in  Germany,  and  sung  either  with 
Moore's  words,  or  German  versions  of  them.  1 
remember  that  at  Stifl-Neuberg  I  heard  the  air  of 
Ally  Croker  sung  to  an  excellent  translation  of 
Moore's  words,^  and  with  as  much  of  the  national 
spirit  and  feeling  as  if  we  had  been  on  the  banks 
•f  the  Shannon  instead  of  the  banks  of  the  Neckar 
The  singer,  an  amateur,  and  a  most  extraordinary 
basical  genius,  who  had  joined  our  circle  ^m  Hei- 
•  **  Thro'  Erin's  Isle,  to  fppct  awhile,"  &e 


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i4S  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

ddberg,  did  not  understand,  or  at  least  di .  not 
ipeak,  English ;  yet  there  was  no  Irish,  or  Scotch,  or 
English  air  which  he  had  not  at  the  ends  of  his  fin« 
gers ;  and  when  he  struck  up,  ^  Of  noble  race  wa^ 
Shenkiu,**  it  was  as  if  all  the  souls  of  all  the  Welsh 
harpers  since  High-bom  Hod  had  inspired  him. 
This  ^fled  person  was,  however,  of  your  sex,  and 
our  discourse,  at  present,  is  of  mine. 

I  heard  an  English  lady,  who  had  resided  for 
some  time  in  Germany,  remark  that  the  "  Grerman 
mothers  spoiled  their  children  terribly ; "  in  othei 
words,  the  children  lived  more  habitually  with  the 
mothers,  were  under  little  restraint,  and  behaved 
in  the  drawing-room  much  as  if  they  were  in  the 
nursery,  and  were  treated,  as  they  grew  up,  on 
more  equal  terms. 

That  high  exterior  polish,  those  brilliant  con- 
versational talents,  which  I  have  seen  in  many 
English  and  French  women,  must  be  rare  among 
the  Germans :  they  are  too  simple  and  too  much 
in  earnest  The  trifling  of  a  polished  French 
woman  is  often  most  graceful ;  the  trifling  of  an 
Englishwoman  gracious  and  graceful ;  but  the  trifl- 
ing of  a  German  woman  is,  in  comparison,  heavy 
work;  to  use  a  common  expression,  it  is  not  in 
tJiem,  I  met  with  one  satirical  woman.  You  know 
I  once  ventured  to  assert  that  no  woman  ii 
naturally  satirical,  and  to  touch  upon  the  canset 
which  foster  this  artificial  vice — and  here  was  a 
rase  in  point  It  was  that  of  a  mind  which  luA 
triginally  been  a  piece  of  natuve's  noblest  handi. 


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LITERATI;  <tB,  AND  CHARACTER.  14f 

irork,  first  braised,  then  gradually  festered  by  tlie 
iction  of  all  evil  influences. 

Mbdox.  And,  <*  lilies  that  fester  are  far  wane 
than  weeds,"  so  nngeth  the  poet ;  bnt  do  you  mak« 
lihe  cause  also  the  excuse  ?  How  many  minds  have 
endured  the  most  withering  influences  of  misery  and 
mischief,  if  not  untouched,  at  least  uninjured — na* 
embittered ! 

Alda.  I  grant  you :  bnt  before  we  assume  the 
power  of  judging,  of  computing  the  degree  of  Yir> 
tue  in  the  latter  case,  of  vice  in  the  former,  we 
should  look  to  the  original  conformation  of  the 
human  being — ^the  material  exposed  to  these  in« 
fluences.  Fire  hardens  the  clay  and  dissolves  the 
metal.  This  plate  of  tempered  steel,  on  which  I 
am  going  to  etch,  shall  corrode,  effervesce,  be  ab- 
solutely decomposed  by  the  action  of  a  few  drops 
of  nitrous  acid,  which  has  no  effect  whatever  on 
this  lump  of  wax.  Now,  carry  this  analogy  into 
the  consideration  of  the  human  character — it  will 
spare  us  a  long  argument 

As  to  the  chapter  of  coquettes — 

Mbdon.  Ah  I  glissezy  mortely  n'appuyez  pas  ! 

Alda.  And  why  not  ? — ^Don't  you  know  that  I 
meditate,  with  the  assistance  of  certsdn  professorinoy 
a  complete  Natural  History  of  Coquettes,  (in 
quarto,)  which  shall  rival  the  famous  Dutch  treatise 
on  Butterflies,  in  ^leaven  knows  how  many  folio 
(rolumes  ?  In  the  first  part  of  this  stupendous  work 
we  intend  to  treat  systematically  of  every  known 
ipedes,  from  the  coquetterie  instinctive^  which  may 


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150  SKKTCHES   OF  AKT, 

be  termed  the  wild  genus,  indigenous  in  all  females, 
up  to  the  coquetterie  calculde  et  philosophiqtie,  tiM 
most  refined  specimen  reared  in  the  hot-bed  of  arti- 
ficial life.  In  the  second  part,  we  shall  treat  the 
whole  history  of  Coquetteriey  from  that  first  pretty 
expeiiment  of  dear  Mamma  Eve,  when  she  turned 
away  fr^m  Adam, 


*♦ 1 As  conscious  of  her  worth, 

That  would  be  woo'd  and  not  unsought  be  won," 

down  to — ^to — ^how  shall  I  avoid  being  personal  ? — - 
down  to  the  Lady  Adehne  Amundevilles  of  our 
own  day.  With  some  women,  coquetterie  is  an  in- 
stinct ;  with  others,  an  amusement ;  with  others,  a 
pursuit ;  with  others,  a  science.  With  the  German 
women  it  is  a  passion :  they  play  the  coquette  as 
they  do  every  thing  else,  with  sentiment,  with  good 
faith,  with  enthusiasm. 

Medon.  Why  then  it  is  no  longer  coquetterie — 
it  is  love  I 

Alda.  I  beg  your  pardon ;  it  is  something  very 
different  True,  perhaps,  **  that  thin  partitions  do 
the  bounds  divide ;  **  but,  to  a  nice  observer,  the 
division  is  not  the  less  complete.  In  short,  you  can 
imagine  nothing  more  distinct  than  an  English  co- 
quette and  a  Grerman  coquette ;  in  the  first  case^ 
one  is  reminded  of  Diyden's  fanciful  mmile— 

**  So  cold  herself,  while  she  such  warmth  ezpress'd, 
*Twas  Cupid  bathing  in  Diana's  stream!  ** 

^ot,  ill  the  latter  case,  it  b  Diana  bending  the  bow 


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IITERATURK,   AND   CHARACTEli.  1ft 

RDd  brandishing  the  darts  of  Cupid ;  and  with  ac 
nnsuspirious  gaucherie,  which  now  and  then  tumi 
the  point  against  her  own  bosom. 

I  observed,  and  I  verified  my  own  observationt, 
by  the  information  of  some  intelligent  medical  men, 
that  there  is  less  ill-health  among  the  superior  rank 
of  women,  in  Germany,  than  with  us;  all  thai  class 
of  diseases,  which  we  call  nervous,  which  in  Eng- 
land have  increased,  and  are  increasing  in  such  a 
fearful  ratio,  are  far  less  prevalent ;  doubtless, 
because  the  habits  of  social  life  are  more  natural* 
The  use  of  noxious  stimulants  among  the  better 
class  of  women  is  almost  unknown,  and  rare  among 
the  very  lowest  "classes — ^would  to  heaven  we  could 
lay  the  same  I  No  where,  not  even  at  Munich,  one 
of  the  most  profligate  of  the  German  capitals,  was 
I  ever  shocked  by  tiie  exhibition  of  female  suffer- 
ing and  depravity  in  another  form,  as  in  the 
theatres  and  the  streets  of  London. 

I  have  been  asked  twenty  times  since  my  return 
to  England,  whether  the  German  women  are  not 
very  excdtie — very  romantic  ?  I  could  only  an- 
swer, that  they  appeared  to  me  less  cal«  ulating, 
less  the  slaves  of  artificial  manners  and  modes  of 
thinking;  more  imaginative,  more  governed  by 
natural  feeling,  more  enthusiastic  in  love  and  reli* 
gion,  than  with  us.  If  this  is  what  my  English 
friends  term  exaltde,  I  certainly  cannot  think  the 
German  women  would  have  reason  to  be  offended 
Dy  the  application  of  the  word  to  them,  however 
satirically  meant  Perhaps  it  may  be  from  necessity. 


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152  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

that  thej  are  generally  more  simple  in  their  taste^ 
and  more  frugal  in  their  expenses ;  they  had  cer- 
tainly a  most  formidable  idea  of  the  extravagance 
of  fashionable  English  women,  and  of  our  luxurioiu 
habits.  I  believe  that  they  are  sometimes  difficult 
of  access,  and  apparently  inhospitable,  because  they 
suspect  us  of  scoffing  at  their  simplicity,  at  the 
homeliness  of  their  acconmiodations,  and  their 
housewively  occupations.  For  my  own  part  I  slip- 
ped so  quietly  and  naturally  into  all  their  social 
and  domestic  habits,  and  cared  so  little  about  the 
differences  and  distinctions,  which  some  of  the  Eng- 
lish thought  it  fine  to  be  always  remarking  and 
lamenting,  that  my  Grerman  friends  used  to  express 
their  surprise,  by  saying — "  Savez  vous,  ma  ch^re, 
que  vous  ne  me  faites  pas  du  tout  Tefiet  d'une 
Anglaisel" — an  odd  species  of  compliment,  but 
certainly  meant  as  such.  It  is  true  that  I  was 
sometimes  a  little  tired  of  the  everlasting  knitting 
and  cross-stitch ;  and  it  is  true  I  may  at  times  have 
felt  the  want  of  certain  external  luxuries,  with  which 
we  are  habitually  pampered  in  this  prodigal  land, 
till  they  become  necessaries ;  but  I  would  be  well 
content  to  exchange  them  all  a  thousand  times  over^ 
for  the  cheap  mental  and  social  pleasures — ^the  easy 
intercourse  of  German  life. 

Medon.  Apropos  to  German  romance.  I  met 
with  a  striking  instance  of  it  even  in  my  short  and 
rapid  journey  across  part  of  the  country.  A  ladf 
of  birth  and  rank,  who  had  been  dame  cThonneu^ 
in  the  court  of  a  sovereign  princess,  (a  princess  bi 


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UTERATITRK,  AXD   CHARACTER.  15t 

die  way  of  very  equivocal  reputadon,)  oo  the  death 
3f  a  lover,  to  whom  she  had  been  betrothed,  de* 
f  oted  herself  thenceforth  to  the  service  of  the  sick 
in  the  hospitals;  she  could  not  enter  a  religious 
order,  being  a  Protestant,  but  she  fulfilled  all  the 
offices  of  a  vowed  Sister  of  Charity.  When  she 
applied  to  the  physician  for  leave  to  attend  the 
hospital  at ,  he  used  every  endeavor  to  dis- 
suade her  from  her  undertaking — all  in  vain  !  Then 
he  tried  to  disgust  her  by  imposing,  in  the  first  in- 
stance, duties  the  most  fearful  and  revolting  to  a 
delicate  woman ;  she  stood  this  test,  and  persisted. 
It  is  now  five  years  since  I  saw  her ;  perhaps  she 
may  by  this  time  be  tired  of  her  charitable,  or 
rather  her  romantic,  self-devotion. 

Alda.  No,  that  she  is  not.  I  know  to  whom  you 
allude.  She  follows  steadily  and  quietly  the  same 
pious  vocation  in  which  she  has  persevered  for 
fifteen  years,  and  in  which  she  seems  resolved  to 
die. 

Now,  in  return  for  your  story,  though  I  knew  it 
all  before,  I  will  tell  you  another ;  but  lest  you 
should  suspect  me  of  absolute  invention  and 
romancing,  I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  by  it. 

I  was  travelling  from  Weimar  to  Frankfort,  and 
had  stopped  at  a  little  town,  one  or  two  stages 
beyond  Fulda ;  I  was  standing  at  the  window  of 
the  inn,  which  was  opposite  to  the  post-house,  and 
'ooking  at  a  crowd  of  travellers  who  had  just  been 
lisgorged  from  a  huge  Eil-wagen  or  post-coach^ 
wrhich  was  standing  there.     Among  them  was  one 


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154  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

female,  who,  before  I  was  aware,  fixed  my  ait&m 
kion.  Although  closely  envbloped  in  a  winter  dresi 
from  head  to  foot,  her  height,  and  the  easy  decision 
with  which  she  moved,  showed  that  her  figure  waf 
fine  and  well-proportioned ;  and  as  the  wind  blew 
aside  her  black  veil,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  features 
which  still  farther  excited  my  curiosity.  I  had  time 
to  consider  her,  as  she  alighted  and  walked  over  to 
the  inn  alone.  She  entered  at  once  the  room — ^it 
was  a  8ort  of  public  saloon — ^in  which  I  was ;  sum- 
moned the  waiter,  whom  she  addressed  in  a  good- 
famnored,  but  rather  familiar  style,  and  ordered 
breakfast ;  not  a  cup  of  chocolate  or  caffee  au  laity  as 
became  a  heroine,  for  you  see  I  was  resohred  that  aha 
should  be  one,  but  a  very  substantial  German  break- 
fast— soup,  a  cutlet,  and*  a  pint  (eine  halbe  flasche) 
of  good  wine :  it  was  then  about  ten  o'clock.  While 
this  was  preparing,  she  threw  off  her  travelling  ac- 
coutrements ;  first  a  dark  cloak,  richly  lined  with 
fur ;  one  or  two  shawls ;  a  sort  of  pelisse,  or  rather 
surtout,  reaching  to  the  knees,  with  long  loose 
sleeves,  such  as  you  may  see  in  the  prints  of  Tar- 
tar or  Muscovite  costumes ;  this  was  made  of  bean- 
M  Indian  shawl,  lined  with  blue  silk,  and  trimmed 
with  sables :  under  these  splendid  and  multifarious 
coverings  she  wore  a  dress  of  deep  mourning.  Hei 
figure,  when  displayed,  excited  my  admiration :  it 
was  one  of  the  most  perfect  I  ever  beheld.  Her 
feet,  hands,  and  head,  were  small  in  proportion  to 
her  figure;  her  face  was  not  so  striking — it  wai 
pretty,  rather  than  handsome;  her  small   moatk 


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1.ITERATURE,  AND  CHABACTKB  158 

floBed  firmly,  so  as  to  give  a  mariLed  and  singalar 
expression  of  resolution  and  decision,  to  a  phyriog^ 
nomy  otherwise  frank  and  good-humored.  Her 
eyes,  also  small,  were  of  a  dark  hazel,  bright,  and 
with  long  blonde  eyelashes.  Her  abundant  fair 
kair  was  j^ted  in  several  bands,  and  fastened  on 
the  top  of  her  head,  in  the  fashion  of  the  German 
peasant  girls.  Her  voice  would  have  been  deemed 
rather  high-pitched,  for  "  ears  polite,**  but  it  was  not 
fieficient  in  melody;  and  though  her  expression 
was  grave,  and  even  sad,  upon  our  first  encounter, 
I  soon  found  that  mirth,  and  not  sadness,  was  the 
natural  character  of  her  mind,  as  of  her  countfr> 
nance.  When  any  thing  ridiculous  occurred,  she 
burst  at  once  into  a  laugh — such  a  meiry,  musical 
peal,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  sympathize  in  it 
Her  whole  appearance  and  manner  gave  me  the 
idea  of  a  farmer's  buxom  daughter :  nothing  could 
be  more  distinct  from  our  notions  of  the  lady-like, 
yet  nothing  could  be  more  free  from  impropriety, 
more  expressive  of  native  innocence  and  modesty ; 
but  the  splendor  of  her  dress  did  not  exactly  suit 
with  her  deportment — ^it  puzzled  me.  I  observed, 
when  she  drew  off  her  glove,  that  she  wore  a 
number  of  silver  rings  of  a  peculiar  fashion,  and 
among  them  a  fine  diamond.  She  walked  up  and 
down  while  her  breakfast  was  preparing,  seemingly 
lost  in  painfiil  meditations ;  but  when  it  appeared, 
ihe  sat  down  and  did  justice  to  it,  as  one  who  had 
been  many  hours  without  tbod.  While  she  wai 
thus  engaged,  the  conducteur  of  the  £il-wagen  ar.d 


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1A6  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

one  of  the  passengers  came  in,  and  spoke  to  hhi 
with  interest  and  respect.  Soon  afterwards  came 
the  mistress  of  the  inn,  (who  had  never  deigned  to 
notice  me,  for  it  is  not  the  fashion  in  Germany ;) 
she  came  with  an  offer  of  particular  services,  and 
from  the  conversation  I  gathered,  to  my  astonish- 
ment,  that  this  young  creature — she  seemed  not 
more  than  two  or  three  and  twenty — was  on  her 
way  home,  alone  and  unprotected,  from— can  you 
imagine  ? — even  from  the  wiWs  of  Siberia !  But 
then  what  had  brought  her  there  ?  I  listened,  in 
hopes  of  discovering,  but  they  all  spoke  so  fast  that 
I  could  make  out  nothing  more.  Afterwards,  I  had 
occasion  to  go  over  to  a  little  shop  to  make  some 
purchase.  On  my  return,  I  found  her  crying  bit- 
terly, and  my  maid,  also  in  tears,  was  comforting 
her  with  great  volubility.  Now,  though  my  having 
in  Grerman,  like  Orlando's  beard,  was  not  consider- 
able, and  my  heroine  spoke  still  less  French,  J 
could  not  help  assisting  in  the  task  of  consolation — 
never,  certainly,  were  my  curiosity  and  interest 
more  strongly  excited !  Subsequently  we  met  at 
Frankfort,  where  she  was  lodged  in  the  same  hotel, 
and  I  was  enabled  to  offer  her  a  seat  in  my  vehicle 
to  Mayence,  Thus,  I  had  opportunities  of  hearing 
her  whole  history  related  at  different  times,  and  in 
parts  and  parcels ;  and  I  will  now  endeavor  to  give 
it  to  you  in  a  connected  form.  I  may  possibly  make 
lome  mistake  with  regard  to  the  order  of  events, 
but  I  promise  you  faithfidly,  that  where  my  recol- 
lection  of  names,  or  dates,  or  circumstances*  mai 


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LITERATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER  157 

/ail  me,  I  will  not,  like  Mademoiselle  de  Montpen* 
■ier,  make  use  of  my  imagination  to  supply  the  de* 
fects  <^  mj  memory.  You  shall  have,  if  not  tbto 
whols  truth,  at  least  as  much  of  it  as  I  can  remem- 
ber, and  with  no  fictitious  interpolations  and  im- 
proyements.  Of  the  imimation  of  voice  and  man- 
ner, the  vivid  eloquence,  the  graphic  spirit,  the 
quick  transitions  of  feeling,  and  the  grace  and 
vivacity  of  gesture  and  action  with  which  the  rela- 
tion was  made  to  me  by  this  fine  untutored  child  of 
nature,  I  can  give  you  no  idea — it  was  altogether  a 
study  of  character,  I  shall  never  forget 

My  heroine — truly  and  in  every  sense  does  she 
deserve  the  name — ^was  the  daughter  of  a  rich 
brewer  and  wine  merchant  of  Deuxponts.*  She 
was  one  of  five  children,  two  much  older  and  two 
much  younger  than  herself.  Her  eldest  brother 
was  called  Henri:  he  had  early  displayed  such 
uncommon  talents,  and  such  a  decided  inclination 
for  study,  that  his  father  was  determined  to  give 
him  all  the  advantages  of  a  learned  education,  and 
sent  him  to  the  univerraty  of  Elangau,  in  Bavaria, 
whence  he  returned  to  his  family  with  the  highest 
testimonies  of  his  talents  and  good  conduct.  His 
&ther  now  destined  him  for  the  clerical  profession, 
with  which  his  own  wishes  accorded.  His  sister 
fondly  dwelt  upon  his  praises,  and  described  him, 
perhaps  with  all  a  sister^s  partiality,  as  being  not 

*Iii  the  Oerman  mspfl,  ZTreibrUeKen;  th#  capital  cf  thoM 
prerinocfl  of  the  kingdom  of  Bayaria,  which  U^  on  the  Ictft  bank 
4  the  BUne. 


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158  8KBTCHBS  OF  ART, 

only  the  pride  of  his  fanuly,  but  of  all  his  feUow* 
citizens,  ^^tall,  and  handsome,  and  good,**  of  a 
most  benevolent  enthusiastic  temper,  and  devoted 
to  his  studies.  When  he  had  been  at  home  for 
some  time,  he  attracted  the  notice  of  one  of  the 
princes  in  the  north  of  Germany,  with  whom  he 
travelled,  I  believe,  in  the  capacity  of  secretary. 
The  name  of  the  prince,  and  the  particulars  of  this 
part  of  his  life,  have  escaped  me ;  but  it  appeared 
that,  through  the  recommendation  of  this  powerful 
patron,  he  became  professor  of  theology  in  a  uni- 
versity of  Courland,  I  think  at  Riga,  or  somewhere 
near  it,  for  the  name  of  this  city  was  continually 
recurring  in  her  narrative.  Henri  was  at  this  time 
about  eight-and-twenty. 

While  here,  it  was  his  fate  to  fall  passionately 
in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a  rich  Jew  merchant 
E[b  religious  zeal  mingled  with  his  love ;  he  was 
as  anxious  to  convert  his  mistress  as  to  possess  her 
--and,  in  fact,  the  first  was  a  necessary  prehminary 
to  the  second ;  the  consequences  were  all  in  the 
usual  style  of  such  matters.  The  relations  discov- 
ered the  correspondence,  and  the  young  Jewess  wa« 
forbidden  to  see  or  to  speak  to  her  lover.  They 
met  in  secret.  What  arguments  he  might  use  tc 
convert  this  modem  Jessica,  I  know  not,  but  they 
prevailed.  She  declared  herself  convinced,  anf" 
consented  to  fly  with  him  beyond  the  frontiers,  into 
Silesia,  to  be  baptized,  and  to  become  his  wife. 

Apparently  their  plans  were  not  well-arranged. 
vr  were  betrayed ;  for  they  were  pursued  by  hei 


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LITERATURE.  AXD   CHARACTFV.  159 

reladoDS  and  the  police,  and  overtaken  before  they 
reached  the  frontiers.  I'he  young  man  was  ae» 
cased  of  carrying  off  his  Jewish  love  by  fcrcij, 
and  this,  I  believe,  at  Riga,  where  the  Jews  are 
protected,  is  a  capital  crime.  The  affair  wai 
brought  before  the  tribunal,  and  the  accused  de- 
fended himself  by  declaring  that  the  girl  had  fled 
with  him  by  her  own  free  will;  that  she  was  a 
Christian,  and  his  betrothed  bride,  as  they  had 
exchanged  rings,  or  had  gone  through  some  similar 
ceremony.  The  father  Jew  denied  thb  on  the 
part  of  his  daughter,  and  Henri  desired  to  be  con- 
fronted with  the  lady  who  was  thus  said  to  have 
turned  his  accuser.  Her  family  made  many  diffi- 
culties, but  by  order  of  the  judge  she  was  obliged 
to  appear.  She  was  brought  into  the  court  of 
justice  pale,  trembling,  and  supported  by  her 
father  and  others  of  her  kindred.  The  judge  de- 
manded whether  it  was  by  her  own  will  that  she 
had  fled  with  Henri  Ambos  ?  She  answered  in  a 
faint  voice,  **  No."  Had  then  violence  been  used 
to  carry  her  off?  "  Yes,**  Was  she  a  Christian  ? 
"iVb."  Did  she  regard  Henri  as  her  affianced 
husband?    "JVb." 

On  hearing  these  replies,  so  different  from  the 
truth, — ^from  all  he  could  have  anticipated,  the  un- 
fortunate young  man,  appeared  for  a  few  minutes 
stupefied ;  then,  as  if  seized  with  a  sudden  frenzy, 
he  made  a  desperate  effort  to  rush  upon  the  young 
Jewess.  On  being  prevented,  he  drew  a  knife 
from  his  pocket,  which  he  attempted  to  plunge  into 


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160  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

biB  own  bosom,  but  it  was  wrested  from  him ;  in 
the  scuffle  he  was  wounded  in  the  hands  and  face, 
and  the  young  lady  swooned  away.  The  sight  of 
his  mistress  insensible,  and  his  own  blood  flowing, 
restored  the  lover  to  his  senses.  He  became  sul- 
lenly calm,  offered  not  another  word  in  his  own 
defence,  refused  to  answer  any  questions,  and  was 
immediately  conveyed  to  prison. 

These  particulars  came  to  the  knowledge  of  his 
family  after  the  lapse  of  many  months,  but  of  his 
subsequent  fate  they  could  learn  nothing.  Neither 
his  sentence  nor  his  punishment  could  be  ascer- 
tained ;  and  although  one  of  his  relations  went  tn 
Riga,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  some  informa* 
tion — some  redress — ^he  returned  without  havin^f 
effected  either  of  the  purposes  of  his  joumej 
Whether  Henri  had  died  of  his  wounds,  or  Ian 
guished  in  a  perpetual  dungeon,  remained  a 
mystery. 

Six  years  thus  passed  aws^.  His  father  died  : 
his  mother,  who  persisted  in  hoping,  while  all 
others  despaired,  lingered  on  in  heart-wearing  sus- 
pense. At  length,  in  the  beginning  of  last  year, 
(1833,)  a  travelling  merchant  passed  through  the 
city  of  Deuxponts,  and  inquired  for  the  family  of 
Ambos.  He  informed  them  that  in  the  preceding 
year  he  had  seen  and  spoken  to  a  man  in  rags, 
with  a  long  beard,  who  was  working  in  fetters  with 
other  criminals,  near  the  fortress  of  Barinska,  in 
Siberia ;  who  described  himself  as  Henri  Ambos, 
R  pastor  of  the  Lutheran  church,  unjustly  coi> 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  161 

demned,  and  besought  him  with  tears,  and  the 
most  urgent  supplications,  to  convey  some  tiding! 
of  him  to  his  unhappy  parents,  and  beseech  them 
to  use  every  means  to  obtain  his  liberation. 

You  must  imagine — for  I  cannot  describe  as  she 
described — the  feelings  which  this  intelligence  ex- 
cited. A  family  council  was  held,  and  it  was 
determined  at  once  that  application  should  be 
made  to  the  police  authorities  at  St  Petersburg,  to 
ascertain  beyond  a  doubt  the  fate  of  poor  Henri — 
that  a  petition  in  his  favor  must  be  presented  to 
the  Emperor  of  Russia ;  but  who  was  to  present 
it?  The  second  brother  offered  himself,  but  he 
had  a  wife  and  two  children ;  the  wife  protested 
that  she  should  die  if  her  husband  left  her,  and 
would  not  hear  of  his  going ;  besides,  he  was  the 
only  remaining  hope  of  his  mother's  family.  The 
sister  then  said  that  she  would  undertake  the 
journey,  and  argued  that  as  a  woman  she  had 
more  chance  of  success  in  such  an  affair  than  her 
brother.  The  mother  acquiesced.  There  was,  in 
truth,  no  alternative ;  and  being  amply  furnished 
with  the  means,  this  generous,  affectionate,  and 
strong-minded  girl,  set  off  alone,  on  her  long  and 
perilous  journey.  "  When  my  mother  gave  me 
her  blessing,"  said  she,  "  I  made  a  vow  to  Grod  and 
my  own  heart,  that  I  would  not  return  alive  with- 
out the  pardon  of  my  brother.  I  feared  nothing ; 
I  had  nothing  to  live  for.  I  had  health  and 
itrength,  and  I  had  not  a  doubt  of  rav  own  sncceas, 
beca  ISA  T  was  resolved  to  .succeed ;  but  ah  I  Uehi 
11 


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162  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

madame !  Ttrhat  a  fate  was  mine !  and  how  am  1 
returning  to  my  mother ! — my  poor  old  mother ! " 
Here  she  burst  into  tears,  and  threw  herself  back 
in  the  carriage ;  after  a  few  minutes  she  resumed 
her  narrative. 

She  reached  the  city  of  Riga  without  mischance. 
There  she  collected  the  necessary  documents  rela- 
tive to  her  brother's  character  and  conduct,  with 
all  the  circumstances  of  his  trial,  and  had  them 
properly  attested.  Furnished  with  these  papen, 
she  proceeded  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  she  ar- 
rived safely  in  the  beginning  of  June,  1833.  She 
had  been  furnished  with  several  letters  of  recom- 
mendation and  particularly  with  one  to  a  German 
ecclesiastic,  of  whom  she  spoke  with  the  most  grate- 
ful enthusiasm,  by  the  title  of  M.  le  Pasteur.  She 
met  with  the  utmost  difficulty  in  obtaining  from  the 
police  the  official  return  of  her  brother's  condem- 
nation, place  of  exile,  punishment,  &c.;  but  at 
length,  by  almost  incredible  boldness,  perseverance, 
and  address,  she  was  in  possession  of  these,  and 
with  the  assistance  of  her  good  friend  the  pastor, 
she  drew  up  a  petition  to  the  emperor.  With  this 
she  waited  on  the  minister  of  the  interior,  to  whom, 
mtli  great  difficulty,  and  after  many  applications, 
she  obtained  access.  He  treated  her  with  great 
harshness,  and  absolutely  refused  to  deliver  the 
petition.  She  threw  herself  on  her  knees,  and 
added  tears  to  entreaties  ;  but  he  was  inexorabh^» 
and  added  brutally — "  Your  brother  was  a  mauvait- 
tHj'et ;  he  oufj^t  not  to  be  pardoned,  and  if  I  were 


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I.ITERATTmE,  AKD  CHARACTER.  16S 

foe  emperor  I  would  not  pardon  him.**  She  rose 
from  her  knees,  and  stretching  her  arms  towaitis 
heaven,  exclaimed  with  fervor—"  I  call  God  to 
witness  that  my  brother  was  innocent  I  and  I  thank 
God  that  you  are  not  the  emperor,  for  I  can  still 
hope  I  **  The  minister,  in  a  rage,  said — "  Do  you 
dare  to  speak  thus  to  me  !  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 
**  Yes,"  she  replied ;  "  you  are  his  excellency  the 

minister  C ;  but  what  of  that  ?  you  are  a  cruel 

man  I  but  I  put  my  trust  in  God  and  the  emperor; 
and  then,**  said  she,  "  I  lefl  him,  without  even  a 
curtsey,  though  he  followed  me  to  the  door,  speak- 
ing very  loud  and  very  angrily." 

Her  suit  being  rejected  by  all  the  ministers,  (foi 
even  those  who  were  most  gentle,  and  who  allowed 
the  hardship  of  the  case,  still  refused  to  interfere, 
or  deliver  her  petition,)  she  resolved  to  do,  what 
she  had  been  dissuaded  from  attempting  in  the  first 
instance — ^to  appeal  to  the  emperor  in  person ;  bu* 
it  was  in  vain  she  lavished  hundreds  of  dollars  in 
bribes  to  the  inferior  officers ;  in  vain  she  beset  the 
imperial  suite,  at  reviews,  at  the  theatre,  on  the 
way  to  the  church :  invariably  beaten  back  by  the 
guards,  or  the  attendants,  she  could  not  penetrate 
to  the  emperor's  presence.  Afler  spending  six 
weeks  in  daily  ineffectual  attempts  of  this  kind, 
hoping  every  morning,  and  almost  despairing  every 
evening — ^threatened  by  the  police  and  spumed  by 
the  officials — ^Providence  raised  her  up  a  friend  in 
one  of  her  own  sex.  Among  some  ladies  of  rank, 
who  became  interested  in  her  stcry,  and  invited 


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164  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

ber  to  their  houses,  was  a  Countess  Ellse,  something 
inr  other,  whose  name  I  am  sony  I  did  not  write 
down.  One  day,  on  seeing  her  young  protegA 
overwhelmed  with  grief,  and  ahnost  in  despair,  she 
isud,  with  emotion,  "  I  cannot  dare  to  present  your 
petition  myself,  I  might  be  sent  off  to  Siberia,  or 
at  least  banished  the  court ;  but  all  I  can  do  I  ¥rilL 
I  wUl  lend  you  my  equipage  and  servants.  I  will 
dress  you  in  one  of  my  robes ;  you  shall  drive  to 
the  palace  the  next  levee  day,  and  obtain  an 
audience  under  my  name ;  when  once  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  emperor  you  must  manage  for  your- 
self. If  I  risk  thus  much,  will  you  venture  the 
rest  ?  •*  "  And  what,"  said  I,  **  was  your  answer  ?  " 
"Oh!"  she  replied,  "I  could  not  answer;  but  I 
threw  myself  at  her  feet,  and  kissed  the  hem  of  her 
gown ! "  I  asked  her  whether  she  had  not  feared 
to  risk  the  safety  of  her  generous  friend  ?  She  re- 
plied, "  That  thought  did  strike  me — ^but  what  would 
you  have  ? — ^I  cast  it  from  me.  I  was  resolved  to 
have  my  brother's  pardon — ^I  would  have  sacrificed 
my  own  life  to  obtain  it — and,  God  forgive  me,  1 
thought  little  of  what  it  might  cost  another.** 

This  plan  was  soon  arranged,  and  at  the  time  ap- 
pointed my  resolute  heroine  drove  up  to  the  palace 
in  a  splendid  equipage,  preceded  by  a  running 
footman,  with  three  laced  laquais  in  full  dresa 
mounted    behind.      She  was  announced    as  the 

Countess  Elise y  who  supplicated  a  pariir- 

alar  audience  of  his  mi^jesty.  The  doors  flew 
dpen  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  in  the  presence 


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LITER AVURB,  AND   CHARACTBIU  16? 

^  the  emperor,  who  advanced  one'or  two  steps  to 
meet  her,  with  an  air  of  gallantry,  but  suddenly 
started  back 

Here  I  could  not  help  asking  her,  whether  in 
that  moment  she  did  not  feel  her  heart  sink  ? 

"  No,"  said  she  firmly ;  "  on  the  contrary,  I  felt 
my  heart  beat  quicker  and  higher  1 — ^I  sprang  for- 
ward and  knelt  at  his  feet,  exclaiming,  with  clasped 
hands — *  Pardon,  imperial  majesty  I — Pardon  1  * " 
"  Who  are  you  ?  "  said  the  emperor,  astonished  ; 
**  and  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?**  He  spoke  gently, 
more  gently  than  any  of  his  ministers,  and  over- 
come, even  by  my  ovm  hopes,  I  burst  into  a  flood 
of  tears,  and  said — *'  May  it  please  your  imperial 

majesty,  I  am  not  Ck>untess  Elise ,  I  am 

only  the  sister  of  the  unfortunate  Henri  Ambos, 
who  has  been  condemned  on  false  accusation.  O 
pardon ! — pardon  I  Here  are  the  papers — the 
proofs.  O  imperial  majesty  I — pardon  my  pooi 
brother !  '*  I  held  out  the  petition  and  the  papers, 
and  at  the  same  time,  prostrate  on  my  knees,  ] 
seized  the  skirt  of  his  embroidered  coat,  and  pret* 
sed  it  to  my  lips.  The  emperor  said,  **Rise  - 
rise ! "  but  I  would  not  rise ;  I  still  held  out  my 
papers,  resolved  not  to  rise  till  he  had  taken  them 
At  last  the  emperor,  who  seemed  much  moved,  ex- 
tended one  hand  towards  me,  and  took  the  papers 
with  the  other,  saying — "  Rise,  mademoiselle — ^1 
e(»mnand  you  to  rise.**  I  ventured  to  kiss  his  hand. 
Mid  said,  with  tears,  "  I  pray  of  ^our  majesty  to 
load  that  paper."    He  said,  "  J  vnll  read  it"    I 


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66  SKETCHES    \>¥  ART, 

then  rose  from  the  ground,  and  stood  watching  him 
while  he  unfolded  the  petition  and  read  it  Hi* 
countenance  changed,  and  he  exclaimed  once  or 
twice,  "  Is  it  possible  ? — This  is  dreadful  I "  When 
he  had  finished,  he  folded  the  paper,  and  without 
any  observation,  said  at  once — **  Mademoiselle 
Ambos,  your  brother  is  pardoned."  The  words 
rung  in  my  ears,  and  I  again  flung  myself  at  hia 
feet,  saying — and  yet  I  scarce  know  what  I  said — 
"  Your  imperial  majesty  is  a  god  upon  earth ;  do 
you  indeed  pardon  my  brother?  Your  ministers 
would  never  suffer  me  to  approach  you ;  and  even 

yet  I  fear 1"    He  said,  "Fear  nothii^j,:  you 

have  my  promise."  He  then  raised  me  from  the 
ground,  and  conducted  me  himself  to  the  door.  1 
tried  to  thank  and  bless  him,  but  could  not ;  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  me  to  kiss,  and  then  bowed  hia 
bead  as  I  lefl  the  room.  "  Ach  ja !  the  emperor  is 
a  good  man,— ein  schoner,  feiner,  Mann!  but  he 
does  not  know  how  cruel  his  ministers  are,  and  all 
the  evil  they  do,  and  all  the  justice  they  refuse,  in 
his  name ! " 

I  have  given  you  this  scene  as  nearly  as  possible 
i  %  her  own  words.  She  not  only  related  it,  but 
ahnost  acted  it  over  again ;  she  imitated  alternately, 
her  own  and  the  emperor^s  voice  and  manner ;  and 
such  was  the  vivacity'  of  her  description  that  1 
teemed  to  hear  and  behold  both,  and  was  more  pro- 
foundly moved  than  by  any  scenic  representation 
?«in  remember. 

On  her  return  she  received  the  congratulation 


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IITEBATUBB,  AND   GH.UtACTER.  167 

•f  ;ier  benefactress,  the  Countess  Elise,  and  of  her 
good  friend  the  pastor,  but  both  advised  her  to  keep 
her  audience  and  the  emperor's  promise  a  profound 
secret.  She  was  the  more  inclined  to  this;  be- 
cause, after  the  first  burst  of  joyous  emotion,  her 
spirits  sank.  Re<K>llecting  the  pains  that  had  been 
taken  to  shut  her  from  the  emperor's  presence,  she 
feared  some  unforeseen  obstacle,  or  even  some 
knavery  on  the  part  of  the  officers  of  government 
She  described  her  sufferings  during  the  next  few 
days,  as  fearful;  her  agitation,  her  previous  far 
tigues,  and  the  terrible  suspense,  apparently  threw 
her  into  a  fever,  or  acted  on  her  excited  nerves  so 
as  to  produce  a  species  of  delirium,  though,  of 
course,  she  would  not  admit  this.  After  assuring 
me  very  gravely  that  she  did  not  believe  in  ghosts., 
she  told  me  that  one  night,  after  her  interview  with 
the  emperor,  she  was  reading  in  bed,  being  unable 
to  sleep ;  and  on  raising  her  eyes  from  her  book 
she  saw  the  figure  of  her  brother,  standing  at 
the  other  end  of  the  room ;  she  exclaimed,  "  My 
Grod,  Henri  I  is  that  you ! "  but  without  making 
any  reply,  the  form  approached  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  bed,  keeping  its  melancholy  eyes  fixed  on 
hers,  till  it  came  quite  close  to  the  bedside,  and 
laid  a  cold  heavy  hand  upon  her. 

MsDON.  The  night-mare,  evidently. 

AuoA.  Without  doubt;  hut  her  own  impression 
^as  as  of  a  reality.  The  figure,  after  looking  al 
ner  sadly  for  some  minutes,  during  which  she  had 
00  power  either  to  move  or  speak,  turned  away ; 


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^C8  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

ihe  then  made  a  desperate  effort  to  call  out  to  the 
daughter  of  her  hostess,  who  slept  in  the  next  room 
— <«  Luise !  Luise !  **  Luise  ran  in  to  her.  *^  Do 
yon  not  see  my  brother  standing  there  ?  "  she  ex- 
claimed with  horror,  and  pointing  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  whither  the  image,  conjured  up  by 
her  excited  fancy  and  fevered  nerves,  appeared  to 
have  receded.  The  frightened,  staring  Luise,  an- 
swered, "  Yes.**  "  You  see,**  said  she,  appealing  to 
me — "  that  though  I  might  be  cheated  by  my  own 
senses,  I  could  not  doubt  those  of  another.  I 
thought  to  myself,  then^  my  poor  Henri  is  dead,  and 
Crod  has  permitted  him  to  visit  me.  This  idea  pur- 
sued me  all  that  night,  and  the  next  day ;  but  on 
the  following  day,  which  was  Monday,  just  five 
days  afler  I  had  seen  the  Emperor,  a  laquais^  in 
the  imperial  livery,  came  to  my  lodging,  and  put 
into  my  hands  a  packet,  with  the  *'  Emperor^s  com- 
pliments to  Mademoiselle  Ambos.**  It  was  the  par- 
don for  my  brother,  with  the  Emperor's  seal  and 
ttjgnature :  then  I  forgot  every  thing  but  joy  1  ** 

Those  mean,  official  animal?,  who  had  before 
spumed  her,  now  pressed  upon  her  with  offers  of 
service,  and  even  the  Minister  C offered  to  ex- 
pedite the  pardon  himself  to  Siberia,  in  order  to  save 
her  trouble ;  but  she  would  not  suffer  the  precious 
paper  out  of  her  hands :  she  determined  to  carry 
\i  herself—- to  be  herself  the  bearer  of  glad  tidings : 
—she  had  resolved  that  none  but  herself  should 
take  off  those  fetters,  the  very  description  of  whick 
Qad  entered  her  soul ;  so,  having  made  her  arrange 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  169 

veits  as  quickly  as  possible,  she  set  off  for  Moscow, 
where  she  arrived  in  three  days.  According  to  her 
description,  the  town  in  Siberia,  to  the  governor  oi 
which  she  carried  an  official  recommendation,  was 
nine  thousand  versts  beyond  Moscow;  and  the 
fortress  to  which  the  wretched  malefactors  were 
exiled  was  at  a  great  distance  beyond  that  I 
could  not  well  make  out  the  situation  of  either, 
and,  unluckily,  I  had  no  map  with  me  but  a  road 
map  of  Germany,  and  it  was  evident  that  my  hero- 
ine was  no  geographer.  She  told  me  that,  after 
leaving  Moscow,  she  travelled  post  seven  days  and 
seven  nights,  only  sleeping  in  the  carriage.  She 
then  reposed  for  two  days,  and  then  posted  on  for 
another  seven  days  and  nights. 

Medon.  Alone? 

Alda.  Alone !  and  wholly  unprotected,  except 
by  her  own  innocence  imd  energy,  and  a  few  lines 
oi  recommendation,  which  had  been  ^ven  to  her 
at  St,  Petersburg.  The  roads  were  every  where 
excellent,  the  post-houses  at  regular  distances,  the 
travelling  rapid ;  but  oflen,  for  hundreds  of  miles, 
there  were  no  accommodations  of  any  kind — scarce 
a  human  habitation.  She  even  suffered  from  hun- 
ger, not  being  prepared  to  travel  for  so  many  hours 
together  without  meeting  with  any  food  she  could 
touch  without  disgust  She  described,  with  great 
truth  and  eloquence,  her  own  sensations  as  she  was 
whirled  rapidly  over  those  wide,  silent,  solitary,  and 
apparently  endless  plains.  "  Sometimes,**  said  she, 
•*  my  head  seemed  to  turn — I  could  not  believe  fhM 


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170  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

It  was  a  waking  reality — I  could  not  believe  that  it 
was  myself.  Alone,  in  a  strange  land, — so  many 
hundred  leagues  from  my  own  home,  and  driven 
l^long  as  if  through  the  sdr,  with  a  rapidity  so  di^ 
ferent  from  any  thing  I  had  been  used  to,  that  it 
almost  took  away  my  breath.** 

"  Did  you  ever  feel  fear  ?    I  asked. 

"  Ach  ja !  when  I  waked  sometimes  in  the  car- 
riage, in  the  middle  of  the  night,  wondering  at  my- 
self, and  unable  immediately  to  collect  my  thoughts. 
Never  at  any  other  time.** 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  met  with  insult  ?  She 
said  she  had  twice  met  with  "  wicked  men ;  **  but 
she  had  felt  no  alarm — she  knew  how  to  protect 
herself:  and  as  she  said  this,  her  countenance  as- 
sumed an  expression  which  showed  that  it  was  not 
a  mere  boast  Altogether,  she  described  her  jour- 
ney as  being  grausam^  (horrible,)  in  the  highest 
degree,  and,  indeed,  even  the  recollection  of  it 
made  her  shudder ;  but  at  the  time  there  was  the 
anticipation  of  an  unspeakable  happiness,  which 
made  all  fatigues  light,  and  all  dangers  indifferent 

At  length,  in  the  beginning  of  August,  she  ar- 
rived at  the  end  of  her  journey,  and  was  courteously 
received  by  the  commandant  of  the  fortress.  She 
presented  the  pardon  with  a  hand  which  trembled 
with  impatience  and  joy,  too  great  to  be  restrained, 
aim  )st  to  be  borne.  The  officer  looked  very  grave, 
and  took,  she  thought,  a  long  time  to  read  th^ 
paper,  which  consisted  only  of  six  or  eight  Unes. 
At  last  he  stammered  out,  "  I  am  sorry — ^but  tlif 


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LITERATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  171 

Henri  Ambos  mentioned  in  this  pa[«r — is  dead  / ' 
Poor  girl !  she  fell  to  the  earth. 

When  she  reached  this  part  of  her  story  she. 
burst  into  a  fresh  flood  of  tears,  wrun^  her  hands, 
and  for  some  time  could  utter  nothing  but  pas^on- 
ate  exclamations  of  grief.  *SVch !  liebe  Gott!  was 
fur  ein  schrecklich  shichsal  war  das  meine  I " 
^  What  a  horrible  fate  was  mine !  I  had  come  thus 
far  to  find — not  my  brother — nur  ein  grab  !  **  (only 
a  grave !)  she  repeated  several  times,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  despair.  The  unfortunate  man  had  died  a 
year  before.  The  fetters  in  which  he  worked  had 
caused  an  ulcer  in  his  leg,  which  he  neglected,  and, 
after  some  weeks  of  horrid  sufiering,  death  released 
him.  The  task-work,  for  nearly  five  years,  of  this 
accomplished,  and  even  learned  man,  in  the  prime 
of  his  life  and  mental  powers,  had  been  to  break 
stones  upon  the  road,  chained  hand  and  foot,  and 
confounded  with  the  lowest  malefactors. 

In  giving  you  thus  conscientiously,  the  mere  out- 
line of  this  story,  I  have  spared  you  all  comments. 
[  see,  by  those  indignant  strides  majestical,  that  you 
are  making  comments  to  yourself;  but  sit  down 
and  be  quiet,  if  you  can :  I  have  not  much  more  to 
ieU! 

Sbo  found,  on  inquiry,  that  some  papera  and  let* 
ters,  which  her  unhappy  brother  had  drawn  up  by 
stealth,  in  the  hope  of  being  able  at  some  time  to 
convey  them  to  his  friends,  were  in  the  possession 
of  one  of  the  officers  whe  readily  gave  them  up  to 
der ;  and  with   these  she  returned,  half  brokeu- 


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178  SKBTCHJES  OF  ABT, 

hearted,  to  St  Petersburg.  If  her  former  joumef, 
when  hope  cheered  her  on  the  way,  had  been  so 
fearful,  what  must  have  been  her  return?  I  was 
not  surprised  to  hear  that,  on  her  arrival,  she  was 
seized  with  a  dangerous  illness,  and  was  for  manj 
weeks  confined  to  her  bed. 

Ser  story  excited  much  commiseration,  and  a 
very  general  interest  and  curiosity  was  excited 
about  herself.  She  told  me  that  a  great  many  per- 
sons of  rank  invited  her  to  their  houses,  and  made 
her  rich  presents,  among  which  were  the  splendid 
shawls  and  the  ring,  which  had  caught  my  atten- 
tion, and  excited  my  surprise,  in  the  first  instance 
The  Emperor  expressed  a  wish  to  see  her,  and  very 
graciously  spoke  a  few  words  of  condolence.  "  But 
they  could  not  bring  my  brother  back  to  life!** 
said  she,  expressively.  He  even  presented  her  to 
the  Empress.  <*And  what,"  I  asked,  *'  did  the  Em- 
press say  to  you  ?  "  "  Nothing ;  but  she  looked 
9o  "—drawing  herself  up. 

On  receiving  her  brother's  pardon  from  the  Em- 
peror, she  had  written  home  to  her  family;  but 
•he  confessed  that  since  that  time  she  had  not 
written,  she  had  not  courage  to  inflict  a  blow  which 
might  possibly  affect  her  mother's  life ;  and  yet  the 
idea  of  being  obliged  to  tell  what  she  dared  not 
write,  seemed  to  strike  her  with  terror. 

But  the  strangest  event  of  this  strange  story  re- 
mains to  be  told  \  and  I  will  try  to  give  it  in  hei 
pwn  simple  words. 

She  left  Petersburg  in  October,  and  proceedea 


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LITER ATURB,  AND   CHARACTER.  i7S 

Id  Biga,  where  those  who  had  knowu  her  brother 
received  her  with  interest  and  kindness,  and  sym- 
pathized in  her  affliction.  **  But,"  said  she,  ^  there 
was  one  thing  I  had  resolved  to  do  which'  yet 
remained  undone.  I  was  resolved  to  see  the 
woman  who  had  been  the  original  cause  of  all  my 
poor  brother's  misfortunes.  I  thought  if  once  I 
could  say  to  her,  *  Your  &lsehood  has  done  this  t' 
I  should  be  satisfied ;  but  my  brother's  friends  dis- 
suaded me  from  this  idea.  They  said  it  was  better 
not ;  that  it  could  do  my  poor  Henri  no  good ;  that 
it  was  wrong ;  that  it  was  unchristian ;  and  I  sub- 
mitted. I  lefl  Riga  with  a  voituirer.  I  had  reached 
Pojer,  on  the  Prussian  frontiers,  and  there  I 
stopped  at  the  Douane,  to  have  my  packages 
searched.  The  chief  officer  looked  at  the  address 
on  my  trunk,  and  exclaimed,  with  surprise, '  Made- 
moiselle AmbosI  Are  you  any  relation  of  the 
Professor  Henri  Ambos?'  'I  am  his  sister.' 
*Good  God  I  I  was  the  intimate  fiiend  of  your 
brother!  What  has  become  of  him?'  I  then 
told  him  all  I  hav^  now  told  you,  liebe  madamel 
— ^and  when  I  came  to  an  end,  this  good  man  buret 
into  tears,  and  for  some  time  we  wept  tc^ether. 
The  kutscher,  (driver,)  who  was  standing  by, 
heard  all  this  conversation,  and  when  I  turned 
round,  he  was  crying  toa  My  brother's  friend 
pressed  on  me  offers  of  service  and  hospitality, 
bat  I  could  not  delay ;  for,  besides  that  my  impa- 
tience to  reach  home  increased  every  hour,  I  had 
lot  much  money  in  my  purse.    Of  thiee  thousand 


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74  SKETCHES   OF  AMI, 

dollars,  which  I  had  taken  with  me  to  St.  IV.te» 
burg,  very  little  remained,  so  I  bade  him  fai^well, 
and  I  proceeded.  At  the  next  town,  where  my 
kiitscher  stopped  to  feed  his  horses,  he  came  to  the 
door  of  my  caliche,  and  said,  *You  have  just 
missed  seeing  the  Jew  lady,  whom  your  brother 
was  in  love  with ;  that  caliche  which  passed  us  by 
just  now,   and    changed    horses  here,  cont£uned 

Mademoiselle  S ,  her  sister,  and  her  sister's 

husband  I '  Good  God  1  imagine  my  surprise  I  1 
could  not  believe  my  fortune:  it  seemed  that 
Providence  had  delivered  her  into  my  hands,  and 
I  was  resolved  that  she  should  not  escape  me.  ] 
knew  they  would  be  delayed  at  the  custom-house. 
I  ordered  the  man  to  turn,  and  drive  back  as  fast 
as  possible,  promising  him  a  reward  of  a  dollar,  if 
he  overtook  them.  On  reaching  the  custom-house, 
I  saw  a  caliche  standing  at  a  little  distance.  I 
felt  myself  tremble,  and  my  heart  beat  so,  but  not 
with  fear.  I  went  up  to  the  caliche — two  ladies 
were  sitting  in  it.  I  addressed  the  one  who  was 
the  most  beautiful,  and  said,  /Are  you  Mademoi- 
selle Emilie  S  ?*  I  suppose  I  must  have 
looked  very  strange,  and  wild,  and  resolute,  for 
she  replied,  with  a  frightened  manner,  *  I  am ;  who 
are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  with  me  ? '  I  said, 
*  I  am  the  sister  of  Henri  Ambos,  whom  you  mur- 
dered 1 '  She  shrieked  out ;  the  men  came  running 
from  the  house ;  but  I  held  fast  the  carriage-door, 
I  am  not  come  to  hurt  you,  but  you  are  the  mur- 
deress  of  my  brother,  Henri  Ambos.     He  love^ 


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LITERATURE,   AND  CUARAOTER.  1  7A 

fou,  and  }  our  falsehood  has  killed  him.  May  God 
puuish  you  for  it  1  May  his  ghost  pursue  you  to 
the  end  of  your  life ! '  I  remember  no  more.  ] 
was  like  one  mad.  I  have  just  a  recoUection  of 
her  ghastly,  terrified  look,  and  her  eyes  wide  open, 
staring  at  me.  I  fell  into  fits ;  and  they  carried 
me  into  the  house  of  my  brother's  friend,  and  laid 
me  on  a  bed.  When  I  recovered  my  senses,  the 
cal^he  and  all  were  gone.  When  I  reached 
Berlin,  all  this  appeared  to  me  so  miraculous, — so 
like  a  dream — ^I  could  not  trust  to  my  own  recol- 
lection, and  I  wrote  to  the  officer  of  Customs,  to 
beg  he  would  attest  that  it  was  really  true,  and 
what  I  had  said  when  I  was  out  of  my  senses,  and 
what  she  had  said ;  and  at  Leipsic  I  received  his 
letter,  which  I  will  show  you."  And  at  Mayence 
she  showed  me  this  letter,  and  a  number  of  other 
documents;  her  brother's  pardon,  with  the  em- 
peror's signature;  a  letter  of  the  Countess  Elise 

;  a  most  touching  letter  from  her  unfortunate 

brother ;  (over  this  she  wept  much ;)  and  a  va- 
riety of  other  papers,  all  proving  the  truth  of  her 
story,  even  to  the  minutest  particulars.  The  next 
morning  we  were  to  part.  I  was  going  down  the 
Rhine,  and  she  was  to  proceed  to  Deuxponts, 
which  she  expected  to  reach  in  two  days.  As  she 
had  travelled  from  Berlin  almost  without  rest,  ex- 
cept the  night  we  had  spent  at  Frankfort,  she  ap- 
peared to  me  ready  to  sink  with  fatigue ;  but  she 
would  not  bid  me  farewell  that  night,  although  1 
told  her  I  should  be  obliged  to  set  off  at  nix  the 


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179  SKETCHES   OF   ART,   ET(!. 

next  morning ;  but  kissing  my  hand,  with  man) 
expressions  of  gratitude,  she  said  she  would  he 
awake  and  visit  mc  in  my  room  to  bid  me  a  last 
adieu.  As  there  was  only  a  very  narrow  passage 
between  the  two  rooms,  she  left  her  door  a  little 
open  that  she  might  hear  me  rise.  However,  on 
the  following  morning  she  did  not  appear.  When 
dressed,  I  went  on  tiptoe  into  her  room,  and  found 
her  lying  in  a  deep,  calm  sleep,  her  arm  over  her 
head.  I  looked  at  her  for  some  minutes,  and 
thought  I  had  never  seen  a  finer  creature.  I  then 
turned,  with  a  whispered  blessing  and  adieu,  and 
went  on  my  way. 

This  is  all  I  can  tell  you.  If  at  the  time  I  had 
not  been  travelling  against  time,  and  with  a  mind 
most  fully  and  painfully  occupied,  I  believe  ] 
should  have  been  tempted  to  accompany  my 
heroine  to  Deuxponts; — at  least,  I  should  have 
retained  her  narrative  more  accurately.  Not 
having  made  any  memoranda  till  many  days  after- 
wards, all  the  names  have  escaped  my  recollec- 
tion ;  but  if  you  have  any  doubts  of  the  general 
truth  of  this  story,  I  will  at  least  give  you  the 
means  of  verif^dng  it  Here  is  her  name,  in  hei 
own  handwriting,  on  one  of  the  leaves  of  my 
oocket-book — ^you  can  read  the  German  character 


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SKETCHES  OF  ART,  LITERATURE, 
ANT)  CHARACTER. 


PART  IL 


VKMOEANDA  AT  MUNICH,    NUBKMBURQ|  AM9 
DBBSDBN. 


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SKExCHES   OF   ART,  LITERATUB*, 
AND  CHARACTER. 


1 

MElfOBANDA    AT  MUNICH. 

Sept.  28. — A  week  at  Munich  t  and  nothing 
done!  nothing  seen  I  My  first  excursions  I  made  to 
day — from  my  bed  to  the  sofa — ^from  the  sofa  to  the 
window.  Every  one  told  me  to  be  prepared  against 
the  caprices  of  the  climate,  but  I  did  not  imagine 
that  it  would  take  a  week  or  a  fortnight  to  be  oe- 
climaUe, 

What  could  induce  the  princes  of  Bararia  to 
plant  their  capital  in  the  midst  of  these  wide, 
marshy,  bleak,  barren  plains,  and  upon  this  rough 
unmanageable  torrent, — ^**  the  Isar  rolling  rapidly," 
— when  they  might  have  seated  themselves  by  the 
majestic  Danube  ?  The  Tyrolean  Alps  stretching 
south  and  west,  either  form  a  barrier  against  the 
most  genial  airs  of  heaven,  or  if  a  stray  zephyr 
find  his  way  from  Italy,  his  poor  little  wings  are 
frozen  to  his  back  among  the  mountain  snows,  and 
he  drops  shivering  among  us,  wrapt  in  a  misty 
cloud.    I  never  saw  such  fogs :  they  are  as  dense 


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180  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

and  as  white  as  a  fleece,  and  look  and  feel  too,  like 
rarefied  snow; — but  as  no  one  else  compljuns,  I 
think  it  must  be  indisposition  which  makes  me  so 
peevish  and  so  chilly.  Sitting  at  the  window  being 
my  best  amusement,  I  do  not  like  to  find  the  only 
objects  which  are  to  give  me  a  foretaste  of  the 
iplendor  of  Munich,  quite  veiled  from  sight  and 
ihrouded  in  mist,  even  for  a  few  morning  hours. 

I  am  lodged  in  the  Max-Joseph's-Platz,  oppo- 
nte  to  the  theatre :  a  situation  at  once  airy,  quiet, 
and  cheerfuL 

The  theatre  is  in  itself  a  beautiful  object ;  the 
portico,  of  the  Corinthian  order,  is  supported  by 
eight  pillars ;  the  ascent  is  by  a  noble  flight  of  steps, 
with  four  gigantic  bronze  candelabras  at  the  cor- 
ners ;  and  nothing,  at  least  to  my  unlearned  eyes, 
could  be  more  elegant — more  purely  classical  and 
Greek,  than  the  whole,  were  it  not  for  the  hideous 
roof  upon  the  roof,— one  pediment,  as  it  were,  rid- 
ing on  the  back  of  the  other.  Some  internal  ar- 
rangement of  the  theatre  may  render  this  deformity 
necessary,  but  it  is  a  deformity,  and  one  that  an* 
noys  me  whenever  I  look  at  it. 

On  the  right,  I  have  the  new  palace,  which  formf 
one  side  of  the  square :  a  long  range  of  plain,  almost 
rustic,  architecture ;  altogether  a  striking,  bui  rather 
ft  pleasing  contrast,  to  the  luxuriant  grace  of  the 
theatre.  Just  now,  when  I  looked  out,  what  a 
beautiful  scene  1  The  full  moon  rising  over  the 
theatre,  lights  up  half  ^he  white  columns,  and  half 
ftre  lost  in  shade.   The  performances  are  just  over 


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LITERATVRK,  AND  CHARACTER.  181 

(half-past  nine !)  cit>wds  of  people  emei*ging  from 
the  portico  into  the  brilliant  moonshine,  (many  of 
them  military,  in  glittering  accoutrements,)  de- 
scend the  steps,  and  spread  themselves  through  tihe 
square,  angle,  or  in  various  groups ;  carriages  are 
drawing  up  and  drawing  off, — and  all  this  gay  con^ 
fusion  is  without  the  least  noise  or  tumult.  Except 
the  occasional  low  roll  of  the  carriage-wheels  over 
the  well-gravelled  road,  I  hear  no  sound,  though 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  spot  It  looks  like  scmie 
lovely  optical  or  scenic  illusion ;  a  moving  picture, 
magnified. 

Oct.  4. — To  my  great  consternation — summoned 
in  form  before  the  police,  and  condemned  to  pay  a 
fine  of  ten  florins  for  having  omitted  to  fill  up 
specifically  a  certain  paper  which  had  been  placed 
in  my  bands  on  my  arrival.  In  the  first  place,  I 
did  not  understand  it ;  secondly,  I  never  tbcight 
about  it ;  and  thirdly,  I  had  been  too  ill  to  attend 
to  it  I  made  a  show  of  resistance,  but  it  was  all 
in  vain,  of  course ; — ^my  permission  to  reside  here 
is  limited  to  six  weeks,  but  may  be  renewed. 

Last  night  I  was  induced,  but  only  upon  great 
persuaaon,  to  venture  over  to  the  theatre.  I  had 
been  tantalized  so  long  by  looking  at  the  exterior  I 
Then  it  was  a  pleasant  evening — ^broad  daylight ; 
and  the  whole  theatre  being  heated  by  stoves  to 
■n  even  regulated  warmth  according  to  the  season, 
I  was  assured  that  once  within  the  doors  there 
waaA  be  no  danger  of  fresh  indisposition  firon 
draughts  or  cold. 


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182  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

Entering  the  box,  my  first  glance  was  of  oouhm 
%t  the  stage.  The  drop-scene,  or  curtain,  a  well 
painted  copy  of  Guido's  Aurora,  pleased  me  infi* 
nitely  more  than  the  beautiful  drop-curtain  atMan- 
heim :  ihcU  was  very  elegant,  but  this  is  more  than 
elegant.  It  harmonized  with  the  place,  and  in  my 
own  mind  it  touched  certain  chords  of  association, 
which  had  long  been  silent.  It  was  as  if  the 
nrchestre  had  suddenly  welcomed  me  with  some 
delicious,  often-heard,  and  well-remembered  piece 
of  music :  the  effect  upon  the  senses  was  similar — 
nor  can  I  describe  it ; — but,  surprised  and  charmed, 
I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  for  some  minutes  upon  the 
picture :  the  light  being  thrown  full  upon  it,  while 
the  rest  of  the  theatre  was  comparatively  in  deep 
shade,  like  all  the  foreign  theatres,  rendered  it 
more  effective.  The  rest  of  the  decorations  cor- 
responded in  splendor;  the  two  colossal  muses, 
as  Caryatides  supporting  the  king's  state  box,  the 
aoble  columns  of  white  and  gold,  and  the  Carya- 
tides on  each  side  of  the  proscenium,  were  all  in 
fine  taste.  The  size  and  proportions  of  the  interior 
seemed  most  happily  calculated  for  seeing  and 
hearing.  On  the  whole,  I  never  beheld  a  theatre 
which  so  entirely  satisfied  me — no  one  more  easily 
pleased,  and  no  one  less  easily  satisfied  I 

When  I  looked  down  on  th's  parterre,  I  beheld 
A  motley  assemblage  in  various  costumes:  there 
were  a  great  number  of  the  military ;  there  were 
ihe  well-dressed  daughters  of  people  of  some  con- 
iition,  in  the  French  fashion  of  two  or  three  yeaiY 


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LITER ATUBB  AND  CHARACTEK  189 

oack ;  there  were  girls  in  the  T}'roleaii  codtume, 
with  their  scarlet  boddices  and  silver  chains ;  and 
the  women  of  Munich,  with  their  odd  little  two- 
homed  caps  of  rich  gold  or  silver  brocade,— form* 
ing  altogether  a  singular  spectacle.  As  for  the 
scenery,  it  was  very  well,  but  would  bear  no  com- 
parison to  Stanfield's  glorious  illusions. 

The  inducement  held  out  to  me  to-night  was  to 
tee  Ferdinand  Eslair  play  the  Duke  of  Alva  in 
^  Egmont"  Eslidr,  formerly  one  of  the  first  actors 
at  Afanheim,  when  Manheim  boasted  the  first 
theatre  in  Germany,  is  esteemed  the  finest  trage- 
dian here,  and  the  Duke  of  Alva  is  one  of  his  best 
characters.  It  appeared  to  me  a  superb  piece  of 
acting;  so  quietly  stem,  so  fearfully  hard  and  com- 
posed :  it  was  a  fine  conception  cast  in  bronze : — 
m  this  consisted  its  beauty  and  truth  as  a  whole. 
Some  of  his  sUerU  passages,  and  his  by-play,  were 
admirable.  He  gave  us,  in  tiie  scene  with  Egmont, 
an  exact  living  transcript  of  l^tian's  famous  picture 
of  the  Duke  of  Alva ;  the  dress,  the  attitude,  the 
poation  of  the  heknet  and  the  glove  on  the  table 
beside  Mm,  every  thing  was  so  well  calculated,  at 
once  so  unobtrusive  and  so  unexpected,  that  it 
was  like  a  recognition.  Egmont  was  well  played 
by  Racke,  but  did  not  strike  me  so  much.  Madem- 
oiselle Scholler,  who  plays  the  young  heroines 
here,  is  a  pupil  of  Madame  Schroder,  (the  German 
Siddc^s,)  and  promises  well ;  but  she  wants  de- 
velopment; she  wants  the  power,  the  passion,  the 
^odemcss,  the  energy  of  Clarchen.    Cliirchen  it 


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184  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

R  plebeian  girl,  but  an  impassioned  and  devoted 
woman — she  is  a  sort  of  Flemish  Juliet.  There  ia 
the  same  truth  of  nature  and  passion,  the  same  im- 
press of  intense  and  luxuriant  life — but  then  it 
is  a  different  life — ^it  is  a  Rubens  compared  to  a 
Titian — and  such  Clarchen  ought  to  be.  Not» 
to  give  all  the  internal  power  and  poetry,  yet 
preserve  all  the  external  simplicity  and  home- 
liness of  the  character, — ^to  give  all  the  abandon^ 
yet  preserve  all  the  delicacy, — to  give  the  del- 
icacy, yet  keep  clear  of  all  super-refinement,  and 
in  the  concentrated  despair  of  her  last  scene 
(where  she  poisons  herself)  to  be  calm  without 
being  cold,  and  profoundly  tragic  without  the 
usual  tragedy  airs,  must  be  difficult — exceedingly 
difficult ;  in  short,  to  play  Clarchen,  as  I  conceive 
the  character  ought  to  be  played,  would  require  a 
young  actress,  uniting  sufficient  genius  to  conceive 
it  aright,  with  sufficient  delicacy  and  judgment 
not  to  color  it  too  highly:  there  was  no  danger 
of  the  latter  mistake  with  Mademoiselle  Scholler, 
in  whose  hands  Clarchen  became  a  mere  pretty 
affectionate  girl.  In  that  lovely  scene  with  Eg- 
mont  in  the  third  act,  which  might  be  contrasted 
with  Juliet's  balcony  scene,  as  a  test  of  the  powers 
flf  a  young  actress,  Mademoiselle  Scholler  was 
tunid  even  to  feebleness ;  the  change  of  manner, 
when  Clarchen  substitutes  the  tender  familiarity 
of  the  second  person  singular  (Du)  for  the  tone 
of  respect  in  which  she  before  addressed  hei 
lover,  should  have  been  felt  and  marked,  so  as  u 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACIBR.  160 

bare  been  felt  and  remarked :  but  this  was  lot  the 
ease.    In  short,  1  was  disappointed  by  this  scene. 

The  Flemish  ccstumes  were  correct  and  beauti- 
ful. The  Prince  of  Orange,  in  particular,  lo(4ced 
as  if  he  had  just  walked  out  of  one  of  Vandyke*! 
pictures. 

After  seeing  this  fine  tragedy — surely  enough  fyt 
one  evening's  amusement — ^I  was  at  home  and  in 
bed  by  half-past  ten.  They  manage  these  thingii 
better  here  than  in  England. 

Friday. — Dinner  at  the  French  ambassador's  ^ve 
(/clock.  I  mark  this,  because  extraordinarily  late 
at  Munich.  The  plebeian  dinner  hour  is  twelve, 
or  earlier;  the  general  hour,  one:  the  genteel 
hour,  two ;  the  fashionable  hour,  three  ;  but  ^y^  is 
Buper-elegant — ^in  the  very  extreme  of  finery — ^like 
a  nine  o'clock  dinner  in  London.  There  were 
present  the  Princess  Schwartzenburg  and  her  sister 
the  Princess  Dietrichstein,  the  British  Secretary 
of  Legation,  a  young  Englishman,  Lord  H.  F.,  M. 
de  Klenze,  and  four  or  ^yq  other  gentlemen  with 
tftars  and  ribbons,  names  unknown.  The  Princess 
Schwartzenburg  is  a  famous  Austrian  beauty,  and 
on  any  other  occasion  I  might  have  been  sensible 
of  her  pretensions,  but  in  the  same  room  with 
Madame  de  Yaudreuil  this  was  scarcely  possible, 
10  entirely  did  the  greater  glory  dim  the  less.  But 
the  person  who  fixed  my  attention  was  Leo  von 
Rlenze,  the  celebrated  architect,  and  deservedly  a 
&vorite  of  the  king,  who  has,  I  joelieve,  bestowed 
9n  him  the  superfluous  honors  of  nobility.     Witli 


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](56  SKKTCHES  OF   ABT, 

tbe  Others,  I  had  no  sympathies — with  him  a  thoi^ 
land,  though  he  knew  it  not.  I  looked  at  him  with 
curiosity — with  interest  I  liked  hb  plain,  but 
marked  and  clever  countenance,  and  his  easy  man- 
ners. I  felt  an  unconscious  desire  to  De  agreeablej 
and  longed  to  make  him  talk ;  but  I  knew  that  thii 
was  not  the  place  or  the  moment  for  us  to  see  each 
other  to  the  greatest  advantage.  We  had,  how- 
ever, some  little  conversation — a  kind  of  beginning. 
He  told  me  at  dinner  that  the  Glyptothek  (the 
gallery  of  sculpture  here)  was  planned  and  built 
by  the  present  king,  when  only  prince  royal,  and 
the  expenses  liquidated  from  his  private  purse,  out 
of  his  yearly  savings.  He  spoke  with  modesty  oi 
himself— with  gratitude  and  admiration  of  the  king, 
of  whose  talent,  vivacity,  impatience,  and  enthu- 
siasm for  art  and  artists  I  had  already  heard  some 
characteristic  anecdotes. 

Afler  coffee,  part  of  the  company  dispersed  to 
the  opera,  or  elsewhere ;  others  remained  to  lounge 
and  converse.  After  the  opera,  we  reassembled 
with  additions,  and  then  tea,  and  cards,  and  talk, 
till  past  eleven.  Madame  de  Yaudreuil  receives 
almost  every  evening,  and  this  seems  to  be  the 
general  routine. 

Oct.  6. — They  are  now  celebratin^r  here  the 
VoUcsfe$t,  (literaUy  the  ^  peoples  feosi^)  or  annual 
fair  of  Munich,  and  this  has  been  a  grand  day  of 
festivity.  There  have  been  races,  a  military  re- 
riew,  &c.;  but,  except  the  race-horses  in  their 
tmbroidered  trappings,  which  were  led  past  my 


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UTEBATURB,  AND  CHARACTBB.  187 

window,  and  a  long  cavalcade  of  royal  caniagei 
and  crowds  of  people,  in  gay  and  grotesque  cot* 
lumes,  hurrying  by,  I  hare  seen  nothing,  being 
obliged  to  keep  my  room ;  so  I  listened  to  the  firing 
of  the  cannon,  and  the  shouts  of  the  populace,  and 
thought 

«  «  « 

OeL  8.— First  visit  to  the  Glyptothek— just  re- 
tnmed — my  imagination,  still  filled  with  ^the 
blaze,  the  splendor,  and  the  symmetry,"— excited 
as  I  never  thought  it  could  be  again  excited  after 
seeing  the  Vatican;  but  this  is  the  Vatican  in 
miniature.  Can  it  be  possible  that  this  glorious 
edifice  was  planned  by  a  young  prince,  and  erected 
out  of  his  yeariy  savings  ?  I  am  wonder-struck  1 
I  was  not  prepared  for  any  thing  so  spacious,  no 
magnificent,  so  perfect  in  taste  and  arrangement 

I  do  not  yet  know  the  exact  measurement  of  the 
building;  but  it  contains  twelve  galleries,  the  small- 
est about  fifty,  and  the  largest  about  one  hundred 
and  thirty  feet  in  length.  It  consists  of  a  square, 
built  round  an  open  central  court,  and  the  ap- 
proach is  by  a  noble  portico  of  twelve  Ionic 
columns,  raised  on  a  flight  of  steps.  As  it  stands 
in  an  open  space,  a  little  out  of  the  town,  with 
trees  planted  on  either  side,  the  effect  b  very  im 
posing  and  beautifiiL  There  are  no  exterior  win- 
dows,  they  all  open  into  the  central  court 

From  the  portico  we  enter  a  hall,  paved  with 
marble.  Over  the  principal  door  is  the  name  0/ 
lie  king,  and  the  date  of  the  erection     Two  sidi 


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188  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

doors  lead  to  tbe  galleries.  Over  the  door  on  the 
lefl  there  is  an  inscription  to  the  honor  of  Leo 
von  Klenzc,  the  architect  of  the  building.  Over 
the  door  on  the  right,  is  the  name  of  Peter  Cor- 
nelius, the  painter,  by  whom  ^he  frescos  were  de- 
■igned  and  chiefly  executed.  Thus  the  king,  with 
a  noble  magnanimity,  uniting  truth  and  justice,  has 
associated  in  his  glory  those  to  whom  he  chiefly 
owes  it — and  this  charmed  me.  It  is  in  much  finer 
feeling,  much  higher  taste,  than  those  eternal  (no, 
not  eternal!)  great  N's  of  that  imperial  egotist, 
Napoleon,  whose  vulgar  appetite  for  vulgar  fam-) 
would  allow  no  participation. 

I  walked  slowly  through  the  galleries  so  excited 
by  the  feeling  of  admiration,  that  I  could  mak^ 
no  minute  or  particular  observations.  The  floors 
are  all  paved  with  marbles  of  various  colors — ^the 
walls,  to  a  certain  height,  are  stuccoed  in  imitation 
of  gray  or  dark  green  marble,  so  as  to  throw  out 
the  sculpture,  and  give  it  the  full  eflect.  The 
utmost  luxury  of  ornament  has  been  lavished  on 
the  walls  and  ceilings,  some  in  painting,  some  in 
relief;  but  in  each,  the  subjects  and  ornaments  are 
appropriate  to  the  situation,  and  as  each  gallery 
has  been  originally  adapted  to  its  destination,  every 
where  the  effect  to  be  produced  has  been  judi- 
siously  studied.  The  light  is  not  too  great,  nor  too 
generally  diffused — ^it  is  poured  in  from  high  semi- 
circular windows  on  one  side  ocly,  so  as  to  throw 
ihe  sculpture  into  beautiful  relief  Two  lofty  and 
ipacious  halls  are  richly  painted  in  fresco,  whb 


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LITERATUBK,  AKD  GSAKAGTEB.  189 

lubjects  fhHn  the  Greek  mythology,  and  the  whole 
building  would  contain,  I  suppose,  six  times,  or  ten 
times,  the  number  of  works  <^  art  now  there ;  at 
the  same  time  all  are  so  arranged  that  there  ap* 
pears  no  obvious  deficiency.  The  collection  was 
begun  only  in  1808,  and  since  that  time  the  king 
has  contrived  to  make  some  invaluable  acquisitions. 
I  found  here  many  of  the  most  far-famed  relics  of 
ancioAt  urt,  many  that  I  had  already  seen  in  Italy; 
for  instance,  the  Egina  marbles,  the  Barberini 
Faun,  the  Barberini  Muse  or  Apollo,  the  Leu- 
cothoe,  the  Medusa  Bondanini,  above  all,  the 
Dioneus ;  but  I  cannot  now  dwell  on  these.  I  must 
go  again  and  again  before  I  can  methodize  my  im- 
pressions and  recollections. 

OcU  11. — Yesterday  and  to-day,  at  the  Glyp- 
tothek,  where  the  cushioned  seats,  though  rather 
more  classical  than  comfortable,  enabled  me  to 
lounge  away  the  time,  unwearied  in  body  as  in 
mind. 

The  arrangement  of  the  galleries  is  such  as  to 
form  not  only  a  splendid  exhibition  and  school  oi 
art,  but  a  regular  progressive  history  of  the  rise 
and  decline  of  sculpture.  Thus  we  step  from  the 
irestibule  into  the  Egyptian  gallery,  of  which  the 
principal  treasure  is  the  colossal  Antinous  of  Bosso- 
antico,  with  the  attributes  of  Oaris. 

I  admired  in  thb  room  the  exquisite  beauty  and 
propriety  of  the  basso-relievo  over  the  door,  do- 
ligned  and  modelled  by  Schwanthaler.  It  isd 
lourse  intended  to  be  symbolical  of  the  birth  of  ar 


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190  SKETCHES  OF  ART« 

Among  the  Egyptians.  lais  discovers  the  body  oi 
her  lost  husband  Odris,  concealed  in  a  sarcopha* 
gus :  she  strikes  it  with  the  mystic  wand,  and  he 
stands  revealed,  and  restored  to  her.  The  imita* 
tion  of  the  Egyptian  style  is  perfect 

From  the  Egyptian,  we  step  into  the  Etruscan 
gallery,  of  which  the  ceiling  is  psunted  in  the  mosl 
vivid  and  beautiful  colors.  The  third  room  con- 
tains the  famous  Egina  marbles,  which  I  had  seen 
at  Rome  when  Thorwaldson  was  engaged  in  re> 
storing  them.  To  appreciate  the  classical  beauty 
and  propriety  of  the  arrangement  of  these  singulai 
relics,  we  must  call  to  mind  their  history,  their  sub- 
ject, and  their  original  destination.  Thus  ^acus, 
the  first  king  of  the  Island  of  JBgina  was  the  son 
of  Jupiter,  or  rather  Zeus,  (for  the  Greek  designa- 
tions are  infinitely  more  elegant  and  expressive 
than  the  Koman.)  The  temple  was  dedicated  to 
Zeus,  and  the  groups  which  adorned  the  pediment* 
represented  the  history  of  the  two  branches  of  the 
^acidae,  descended  from  Telamon  and  Peleus, 
sons  of  -^acus.  On  two  long  tables  or  stands  of 
marble,  supported  by  griffins,  imitated  from  those 
which  originally  ornamented  the  temple,  are  ranged 
the  two  groups  of  figures :  neither  group  is  quite 
entire.  Of  that  which  represents  the  fight  of 
Telamon  and  Hercules  with  Laomedon,  King  of 
Troy,  there  are  only  five  figures  remaining ;  and 
%f  the  other  group,  the  conflict  for  the  body  of 
c*atroclus,  there  are  ten  figures.  Along  the  waUfl, 
$n  tables  of  marble,  are  ranged  a  variety  of  fi^ 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  )9) 

nents  from  the  same  temple,  which  must  have  been 
iplendidly  rich  in  sculpture,  within  and  withoat 
On  the  ceiling  of  this  room,  the  four  iEacids, 
iEacns,  Peleus,  Achilles,  and  Neoptolemus,  are 
represented  in  relief,  by  Schwanthaler.  There  is 
also  a  small  model  of  the  western  front  of  the 
temple  restored,  and  painted  as  it  is  proved  to  have 
been  originally;  (for  instance,  the  field  of  the 
T3rmpanum  was  of  a  sky  blue.)  This  model  is 
fixed  in  the  wall  opposite  to  the  window.  It  is 
extremely  curious  and  interesting,  but  I  thought 
not  well  placed  as  an  ornament* 

I  remember  asking  W ,  who  has  been  in 

every  part  of  the  world,  what  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful scene  he  had  ever  beheld,  taking  natural  beauty 
and  poetical  associations  together?  He  replied, 
afler  a  little  thought,  **  A  sunset  from  the  temple  of 
JBgina ; " — ^and  I  can  conceive  this.  Lord  Byron 
introduces  it  into  his  Grecian  Sunset — but  as  an 
obiect — 

**  On  old  £gina*8  steep  and  Idra*B  Isle, 
The  god  of  gladness  sheds  his  parting  smile.** 

From  the  iEgina  gallery  we  enter  the  Hall  ot 

*  The  entire  grouping  of  these  flgnres  is  from  the  design  of  Mr 
Robert  Cockerell,  one  of  the  original  discoTerers,  who  in  ascer* 
teining  their  relative  position  has  been  guided  in  some  measure 
by  the  situation  in  which  their  fragments  were  found  strewed  ia 
front  of  the  temple,  and  orerwhelmed  with  masses  of  the  frie«i 
and  pediment;  but  has  been  mueh  more  indebted  to  his  awq 
artist-like  feeling,  and  architectural  skill.  He  is  of  opinion  that 
the  western  pediment  oontained  several  other  figores  besides  ihe 
too  which  have  been  rMtored. 


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192  SKETCHES   OF  ABT, 

Apollo.  The  ceiling  of  this  room,  splendidly  deco- 
rated in  white  and  gold,  represents  the  emblems  oi 
the  four  principal  cities  of  Greece,  viz ;  the  Athe- 
nian owl,  the  winged-horse  of  Corinth,  the  Chimera 
of  Sicyon,  and  the  wolf  of  Argos. 

The  chief  glory  of  this  apartment  is  that  cele- 
brated colossal  statue,  once  known  as  the  Baibe- 
rini  muse,  now  considered  by  antiquarians  as  an 
Apollo,  and  supposed  to  be  the  work  of  Ageladas, 
the  master  of  Phidias.  It  is  certainly  older  than 
the  sculptures  of  the  Parthenon.  In  its  severe 
massy  grandeur,  there  is  something  of  the  heavi- 
ness and  formality  of  the  most  ancient  Greek 
school,  and  in  point  of  style  it  forms  a  link  betweea 
the  ^gina  marbles  and  the  Elgin  marbles.  It 
should  seem  that  the  eyes  of  this  statue  were  once 
represented  by  gems — ^the  orifices  remain,  sur^ 
rounded  by  a  ring  of  bronze. 

In  the  same  room  are  those  two  sublime  busts 
which  almost  take  away  one's  breath — ^the  colossal 
head  of  Pallas,  resembling  that  of  the  Minerva  of 
Velletri,  now  in  the  Vatican ;  and  the  Achilles. 

The  next  room  is  the  Hall  of  Bacchus.  The 
ceiling  is  richly  ornamented  with  all  the  festive  em- 
blems of  the  god,  in  white  and  gold  relief  In  the 
centre  we  have  that  wondrous  statue,  the  gigantic 
Sleeping  Satyr,  called  by  some  the  Barberini  Faun. 
Antiquaries  and  connoisseurs  refer  this  work  either 
to  Scopas  or  Praxiteles,  and,  from  the  situation  in 
which  it  was  discovered,  suppose  it  to  have  once 
'unamented  the  tomb  of  Adrian.     I  cannot  telt 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  191 

how  this  may  be,  but  here  we  behold  with  iistonish- 
ment  the  grotesque,  the  elegant,  and  the  sublime 
mingled  together,  and  each  in  perfection :  how^  I 
know  not ;  but  I  feel  it  is  so.  I  once  saw  a  draw- 
ing of  this  statue,  which  gave  me  the  idea  of  some- 
thing coarse  and  heavy ;  whereas,  in  the  original, 
the  delicate  beauty  of  the  workmanship,  and  the 
inimitable  sleepy  abandonment  of  the  attitude, 
loften  the  effect  of  the  colossal  forms.  I  would 
place  this  statue  unmediately  after  the  Elgin  mar- 
bles ;  it  is,  with  all  its  excellence,  a  degree  lower  in 
style. 

In  this  gallery  I  found  the  famous  head  of  the 
laughing  faun,  called  from  the  greenish  stain  on  the 
cheek,  the  fauno  colla  macchia,  and  also  a  sarcoph- 
agus, representing  in  the  most  exquisite  sculp- 
ture, the  marriage  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne.  The 
blending  of  the  idea  of  death  with  the  fulness  of 
life,  and  even  with  the  most  luxuriant  and  festive 
associations  of  life,  is  conmion  among  the  Greeks, 
and,  from  one  or  two  known  instances,  appears  to 
have  been  carried  to  an  extreme  which  makes  one 
shrink ;  still,  any  thing  rather  than  our  detestable 
death's  head  and  cross  bones !  In  nature,  and  in 
poetry,  death  is  beautiful.  It  is  the  diseases  and 
vices  of  artificial  life  which  have  rendered  it  la- 
mentable, terrible,  disgusting. 

Fixed  in  the  wall,  opposite  to  the  window,  there 
b  a  has  relief  of  amazing  beauty — ^the  marriage  ol 
Neptune  and  Amphitrite.  It  b  a  piece  of  lyrio 
poetry. 

18 


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194  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

The  Hall  of  Niobe  contains  few  objects ;  but 
imong  them  some  of  the  most  perfect  spechnens  of 
Grecian  art ;  and  first,  the  Ilioneus. 

It  was  because  the  Grecian  sculptors  were  thenft- 
lelves  poets  and  creators,  that  "  marble  grew  di- 
vine "  beneath  their  hands,  and  became  so  instinct 
with  the  indestructible  spirit  of  life,  that  their  hal^ 
defaced  ruins  retain  their  immortality:  else  how 
should  we  stand  shivering  with  awe  before  those 
tremendous  fragments—  the  sister  Fates  in  the 
Elgin  marbles  I  Or,  how  should  I,  who  am  incapa- 
ble of  estimating  the  technical  perfection  of  art, 
stand  entranced — as  to-day  I  stood — ^before  the 
Ilioneus?  It  was  not  merely  admiration;  it  was 
the  overpowering  sentiment  of  harmonious  and 
pathetic  beauty  running  along  every  nerve — such 
a  feeling  as  music  has  sometimes  awakened.  I  sup- 
pose the  Ilioneus  stands  alone,  like  the  Torso  of  the 
Vatican — the  ne  plus  ultra  of  grace,  as  the  latter  is 
of  grandeur. 

The  first  time  I  ever  saw  a  cast  of  thb  divine 
statue  was  in  the  vestibule  of  Goethe's  house,  at 
Weimar.  It  immediately  fixed  my  attention.  Af- 
terwards I  saw  another  in  Dannecker's  studio,  and 
from  him  I  learned  its  history.  It  was  discovered 
about  ten  years  ago  at  Prague,  in  the  possession  oi 
a  stone-mason,  and  is  supposed  to  have  formed  part 
of  the  collection  of  ancient  works  of  art  which  the 
Emperor  Rodolph  collected  in  Italy  about  1600.* 

*  The  character  of  the  Emperor  Rodolph  would  be  one  of  th« 
BOtt  interesting  speculations  in  phL'oeophica)  history.    He  was 


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UTEBATURB,  AND   CHARACTKR.  195 

A  certain  Dr.  Barth  purchased  it  for  a  trifle,  and 
brought  it  to  Vienna,  where  Dannecker  happened 
U>  be  at  that  time,  and  was  called  upon  with  others 
to  pronounce  on  its  merits  and  value.  It  was  at 
once  attributed  to  the  hand,  either  of  Praxiteles  or 
Scopas,  and  on  farther  and  minute  examination, 
the  style,  the  proportions,  and  the  eyident  purport 
of  the  figure,  have  decided  that  it  belongs  to  the 
group  of  Niobe  and  her  children.  It  has  obtained 
the  appellation  of  Ilioneus,  which  Ovid  gives  to  the 
youngest  of  her  sons.  It  represents  a  youth  kneel< 
ing.  The  head  and  arms  are. wanting;  but  the 
supplicatory  expression  of  the  attitude,  the  turn  of 
the  body,  so  deprecating,  so  imploring ;  the  bloom 
of  adolescence,  which  seems  absolutely  shed  over 
the  cold  marble,  the  unequalled  delicacy  and  ele- 
gance of  the  whole,  touched  me  unspeakably. 

The  King  of  Bavaria  is  said  to  have  paid  for  thii 
exquisite  relic  15,000  florins — a  large  sum  for  a  lit- 
tle potentate ;  but  for  the  object  itself,  its  value  is 
not  to  be  computed  by  money.  Its  weight  in  gold 
were  poor  in  comparison. 

In  the  same  room  b  the  Medusa  Bondanini,  the 
common  model  of  almost  all  the  Medusa  heads,  but 
certainly  not  equal  to  the  sublime  colossal  mask  at 
Cologne.    There  is  also  an  antique  duplicate  of  the 

•fldently  a  fine  artist,  degraded  into  a  Iwd  8C«yere|gn— a  maa 
irhoee  oonstmetiTe  and  ima^^natiye  genius  was  misplaced  upon 
ft  throne.  The  melancholy,  and  incipient  madness  which  hoTered 
vnt  him,  was  possibly  the  resnit  of  the  natural  li^nlties  sup 
'«r«ssed  or  pwerted. 


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196  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

Mercury  of  the  Belvedere;  another  of  the  Yenm 
of  Cnidos ;  another  (most  beautiful)  of  one  of  the 
ions  of  Niobe,  recumbent,  lifeless ;  and  some  othei 
master-pieces. 

These  six  rooms  occupy  one  nde  of  the  buildingi 
And  contain  altogether  one  hundred  and  forty-seyen 
fpecimens  of  ancient  art 

I  do  not  quite  understand  Flaxman's  diyimon  of 
ancient  art  into  three  periods — ^the  heroic  age,  the 
philosophic,  age,  and  the  age  of  perfection.  Per- 
naps  if  he  had  lived  to  correct  his  essays,  he  would 
have  made  this  more  clear.  According  to  his  dis- 
tincdon,  would  not  the  group  of  the  Niobe  belong 
to  the  age  of  perfection  ? — and  the  Parthenon  to 
the  philosophic  age  ?  which,  allowing  his  definition 
of  the  two  styles,  I  cannot  grant.  I  suppose  these 
six  galleries  include  a  period  of  about  seven  hun- 
dred years ;  (putting  the  dateless  antiquity  of  some 
of  the  Egyptian  relics  out  of  the  question.)  We 
begin  with  the  heavy  motionless  forms,  **  looking 
tranquillity,"  which  yet  have  often  a  certain  dig- 
nity ;  then  the  stiff,  hard,  elaborate  figures  of  the 
earliest  Greek  school,  with  their  curled  heads  and 
perpendicular  draperies,  in  some  of  which  dawns 
the  first  feeling  of  vigor  and  grace,  as  in  the  .Xgina 
marbles ;  the  next  is  the  union  of  grandeur  and 
elegance ;  and  the  next  is  the  utmost  poetical  re- 
finement. I  recpllect  that  somewhere  in  Boswell*' 
Life  of  Johnson,  a  conversation  is  recorded  as  tak- 
ing place  at  the  table  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds ;  in 
^he  "ourse  of  which  Sir  Joshua  remarked,  that  V 


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LITEBATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  197 

Has  impossible  to  conceive  what  the  ancient  writen 
Heant,  when  they  represented  sculpture  as  having 
passed  its  zenith  when  the  Apollo  and  the  Laocoon 
were  produced.  None  of  the  great  scholars  or 
artists  then  present  could  explain  the  mystery — 
now  no  longer  a  mystery.  When  Sir  Joshua  made 
tAuB  remark,  the  Elgin  marbles  were  unknown  in 
England. 

Between  this  range  of  galleries,  and  a  corre* 
iponding  range  on  the  opposite  side,  are  two  im- 
mense halls,  called  the  Fest-Saale,  or  banqueting 
halls,  and  as  yet  containing  no  sculpture.  Here 
the  painter  Cornelius  has  found  **  ample  space  and 
verge  enough  **  for  his  grand  conceptions,  and  the 
subjects  are  appropriate  to  the  general  destination 
of  the  whole  building.  The  frescos  in  the  first  hail 
'  (Gotter-Saal,  or  hall  of  the  gods)  present  a  mag- 
nificent view  of  the  whole  Greek  mythology. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  conception  and 
execution  of  certain  parts,  on  minute  examination, 
tiie  grand,  yet  simple  arrangement  of  the  whole 
design  addresses  itself  to  the  understanding,  while 
the  splendor  of  color  and  variety  of  the  grouping 
seize  on  the  imagination  :  certainly,  when  we  look 
round,  the  first  feeling  is  not  critical.  But  this 
beautiful,  progressive,  and  pictorial  development  of 
the  old  mythology,  as  it  must  have  been  the  result 
of  profound  learning  and  study,  ought  to  be  con* 
lidered  methodically  to  understand  all  its  merit; 
Jsr  instance,  in  the  centre  of  the  roof  we  have  the 
onmeval  god,  Eros,  in  four  compartments;  firsW 


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19S  SKETCHES   OF  AST, 

wit)  the  dolphin,  representing  water ;  secondly 
with  the  eagle,  representing  light  or  fire ;  thirdly, 
witb  the  peacock,  representing  lur;  and  lastly,  with 
Cerl>orus,  representing  eartL  Disposed  around 
these  primeval  elements,  we  have  the  seasons  oi 
the  year,  and  the  day.  The  spring,  as  Psyche,  is 
followed  by  the  history  of  Aurora,  (the  morning,) 
in  four  compartments.  The  summer,  as  Ceres,  ii 
followed  by  the  noon,  t.  e,  the  history  of  Helios  or 
Apollo,  in  four  compartments.  The  autumn,  as 
Bacchus ;  and  then  evening,  expressed  in  the  his- 
tory of  Diana.  Winter,  as  Saturn,  and  the  history 
of  night,  and  the  divinities  which  preside  over  it. 
These  twenty-four  compartments,  of  various  forms 
and  sizes,  compose  the  ceiling,  intermingled  with 
ornaments  of  rich  and  rare  device,  and  appropriate 
arabesques,  combining,  with  much  fancy  and  in- 
vention, all  the  clasmcal  emblems  and  allegories, 
such  as  satyrs,  fauns,  syrens,  dryads,  Graces,  Fu- 
ries, &c.  &c. 

J^t  the  grand  summary  is  reserved  for  the  walls. 
On  one  side  is  represented  the  kingdom  of  Olym- 
pus, with  Jove  in  his  state,  the  assemblage  of  the 
gods,  and  the  apotheosis  of  Psyche.  The  opposite 
side  represents  the  domain  of  Pluto,  with  the  in« 
femal  gods,  and  the  story  of  Orpheus.  The  third 
side,  over  agsdnst  the  window,  is  the  triumph  of 
Neptune  and  Amjihitrite,  surrounded  by  the  sea* 
gods. 

The  figures  in  these  three  frescos  are  colossai. 
ibout  eight  feet  in  height    The  coloring  of  tht 


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LITEKATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  199 

flc&h  is  a  little  too  red  and  ding}*,  and  in  some  of 
the  attitudes  I  thought  that  the  energy  was  strained 
into  contortion ;  but  through  the  whole  there  is  a 
■grand  poetic  feeling.  All  the  designs  are  by  Peter 
Cornelius,  executed  by  himself,  with  the  aid  a£ 
professor  Zimmermann,  Schlotthauer,  Hcinrich 
Hess,  and  a  number  of  pupils  and  assistants. 

There  are  also  along  the  frieze  some  beautiful 
ba8-relie& ;  and  over  the  two  doors  are  two  alto 
relievos  by  Schwanthaler,  the  one  representing 
Cupid  and  Psyche  in  each  other's  arms,  the  symbol 
of  inunortal  love :  the  other,  the  reunion  of  Ceres 
and  Proserpine,  emblematical  of  eternal  life  after 
death.  This  is  all  I  can  remember,  except  that  the 
painting  of  this  hall  occupied  six  years,  and  was 
finished  in  1826. 

Oct  11. — A  small  vestibule  divides  the  two  great 
halls.  This  is  painted  with  the  history  of  Prome- 
theus and  Pandora ;  but,  owing  to  the  unavoidable 
disposition  of  the  light,  much  of  the  beauty  is  lost 

From  this  vestibule  we  enter  the  second  great 
banqueting  hall,  or  the  Hall  of  the  Trojans,  painted 
like  the  former  in  fresco,  and  on  the  same  enormous 
scale,  but  with  a  different  distribution  of  the  parts. 
It  represents  chiefly  the  history  of  those  demigods 
and  heroes  who  contended  in  the  Trojan  war. 
Thus,  in  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  we  have  first  the 
original  cause  of  the  war,  the  marriage  of  Peleus 
and  Thet:s,  and  the  appearance  of  the  goddess  of 
Discord,  with  her  fatal  apple.  Around  this  are  the 
twelve  gods  who  were  present  a^  the  feast,  modelletl 


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MK)  SKKTCHES   OF   ART, 

HI  relief  by  Schwanthaler.  Then  follow  twelTO 
compartments,  containing  the  most  strikinfi;  scenes 
of  the  Biad,  divided  and  adorned  by  tne  most  rich 
and  fanciful  arabesques,  combining  the  exploits  or 
histories  of  the  Grecian  heroes,  which  are  not  in- 
cluded in  the  Iliad.  The  figures  in  these  compart- 
ments are  the  size  of  life.  On  the  walls  we  have 
the  three  principal  incidents  of  the  Trojan  war ; 
first,  the  wrath  of  Achilles ;  secondly,  opposite  to 
the  window,  the  fight  for  the  body  of  Patrocles, 
and  Achilles  shouting  to  the  warriors.  Th  re  is 
wonderful  energy  and  movement  in  this  picture : 
The  third  b  the  destruction  of  Troy.  The  figure 
of  Hecuba  sitting  in  motionless  horror  and  despdr, 
with  her  dishevelled  gray  hair,  her  daughters  cling- 
ing to  her; — the  beautiful  attitudes  of  Polyxena 
and  Cassandra ;  the  silent  remorse  of  Helen ;  the 
wild  fury  of  the  conquerors,  and  the  vigor  and 
splendor  of  the  whole  painting,  render  this  com 
position  exceedingly  striking :  I  did  not  quite  liki 
the  figure  of  Priam.  All  these  designs  are  by  Cor* 
nelius,  and  executed  partly  by  him,  and  partly 
under  his  direction  by  Zimmermann,  Schlotthauer, 
und  their  pupils.  The  arabesques  are  by  Eugene 
Neurather:  and  there  are  two  admirable  and 
spirited  bas-reliefs  by  Schwanthaler — one  repre- 
senting the  battle  of  the  ships,  and  the  other  the 
combat  of  Acldlles  with  the  river  gods. 

The  paintings  in  this  hall  were  finished  in  18i0. 

We  then  enter  the  range  of  galleries,  devoted 
to  the  later  Greek,  and  the  Roman  sculpture.   The 


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I.ITERATUBE,  AND   CflARACTEK.  201 

f  rst)  cotTesponding  in  size  and  situation  with  tlie 
Hall  of  Kiobe,  contains  nothing  peculiarly  inter 
esting,  except  the  famous  figure  of  the  young  war- 
rior anointing  himself  after  the  bath,  and  called 
the  Alexander. 

The  next  gallery  is  the  Roman  Hall,  about  one 
hundred  and  thirty  feet  in  length,  and  forms  a 
glorious  coup  <V(£U,  The  utmost  luxury  of  archi- 
tectural decoration  has  been  lavished  on  the  ceil- 
ings ;  ^nd  the  effect  of  the  marble  pavement,  with 
the  disposition  of  the  busts,  candelabrae,  altars,  as 
seen  in  perspective,  is  truly  and  tastefully  magni- 
ficent I  particularly  admired  the  ceiling,  which 
b  divided  into  three  domes,  adorned  with  bas- 
reliefs,  taken  from  the  Roman  history  and  man- 
ners: these  were  designed  by  Schwanthaler.  I 
cannot  remember  any  thing  remarkable  in  this 
gallery  ;  or  rather,  there  were  too  many  things  de- 
serving of  notice,  for  me  to  note  all.  The  stand- 
ing Agrippina  has,  however,  dwelt  on  my  mind ; 
and  an  exceeding  fine  bust  of  Octavius  Caesar, 
crowned  with  the  oak  leaves. 

A  small  room  contains  the  sculpture  in  colored 
marble,  porphyry,  and  bronze ;  and  the  last  is  the 
hall  of  modern  sculpture.  In  the  centre  of  the 
ceiling  is  a  phoenix,  rising  from  its  ashes,  and 
ground  it  the  heads  of  four  distinguished  sculptors 
— Nicolo  da  Pisa,  the  restorer  of  the  art  in  the 
fourteenth  century;  Michael  Angela,  Canova,  and 
'fhorwaldson. 

Twc  of  the  most  celebrated  productions  of  mod- 


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B02  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

tm  sculpture  are  here — ^the  Paris  of  Canova,  anJ 
the  Adonis  of  Thorwaldson.  As  they  are  placed 
near  to  each  other,  and  the  aim  is  alike  in  both  to 
exhibit  the  utmost  perfection  of  youthful  and  ef- 
feminate beauty,  the  merits  of  the  two  artists  were 
fairly  brought  into  comparison.  Thorwaldson'g 
statue  reminded  me  of  the  Antinous ;  Canova's  re- 
called the  young  Apollo.  I  hardly  know  which  to 
prefer  as  a  conception ;  but  the  material  and  work- 
manship of  the  Paris  pleased  me  most  The  marble 
of  Thorwaldson's  statue,  though  faultless  in  purity 
of  tint,  has  a  coarse  gritty  grain,  and  glitters  dis- 
agreeably in  certain  lights,  as  if  it  were  spar  or 
lump-sugar;  whereas  the  smooth  close  comp{»it 
grain  of  Canova's  marble,  which  is  something  of  a 
creamy  white,  seemed  to  me  infinitely  preferable 
to  the  eye.  This,  however,  is  hyper-criticism :  in 
both,  th*!.  feeling  is  classically  and  beautifully  true. 
The  soft  melancholy  of  the  countenance  and  atti- 
tude of  Adonis,  as  if  anticipative  of  his  early  death, 
and  the  languid  self-sufficiency  of  Paris,  appeared 
to  me  equally  admirable.  There  is  also  in  this 
room  a  duplicate  by  Canova  of  his  "Venus,  in  the 
Pitti  palace ;  a  girl  tying  her  sandal,  by  Rodolph 
Schadow — a  pendant,  I  presume,  to  his  charming 
Filatrice,  now  at  Chatsworth ;  and  some  fine  busts. 
I  looked  round  in  vain  for  a  single  specimen  of 
English  art.  I  thought  it  just  possible  that  som« 
work  of  Flaxman,  or  Chantrey,  or  Gibson,  mighl 
hiive  found  its  way  hither — ^but  no  I — 

Oct.  12. — Last  night  to  the  opera  with  a  pleasan/ 


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LITERATURE,   AND  CHARACTER.  209 

pai-ty  ;  but,  tired  and  over-excited  with  my  morniug 
Rt  the  Glyptothek,  I  wanted  soothing,  and  was  not 
in  a  humor  for  the  noisy  florid  music  of  Wilhehn 
Tell.  It  is  an  opera  which,  as  it  becomes  familiar, 
tires,  and  does  not  attach — just  like  some  clever 
people  I  have  met  with.  Pellegrini  (not  the  Pel- 
ligrini  we  had  in  England,  but  a  fixture  hero,  and 
their  best  male  singer — a  fine  basso  cantantt)  acted 
TeU.  I  say  acted^  because  he  did  not  merely  sing 
his  part — ^he  acted  it,  and  well ;  so  well,  that  once 
I  felt  my  eyes  mobten.  Madame  Spitzeder  sang 
in  Matilda  von  Hapsburg  tolerably.  Their  first 
tenor,  Bayer,  I  do  not  like ;  his  intonation  is  de- 
fective. The  decorations  and  dresses  are  beauti' 
ful.  As  for  the  dancing,  it  is  not  fair  to  say  any- 
thing about  it  Unfortunately  the  first  bars  of  the 
Tyrolienne  brought  Taglioni  before  my  mind's  eye, 
and  who  or  what  could  stand  the  comparison? 
How  she  leapt  like  a  stag  I  bounded  like  a  young 
faun  !  floated  like  the  swan-down  on  the  air !  Yet 
even  Taglioni,  though  she  makes  the  nearest  i^ 
proach  to  it,  does  not  complete  my  idea  of  a  poeti- 
cal dancer ;  but  as  she  improved  upon  Herbelet, 
we  may  find  another  to  improve  upon  her.  One 
more  such  artist — I  use  the  word  in  the  general 
and  German  sense,  not  in  the  French  meaning — 
wie  more  such  artist,  who  should  bring  modesty, 
%nd  sense,  and  feeling,  into  this  lovely  and  most 
desecrated  art,  might  do  something  to  retrieve  it — 
'•ight  introduce  the  necessity  for  dancers  having 
heads  as  well  as  heels,  and  in  time  revolutionize 
the  whole  corps  de  ballet. 


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K>4  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

Wednesday, — This  morning,  M.  Herman  StuntJi 
the  King's  chapel-master,  called  on  me.  I  had 
heard  of  him  as  a  fine  composer,  and  also  much  of 
his  opera,  produced  for  the  Scala  at  Milan,  the 
Costantino  il  Grande.  I  was  pleased  to  find  him 
not  a  musician  only,  like  most  musicians,  but  intel- 
ligent and  enthusiastic  on  other  subjects,  and  with 
that  childlike  simplicity  of  mind  and  manner,  so 
ofben  combined  with  talent  We  touched  upon 
every  thing  from  the  high  sublime  to  the  deep  ab- 
•urd — ran  round  the  whole  circle  of  art  in  a  sort 
of  touch-and-go  style,  and  his  nalveti  and  original- 
ity pleased  me  more  and  more.  He  said  some  true 
and  delightful  things  about  music ;  but  would  insist 
that  of  all  languages  the  English  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult to  ally  to  musical  sounds — infinitely  worse 
than  German.  He  complained  of  the  shut  mouth, 
the  claquement  des  dents,  and  the  predominance  of 
aspirates  in  our  pronun^ation.  I  objected  to  the 
guttural  sounds,  and  the  open  mouths,  and  the  yaw 
yaw  of  the  Germans.  Then  followed  an  animated 
discussion  on  vocal  sounds  and  musical  expression, 
and  we  parted,  I  believe,  mutually  pleased. 

The  father  of  Stuntz  is  a  Swiss — a  man  of  letters, 
an  enthusiast,  a  philosopher,  an  artist ;  in  short,  a 
most  extraordinary  and  eccentric  character.  He 
entirely  educated  his  two  children,  of  whom  the  son, 
Herman  Stuntz,  takes  a  high  rank  as  a  composer ; 
and  the  daughter  is  a  distinguished  female  artist, 
but,  being  nobly  married,  she  now  oniy  painti 
pictures  to  give  them  away,  and  those  who  posseai 


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LITBRATimB,  AND  CHARACTER.  805 

tliem  nre,  with  reason,  extremely  proud  of  the  pee- 
lession. 

In  the  erening,  Madame  Merie,  prima-dmina 
uus  London,  as  the  play-bills  set  forth,  made  her 
first  appearance  in  the  Gazza  Ladra.  She  Is  en- 
gaged here  for  a  limited  time,  and  takes  the  gasU' 
rdles — ^that  is,  she  plays  the  first  parts  as  a  matter 
of  course — in  short,  she  is  a  star.  The  regular 
prima-donna  is  Madame  Scheckner-Wagen.  Meric 
has  talent,  voice,  style,  and  unwearied  industry ; 
but  she  has  not  genius,  neither  is  her  organ  first- 
rate.  Comparisons  in  some  cases  are  unjust  as 
well  as  odious.  Yet  was  it  my  fault  that  I  remem- 
bered in  the  same  part  the  syren  Sontag,  and  the 
enchantress  Malibran?  Meric,  besides  being  a 
fine  singer,  is  an  amiable  woman ; — married  to  an 
extravagant,  dissipated  husband,  and  working  to 
provide  for  her  child — a  common  fate  among  the 
wmnen  of  her  profession. 


Sat  up  late  reading,  for  the  third  or  fourth 

time,  a  chance  volume  of  Madame  Roland's  works. 
What  a  complete  French  woman !  but  then,  what 
a  mind !  how  large  in  capacity  I  how  stored  with 
knowledge!  how  strong  in  conscious  truth!  how 
finely  toned !  how  soft,  and  yet  how  firm  !  What 
wonderful  industry  united  to  the  quickest  talent  1 
Some  things  written  at  eighteen  and  twenty  have 
most  surprised  me ;  some  passages  in  the  <<  Vie 
priv^e,"  and  the  "  Appel,**  have  most  charmed  me. 
She  is  not  very  eloquent,  and  I  should  think  had 


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B06  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

not  a  playful  or  poetic  fancy.  There  is  an  almoel 
total  want  of  imagery  in  her  style ;  but  great  power, 
unaffected  elegance,  with  a  sort  of  negligence  at 
times,  which  adds  to  its  beauty.  Then,  to  remem- 
ber that  all  I  have  just  read  was  writton  in  a  prison, 
in  daily,  hourly  expectation  of  death  I  but  thai 
excites  more  interest  than  surprise,  for  a  situation 
of  strong  excitement  of  mind  and  passion,  with 
external  repose  and  solitude,  must  be  favorable  to 
this  development  of  the  faculties,  where  there  is 
character  as  well  as  talent  Some  of  her  dis- 
closures are  a  little  too  nawe,  I  am  amused  by 
the  quantity  of  feminine  vanity  which  is  mixed  up 
"vi^th  all  this  loftiness  of  spirit,  this  real  independ- 
ence of  soul.  Madame  de  Stael  had  not  more 
vanity,  whatever  they  may  say ;  but  it  was  less 
balanced  by  self-esteem — it  required  more  symr 
pathy.  Then  we  have  those  two  admirable  women 
♦  *  and  *  *.  What  exquisite  feminine  vanity  is 
there !  Yet,  happily,  in  both  instances  how  far  re- 
moved from  all  ill-nature  and  presumption,  and  how 
unconsciously  betrayed  !  I  should  think  Joanna 
Baillie,  among  our  great  women,  must  be  most 
exempt  from  this  failing,  perhaps,  because,  of  all 
the  five,  she  has  the  most  profound  sense  of  religion. 
Lavater  said,  that  "  the  characteristic  of  everp 
woman's  physiognomy  was  vanity.**  A  phrenol- 
ogist would  say  that  it  was  the  characteristic  of 
every  woman's  head.  How  far,  then,  may  a  woman 
be  vain  with  a  good  grace,  and  betray  it  without 
ridicule  ?    By  vanity,  T  mean  now,  a  great  wisli 


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LITER A.1  ORE,   AND   CHARACTER.  807 

to  please,  mingled  with  a  consciousness  of  the 
powers  of  pleasing,  and  not  what  Madame  Roland 
describes, — "  cette  ambition  constante,  ce  soin  per- 
petuel  d'occuper  de  soi,  et  de  paraitre  autre  on 
meilleur  que  Ton  n'est  en  efiet,"  for  this  is  diseased 
vanity.  , 

♦  ♦  ♦ 

Dr.  Martins  *  lent  me  two  pretty  little  volumei 
of  "  Poems,  by  Louis  I.  king  of  Bavaria,"  the  preiH 
ent  king — the  first  ro3ral  author  we  hare  had,  I 
believe,  since  Frederic  of  Prussia — ^the  best  since 
James  I.  of  Scotland.  These  poems  are  chiefly 
lyrical,  consisting  of  odes,  sonnets,  epigrams.  Some 
are  addressed  to  the  queen,  others  to  his  children, 
others  to  different  ladies  of  the  court,  whom  he  is 
said  to  have  particularly  admired,  and  a  great 
number  were  composed  during  his  tour  in  Italy  in 
1817.  Of  the  merit  of  these  poems  I  cannot  judge ; 
and  when  I  appealed  to  two  different  critics,  both 
accomplished  men,  one  assured  me  they  were  ad- 
mirable; the  other  shru^ed  up  his  shoulders — 
"  Que  voulez  vous  ?  c'est  un  Roi  I  **  The  earnest 
feeling  and  taste  in  some  of  these  little  poems 
pleased  me  exceedingly— of  that  alone  I  could 
judge :  for  instance,  there  is  an  address  to  the 
German  aHists,  which  contedns  the  following  beau- 
)ihl  lines :  he  is  speakirg  of  art — 


*  The  oelebrayid  tmTeller,  natonl  philosopher,  and  botMilft 
He  has  the  dhreetioii  of  most  of  $he  soiendflo  Inititatloiis  •! 
tlnuich. 


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108  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

In  der  Stille  muss  es  sich  gestalten, 
Wenn  es  kraftig  wirkend  soil  ersteh*n; 
Ans  dem  Herzen  nur  kann  sich  entfalten. 
Das  was  wahrhaft  wird  zum  Herzea  geh'it. 

Ja!  ihr  nehmet  es  ans  reinen  Tiefen, 
Froinn  und  einfach,  wie  die  Vorwelt  war, 
Weekend  die  Gefuhle,  welche  schliefen, 
Ehrend  zeugt^s  von  Euch  und  immerdar. 

Sklayisch  an  das  A]te  euch  zu  halten, 
Eures  Strebens  Zweck  ist  dieses  nicht, 
Seyd  gefasst  yon  himmlischen  Gewalten, 
Dringet  rastlos  zu  dem  hehren  Licht!** 

Wliich  may  be  thus  literally  rendered — 

**  To  rise  into  vigorous,  active  influence,  it  (art)  mnsi 
spring  up  and  develop  itself  in  secrecy  and  in  silence, 
out  of  the  heart  alone  can  that  unfold  itself  which  shaD 
truly  go  to  the  heart  again. 

**  Tea !  pious  and  simple  as  the  old  world  was,  ye  draw 
tt  (art)  from  the  same  pure  depths,  awakening  the  feek 
fngs  which  slumber  I  and  it  shall  bear  honorable  witneaa 
of  ye — and  forever  1 

"  Slavishly  to  cling  to  antiquity,  this  is  not  the  end  of 
four  labors  I  Be  ye,  therefore,  upheld  by  heavenly  power ; 
press  on,  and  rest  not,  to  the  high  and  holy  light!  '* 

Metbinks  this  magnificent  prince  deserves,  even 
more  tban  his  ancestor,  Maximilian  L,  to  be  styled 
the  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  of  Bavaria.    The  powof 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTKR.  209 

90  patronize,  the  sentiment  to  feel,  the  genius  to 
celebrate  art,  are  rarely  united,  even  in  individuals. 
He  must  be  a  noble  being — a  genius  born  in  the 
nurple,  on  whose  laurels  there  rests  not  a  blood* 
ftain,  perhaps  not  even  a  tear ! 

This  is  a  holiday.  I  was  sitting  at  my  window, 
translating  some  of  these  poems,  when  I  saw  a 
crowd  round  the  doors  of  the  new  palace,  for  it  is 
a  day  of  public  admission.  Curiosity  tempted  me 
to  join  this  crowd ; — no  sooner  thought  than  done. 
I  had  M.  de  Klenze's  general  order  for  admittance 
in  my  pocket-book,  but  wished  to  see  how  this  was 
managed,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd,  which  was 
waiting  to  be  admitted  en  masse.  I  was  at  once 
recognized  as  a  stranger,  and  every  one  with  simple 
civility  miade  way  for  me.  Groups  of  about  twenty 
or  thirty  people  were  admitted  at  a  time,  at  inter- 
vals of  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  each  group  placed 
under  the  guidance  of  one  of  the  workmen  as 
cicerone.  He  led  them  through  the  unfinished 
apartments,  explaining  to  his  open-mouthed  audi- 
tors the  destination  of  each  room,  the  subjects  of 
the  pictures  on  the  walls  and  ceilings,  &c.  &c 
There  were  peasants  from  the  south,  in  their  sin* 
l^xdar  dresses,  mechanics  and  girls  of  Munich,  sol- 
diers, travelling  students.  I  was  much  amused. 
Wliile  the  cicerone  held  forth,  some  merely  won- 
dered with  foolish  faces,  some  admired,  some  looked 
intelligent,  and  asked  various  questions,  which  were 
readily  answered — ^all  seemed  pleased.  Every 
thing  was  done  in  order :  two  groups  were  never 
14 


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tlO  SKETCHES   Ol-    ART, 

in  tbe  same  apartment;  but  as  one  went  oat| 
another  entered.  Thus  many  hundreds  of  these 
poor  people  were  gratified  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
It  seemed  to  me  a  wise  as  well  as  benevolent  policy 
in  the  king  thus  to  appeal  to  the  sympathy,  and 
gratify  the  pride  of  his  subjects  of  all  classes,  by 
allowing  them — inviting  them,  to  take  an  interest 
in  his  magnificent  undertakings,  to  consider  them 
national  as  well  as  royal.  I  am  informed  that  these 
works  are  carried  on  without  any  demands  on  the 
Staatskasse,  (the  public  treasury,)  and  without  any 
additional  taxes :  so  far  from  it,  that  the  Bavarian 
House  of  Representatives  curtailed  the  supplies  by 
300,000  florins  only  last  year,  and  refused  the  king 
an  addition  to  the  civil  list,  which  he  had  requested 
for  the  travelling  expenses  of  two  of  bis  sons.  The 
king  is  said  to  be  economical  in  the  extreme  in  his 
domestic  expenses,  and  not  very  generous  in  money 
to  those  around  him — unlike  his  open-hearted, 
open-handed  father,  Max-Joseph ;  in  short,  there 
are  grumblers  here  as  elsewhere,  but  strangers  and 
posterity  will  not  sympathize  with  them. 

This  is  the  fourth  time  I  have  seen  this  splendid 
and  truly  royal  palace,  but  will  make  no  memo- 
randa till  I  have  gone  over  the  whole  with  Leo  von 
Klenze.  He  has  promised  to  be  my  cicerone 
hunself,  and  I  feel  the  full  value  of  the  compli- 
ment Count  V —  told  me  last  night,  that  he  (De 
Klenze)  has  made  for  this  building  alone  upwards 
of  seven  hundred  drawings  and  designs  with  bin 
own  hand. 


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IITERATURB,   AND   CHARACTEIL  211 

Oct,  IS, — Called  on  my  English  friends,  th« 
C  *  *  8.  and  found  them  pleasantly  settled  in  a 
Deautiful  furnished  lodging  near  the  Hofgarten,  for 
which  they  pay  twenty-four  florins  (or  about  two 
pounds)  a  month.  We  had  some  conversation 
about  music,  (they  are  all  musicians,)  and  the 
opera,  and  Malibran,  whom  they  have  lately  seen 
in  Italy;  and  Pasta,  whom  they  had  visited  at 
Gomo;  and  they  confirm  3d  what  Mr.  J.  M.  Stuntz 
and  M.  E.  had  all  told  me  of  her  benevolence  and 
excellent  cnaracter.  I  could  not  find  that  any  new 
genius  had  arisen  in  Italy  to  share  the  glory  of  our 
three  queens  of  the  lyrical  drama, — Pasta,  Mali- 
bran,  and  Schroder  Devrient.  Other  singers  have 
more  or  less  talent  and  feeling,  more  or  less  com- 
pass of  voice,  facility,  or  agility ;  but  these  three 
women  possess  genius,  and  stamp  on  every  thing 
they  do  their  own  individual  character.  Of  the 
three.  Pasta  is  the  grandest  and  most  finished  artist ; 
Malibran  the  most  versatile  in  power  and  passion ; 
while  Schroder  Devrient  has  that  energy  of  heart 
and  soul — ^that  capacity  for  exciting,  and  being  ex- 
cited, which  gives  her  such  unbounded  command 
over  the  feelings  and  senses  of  her  audience.*  So 
fiur  we  were  agreed ;  but  as  the  conversation  went 
on,  I  was  doomed  to  listen  to  a  torrent  of  common- 
place and  sarcastic  criticism  on  the  private  habits 

*  I  lemember  Madame  Derrieiit,  to  describing  the  efEect  which 
music  had  upon  herself,  pressing  her  hand  npon  her  bosom,  an4 
nying,  with  simple  but  profound  feeling.     ^*AA!  eeia  um  la 


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11$  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

of  tbese  and  other  women  of  the  same  profession  i 
one  was  accused  of  vulgarity,  another  of  bad  tem- 
per, and  another  of  violence  and  caprice :  one  wafl 
suspected  of  a  penchant  for  porter,  another  had 
been  heard  to  swear,  or — something  very  like  it 
Even  pretty  lady-like  Sontag  was  reproached  with 
some  trifling  breach  of  mere  conventional  manner, 
— she  had  used  her  fingers  where  she  should  have 
taken  a  spoon,  or  some  such  nonsense.  My  Grod  1 
to  think  of  the  situation  of  these  women  I  and  then 
to  look  upon  those  women,  who,  fenced  in  from  in- 
fancy by  all  the  restraints,  the  refinements,  the 
comforts,  the  precepts  of  good  society, — the  one 
arranging  a  new  cap,  the  other  embroidering  a 
purse,  the  third  reading  a  novel,  all  satisfied  with 
petty  occupations  and  amusements,  "  far,  far  re- 
moved from  want  and  grief  and  fear," — now  sitting 
in  judgment,  and  passing  sentence  of  excommuni- 
eation  on  others  of  their  sex,  who  have  been  steeped 
in  excitement  from  childhood,  their  nerves  forever 
in  a  state  of  tension  between  severest  application 
and  maddening  flattery ;  cast  on  the  world  without 
chart  or  compass — with  energies  misdirected,  pas- 
sions uncontrolled,  and  all  the  inflammable  and 
imaginative  part  of  their  being  cultivated  into  ex- 
cess £s  a  part  of  their  profession — of  their  material  I 
O  when  will  there  be  charity  in  the  world  ?  When 
will  human  beings,  women  especially,  show  mercy 
and  justice  to  each  other,  and  not  judge  of  resulti^ 
without  a  reference  to  causes  ?  and  when  will  r^ 
flection  upon  these  causes  lead  to  their  removal 


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LJTBRATURB,  AND  CHARACTER.  Sit 

rhey  are  evils  which  press  upon  few,  but  are  re- 
fected on  many,  inasmuch  as  they  degrade  art  and 
Ihe  pursuit  of  art ; — ^but  all  can  sneer,  and  few  can 
think. 

♦  ♦  ♦  * 

I  begin  at  length  to  feel  my  way  among  the  pic- 
tures here.  Hitherto  I  have  been  bewildered.  1 
have  lounged  away  morning  after  morning  at  the 
gallery  of  the  Hofgarten,  at  Schleissheim,  and  at 
the  Due  de  Leuchtenberg's ;  and  returned  home 
with  dazzled  eyes  and  a  mind  overflowing,  like  one 
**  oppressed  with  wealth,  and  with  abundance  sad," 
unable  to  recall  or  to  methodize  my  own  impres- 
rions. 

Professor  Zimmermann  tells  me  that  the  king 
of  Bavaria  possesses  upwards  of  three  thousand 
pictures ;  of  these,  about  seventeen  hundred  are  at 
Schleissheim;  nine  hundred  in  the  Munich  gal- 
lery; and  the  rest  distributed  through  various 
palaces.  The  national  gallery,  or  Pinakothek, 
which  is  now  building  under  the  direction  of  Leo 
▼on  Elenze,  is  destined  to  contain  a  selection  from 
these  multifarious  treasures,  of  which  the  present 
arrangement  is  only  temporary. 

The  king  of  Bavaria  unites  in  his  own  person 
the  three  branches  of  the  House  of  Wittelsbach : 
the  palatines  of  the  Rhine,  the  dukes  of  Deux- 
ponts,  and  the  electors  of  Bavaria,  all  sovereign 
houses,  and  descended  from  Otto  von  Wittelsbach^ 
who  received  the  investiture  of  the  dukedom  of 
Havana  in  1180.    Thus  it  is  that  the  celebrated 


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114  BKETCfiES  OF  ART, 

gaUei*}  once  at  Dusseldorf,  formed  under  tb« 
auspices  of  tlie  elector  John  William ;  the  variouf 
collections  at  Manheim,  Deuxponts,  and  Heidel* 
berg,  are  now  concentrated  at  Munich,  where, 
from  the  days  of  Duke  Albert  V.  (1550)  up  to  the 
present  time,  works  of  art  have  been  gradually 
accumulated  by  successive  princes. 

Somebody  calls  the  gallery  at  Munich  the  court 
of  Rubens ;  and  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  says  that  no 
one  should  judge  of  Rubens  who  had  not  studied 
him  at  Antwerp  and  Dusseldorf.  I  be^  to  feel 
the  truth  of  this.  My  devoted  worship  of  the 
Italian  school  of  art  rendered  me  long — ^I  will  not 
say  blind  to  the  merits  of  the  Flemish  painters-*- 
for  that  were  to  be  "  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans 
every  thing  I"  but  in  truth,  without  that  full 
feeling  of  their  power  which  I  have  since  ac- 
quired. 

Cert^nly  we  have  in  these  days  mean  ideas 
about  painting — ^mean  and  false  ideas  t  It  has  b^ 
come  a  mere  object  of  luxury  and  connoisseur- 
ship  or  virth:  unless  it  be  addressed  to  our  per- 
sonal vanity,  or  to  the  puerile  taste  for  ornament, 
show,  furniture, — it  is  nothing.  The  noble  art 
which  was  once  recognized  as  the  priestess  of 
nature,  as  a  great  moral  power  capable  of  acting 
on  the  senses  and  the  imagination  of  assembled 
human  beings — ^as  such  applied  by  the  lawgivers 
of  Greece,  and  by  the  clergy  of  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic church, — how  is  it  now  vulgarized  in  its  ob 
)ectB  I  how  narrowed  in  its  application  !    And  if  it 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  215 

be  said  diat,  in  the  present  state  of  society,  in  these 
i*alculating,  money-making,  political,  intellectual 
times,  we  are  acted  upon  by  far  different  in- 
fluences, rendering  us  infinitely  less  sensible  to 
the  power  of  painting,  then  I  think  it  is  not  true^ 
and  that  the  cultivated  susceptibility  to  other  moral 
or  poetical  excitements — as  politics  or  literature — 
does  not  render  us  less  sensible  to  the  moral  in- 
fluence of  psunting;  on  the  contrary:  but  she  has 
fallen  from  her  high  estate,  and  there  are  none  to 
raise  her.  The  public — the  national  spirit,  is  want- 
ing; individual  patronage  is  confined,  is  misdi- 
rected, is  arbitrary,  demanding  of  the  artist  any 
thing  rather  than  the  highest  and  purest  intellec- 
tual application  of  his  art,  and  afibrding  nor  space 
nor  opportunity  for  him  to  address  himself  to  the 
grand  universal  passions,  principles,  and  interests 
of  human  nature  1  Suppose  a  Michael  Angelo  to 
be  bom  to  us  in  England :  we  should  not,  per- 
haps, set  him  to  make  a  statue  of  snow,  but  where 
or  how  would  his  gigantic  genius,  which  revelled 
in  the  great  deeps  of  passion  and  imagination,  find 
■cope  for  action  ?  He  would  struggle  and  gasp 
like  a  stranded  Leviathan  1 

But  this  is  digressing ;  the  question  is,  may  not 
ihe  moral  efiect  of  planting  be  still  counted  on,  if 
the  painter  be  himself  imbued  with  the  right 
ipirit?* 

*  **A  Pexpoeifclon  de  Parif  (1822)  on  a  Tn  un  milUer  de  tableaux 
ivprteeutant  dM  sujets  de  rEcrltoire  Sain^«,  pein^a  pas  da* 
leintres  qui  n^y  ordent  par  la  tout:  admirte  et  jugte  paa  da» 


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!16  SKETCnES   OF    \RT, 

There  is,  in  the  academy  at  Antwerp,  a  pictuna 
by  Rubens,  wliich  represents  St  Theresa  kneeling 
before  Christ,  and  interceding  for  the  souls  in  puiv 
gatory.  The  treatment  of  the  subject  is  exceed- 
ingly simple;  the  upper  part  of  the  picture  if 
occupied  by  the  Redeemer,  with  his  usual  attri- 
butes, and  the  saint,  habited  as  a  nun.  In  the 
lower  part  of  the  picture,  instead  of  a  confused 
mob  of  tormented  souls,  and  flames,  and  devils 
with  pitchforks,  the  painter  has  represented  a  few 
heads  as  if  rising  from  below.  I  remember  those 
of  Adam,  Eve,  and  Mary  Magdalene.  I  remem- 
ber— and  never  shall  forget — ^the  expression  of 
each  I  The  extremity  of  misery  in  the  counte- 
nance of  Adam ;  the  averted,  disconsolate,  repent- 
ant wretchedness  of  Eve,  who  hides  her  face  in 
her  hair ;  the  mixture  of  agony,  supplication,  hope, 
in  the  face  of  the  Magdalene,  while  a  cherub  of 
pity  extends  his  hand  to  her,  as  if  to  aid  her  to 
rise,  and  at  the  same  time  turns  an  imploring  look 
towards  the  Saviour.  As  I  gazed  upon  this  pic- 
ture, a  feeling  sank  deep  into  my  heart,  which  did 
not  pass  away  with  the  tears  it  made  to  flow,  but 
has  ever  since  remained  there,  and  has  become  an 
abiding  principle  of  action.  This  is  only  one  in- 
stance, out  of  many,  of  the  moral  efiect  which  hat 
been  produced  by  painting. 

ftns  qui  n'y  croient  paa  beaucoup,  et  enfln  payto  par  des  g«i  • 
lul,  apparemmeDt,  n^  croient  pas,  non  pins. 
**L'Gn  nherche  apr6s  oela  le  ponrqn(d  de  la  dtotdenoe  m 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTI  R.  217 

To  me  it  is  amusing,  and  t  cannot  but  be  inter- 
Mdmg  and  instructive  to  the  philosopher  and  artist, 
lo  observe  how  various  people,  uninitiated  into 
fcny  of  the  technicalities  of  art,  unable  to  appre- 
ciate the  amount  of  difficulties  overcome,  are 
^ected  by  pictures  and  sculpture.  But  in  form- 
ing our  judgment,  our  taste  in  art,  it  is  unsafe  to 
listen  to  opinions  springing  from  this  vague  kind 
of  enthusiasm;  for  in  painting,  as  in  music,  "  jui^ 
as  the  soul  is  pitched,  the  eye  is  pleased." 

I  amuse  myself  in  the  gallery  here  with  watch- 
ing the  countenances  of  those  who  look  at  the  pic* 
tures.  I  see  that  the  uneducated  eye  is  caught  bj' 
subjects  in  which  the  individual  mind  sympathizes, 
and  the  educated  taste  seeks  abstract  excellence. 
Which  has  the  most  enjoyment?  The  last,  1 
think.  Sensibility,  imagination,  and  quick  per- 
ception of  form  and  color,  are  not  alone  neces- 
sary to  feel  a  work  of  art;  there  must  be  the 
power  of  association  ;  the  mind  trained  to  habitual 
sympathy  with  the  beautiful  and  the  good;  the 
knowledge  of  the  meaning,  and  the  comprehension 
of  the  object,  of  the  artist 

In  the  gallery  here  there  are  eighty-eight  pic- 
tures of  Rubens,  some  among  the  very  finest  he 
ever  painted ;  for  instance,  that  splendid  picture, 
Castor  and  Pollux  carrying  off  the  daughters  of 
Leucippus,  so  full  of  rich  life  and  movement;  the 
destniction  of  Sennacherib's  host ;  Rubens  and  his 
wrife,  full  lengths,  seate«i  in  a  garden ;  that  won- 
ierful  picture  of  the  defeat  of  the  Amazons ;  th<» 


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118  SKETCHES  OF  AKT, 

meeting  of  Jasob  and  Laban  ;  the  picture  of  th« 
Earl  of  Arundel  and  his  wife,  with  other  figures, 
full  lengths ;  *  and  a  series  of  the  designs  for  the 
large  paintings  of  the  history  of  Marie  de*  Medici, 
now  in  the  Louvre.  His  group  of  boys  with  fruiti 
and  flowers,  exhibits  the  richest,  loveliest  combina- 
tion of  colors  ever  presented  to  the  eye ;  and  on 
that  wonderftd  picture  of  the  fallen  (or  rather  yiifl- 
ing)  angels,  he  has  lavished  such  endless  variety 
of  form,  attitude,  and  expression,  that  it  would 
take  a  day  to  study  it.  It  is  not  a  large  picture : 
the  eye,  or  rather  the  imagination,  easily  takes  in 
the  general  effect  of  tumult,  horror,  destruction, 
out  the  understanding  dwells  on  the  detail  with 
still  increasing  astonishment  and  admiration.  These 
are  a  few  that  struck  me,  but  it  is  quite  in  vun  to 
attempt  to  particularize. 

One  may  begin  by  disliking  Rubens  in  general, 

*  Of  this  celebrated  picture,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  says,  that  it 
If  miscalled,  and  certainly  does  not  contain  the  portratts  of  tlM 
Barl  and  Countess  of  Arundel.  Perhaps  he  is  mistaken.  It 
appears  that  the  Earl  of  Arundel,  of  James  the  Flrst^s  tiiCA, 
(the  collector  of  the  Amndelian  marbles,)  with  his  Countesa, 
sat  to  Rubens  In  1620,  and  that  **  Robin  the  Dwarf''  was  intro> 
duced  into  this  picture,  which  was  not  painted  In  England,  but 
at  Brussels.  Rubens  was  at  this  dme  at  the  height  of  his  repifc 
tation,  and  when  requested  to  paint  the  portrait  of  the  Conn 
toss  of  Arundel,  he  replied,  "Although  I  have  refused  to 
execute  the  portraits  of  many  princes  and  noblemen,  especially 
of  his  lordship's  rank,  yet  from  the  Earl  I  am  bound  to  noeAf 
ttM  honor  be  does  me  in  commanding  my  serrlces,  r^^ardtng 
klm,  as  I  do,  in  the  light  of  an  eyangelist  to  the  world  of  art 
fend  the  great  supporter  of  our  profession/'^See  Titrnef^ 
0MMry  and  Antiquities  qf  the  Castle  and  Town  qfAmndel,) 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  218 

(i  tbink  I  did,)  but  one  must  end  by  standing 
before  him  in  ecstasy  and  wonder.  It  is  true, 
that  always  luxuriant,  he  is  often  gross  and  sen- 
lual — ^he  can  sometimes  be  brutally  so.  His  bao- 
<^hanalian  scenes  are  not  like  those  of  Poussin, 
classical,  godlike  debauchery,  but  the  abandoned 
drunken  revelry  of  animals — the  very  sublime  of 
brute  licentiousness ;  and  painted  with  a  breadtn 
of  style,  a  magnificent  luxuriance  of  color,  which 
renders  them  more  revolting.  The  physique  pre- 
dominates in  all  his  pictures,  and  not  only  to 
grossness,  even  to  ferocity.  His  picture  here  of 
tiie  slaughter  of  the  Innocents,  makes  me  sick — it 
has  absolutely  polluted  my  imagination.  Surely, 
this  is  not  the  vocation  of  high  art.  And  as  for 
his  martyrdoms,  they  are  worse  than  Spagno- 
letto's. 

For  all  this,  he  is  the  Titan  of  painting :  his 
creations  are  **  of  the  earth  and  earthy,"  but  he 
has  called  down  fire  and  light  from  heaven,  where- 
with to  animate  and  to  illumine  them. 

Rubens  is  just  such  a  painter  as  Dryden  is  a  poet, 
and  vice  versa;  his  women  are  just  like  Dryden'a 
women,  gross,  exaggerated,  unrefined  animals; 
his  men,  like  Dryden's  men,  grand,  thinking,  act- 
ing animals.  Like  Dryden,  he  could  clothe  his 
genius  in  thunder,  dip  his  pencil  in  the  lightning 
and  the  sunbeams  of  heaven,  and  rush  fearlessly 
upon  a  subject  which  others  had  trembled  to 
approach.  In  both  we  see  a  singular  and  extra- 
ordinary  combination  of  the    plainest,    coarsest 


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fiM  8K  El  CUES   OF  ART, 

realities  of  life,  with  the  loftiest  imagery,  the  most 
luxurious  tints  of  poetry.  Both  had  the  same  pas- 
■on  for  allegory,  and  managed  it  with  equal  sao- 
0388.  "  The  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that 
bum  "  of  Dry  den,  may  be  compared  to  the  living, 
moving  forms,  the  glowing,  melting,  dazzling  huei 
cxf  Rubens,  under  whose  pencil 

'*  Desires  and  adorations, 
Winged  persuasions  and  wild  destinies, 
Splendors,  and  glooms,  and  glimmering  incarnations 
Of  hopes,  and  fears,  and  twilight  fantasies, — " 

look  form  and  being,  became  palpable  existences : 
and  yet,  with  all  this  inventive  power,  this  love  of 
allegorical  fiction,  it  is  /(/«,  the  spirit  of  animal 
life,  diffused  through  and  over  their  works ;  it  is 
the  blending  of  the  plain  reasoning  with  splendid 
creative  powers ; — of  wonderful  fertility  of  concep- 
tion with  more  wonderful  facility  of  execution ;  it 
is  the  combination  of  truth,  and  grandeur,  and 
masculine  vigor,  with  a  general  coarseness  of  taste, 
which  may  be  said  to  characterize  both  these  great 
men.  Neither  are,  or  can  be,  favorites  of  the 
women,  for  the  same  reasons. 

There  must  have  been  something  analogous  in 
the  genius  of  Rubens  and  Titian.  The  distinction 
was  of  climate  and  country.  They  appear  to  have 
looked  at  nature  under  the  same  aspect,  but  it  was 
a  different  nature, — ^the  difference  between  Flan- 
ders and  Venice.  They  were  both  painters  o^  fle«h 
ind  blood:   by  nature,  poets:   by  conformation 


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LITEBATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  221 

f olorists ;  by  temperament  and  education,  magnifr 
cent  spirits,  scholars,  and  gentlemen,  lovers  of 
pleasure  and  of  fame.  The  superior  sentiment 
and  grace,  the  refinement  and  elevation  of  Titian, 
be  owed  to  the  poetical  and  chivalrous  spirit  of  hii 
age  and  country.  The  delicacy  of  taste  which 
rragned  in  the  Italian  literature  of  that  period  in- 
fluenced the  arts  of  design.  As  to  the  coloring-^ 
we  see  in  the  pictures  of  Rubens  the  broad  day« 
light  effects  of  a  northern  climate,  and  in  those  of 
lltian,  the  burning  fervid  sun  of  a  southern  clime, 
necessarily  modified  by  shade,  before  the  objects 
could  be  seen :  hence  the  difference  between  the 
glow  of  Rubens,  and  the  gloxo  of  Titian :  the  first 
^^  i'  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  lived,**  and  the  other 
bathed  himself  in  the  evening  sky ;  the  one  dazzles, 
the  other  warms.  I  can  bring  before  my  fancy  at 
this  m(Hnent,  the  Helen  Forman  of  Rubens,  and 
Titian's  "  La  Manto ; "  the  "  man  with  a  hawk  "  of 
Rubens,  and  Titian's  "  Falconer ; "  can  any  thing 
in  heaven  or  earth  be  more  opposed  ?  Yet,  in  all 
alike,  is  it  not  the  intense  feeling  of  life  and  indi- 
vidual nature  which  charms,  which  fixes  us?  1 
know  not  which  I  admire  most ;  but  I  adore  Titian 
— ^his  men  are  all  made  for  power,  and  his  women 
lor  love. 
^    And  Rembrandt — ^king  of  shadows  I 


-  Earth-bom 


And  Bky-engendered — son  of  myaterlett 
was  not  he  a  poet?    He  remind j  me  oflen  of  thi 


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292  BKBTCHES  OF  ART, 

Prince  Sorcerer,  nurtured  "  in  the  cave  of  Dom- 
daniol,  under  the  roots  of  the  sea."  *  Such  an 
enchanted  **  den  of  darkness  "  was  his  mill  and  iti 
skylight  to  him;  and  there,  magician-like,  he 
brooded  over  half-seen  forms,  and  his  imagination 
framed  strange  spells  out  of  elemental  light  and 
shade.  Thence  he  brought  his  unearthly  shadows ; 
his  dreamy  splendors ;  his  supernatural  gleams ;  his 
gems  flashing  and  sparkling  with  internal  light ;  his 
lustrous  glooms ;  his  wreaths  of  flaming  and  em- 
bossed gold;  his  wicked  wizard-like  heads — tup- 
baned,  wrinkled,  seared,  dusky ;  pale  with  forbid- 
den studies — solemn  with  thoughtful  pain — keen 
witli  the  hunger  of  avarice — and  furrowed  with  an 
eternity  of  years  I  I  have  seen  pictures  of  his  in 
which  the  shadowy  background  is  absolutely 
peopled  with  life.  At  first,  all  seems  palpable 
darkness,  apparent  vacancy ;  but  figure  after  figure 
emerges — another  and  another;  they  glide  into 
view,  they  take  shape  and  color,  as  if  they  grew 
out  of  the  canvas  even  while  we  gaze ;  we  rub  our 
eyes;  and  wonder  whether  it  be  the  painter's  woris 
or  our  own  fancy  I 

Of  all  the  great  painters  Eembrandt  is  perhapi 
least  understood ;  the  admiration  bestowed  on  him, 
the  enormous  prices  given  for  his  pictures,  is  in 
general  a  fashion — a  mere  matter  of  convention 
—like  the  price  of  a  diamond.  To  feel  Rembrandt 
tomly,  it  is  not  enough  to  be  an  artist  or  an  am» 

•  In  Southey's  Thalaba. 


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LIT£RATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  22S 

tear  picture-fancier — one  should  be  something  d 
A  poet  too. 

ITiere  are  nineteen  of  his  pictures  here ;  of  these, 
*^  Jesus  teaching  the  doctors  in  the  temple,**  thougH 
a  small  picture,  impressed  me  with  awe, — ^the  por- 
traits of  the  painter  Flinck  and  his  wife,  with 
wonder.  All  are  ill-hung,  with  their  backs  against 
the  light — for  them  the  worst  possible  situation. 

Van  Dyck  is  here  in  all  his  glory :  there  are 
thirty-nine  of  his  pictures.  The  celebrated  full- 
length,  "  the  burgomaster's  wife  in  black,"  so  often 
engraved,  does  not  equal,  in  its  inexpressible,  un- 
obtrusive elegance,  the  "  Lady  Wharton,"  at  De- 
vonshire House.*  Then  we  have  Wallenstein 
with  his  ample  kingly  brow ;  fierce  Tilly ;  the  head 
of  Snyders ;  the  lovely  head  of  the  painter's  wife, 
Maria  Ruthven, — sweet-looking,  delicate,  golden- 
haired,  and  holding  the  flieorbo,  (she  excelled  in 
music,  I  believe,)  and  virgins,  holy  families,  and 
other  scriptural  subjects.  His  famous  picture  of 
Susanna  does  not  strike  me  much. 

The  four  apostles  of  Albert  Durer — wonderful ! 
In  expression,  in  calm  religious  majesty,  in  suavity 
of  pencilling,  and  the  grand,  pure  style  of  the 
heads  and  drapery,  quite  like  Raffaelle.  I  com- 
pared, yesterday,  the  three  portraits — that  of  Raf- 
faelle, by  himself;  (tne  famous  head  once  in  the 
Altaviti  palace,  and  engraved  by  Morghen ;)  Al- 
bert Durer,  by  himself;  and  Giorgione,  by  himself 

*  Now  remoTed  with  the  other  Tandykeg  to  Chatsworth. 


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224  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

Rafiaelle  is  the  least  handsome,  and  rather  diaap 
pointed  me  ;  the  eyes,  in  particular,  rather  projeck, 
and  have  an  expression  which  is  not  pleasing ;  the 
mouth  and  the  brow  are  fuU  of  power  and  passion 
Albert  Durer  is  beautifiil,  like  the  old  heads  of  our 
Saviour ;  and  the  predominant  expression  is  calm, 
dignified,  intellectual,  with  a  tinge  of  melancholy. 
This  picture  was  painted  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
eight:  he  was  then  sufiering  from  that  bittei 
domestic  curse,  a  shrewish,  avaricious  wife,  who 
finally  broke  his  heart.  Giorgione  is  not  hand- 
some, but  it  is  a  sublime  head,  with  such  a  lai^e 
intellectual  development,  such  a  profound  expres- 
sion of  sentiment !  Giorgione  died  of  a  faithleea 
mistress,  as  Albert  Durer  died  of  a  scolding  wife.  * 
By  Paris  Bordone,  of  Trevigi,  there  is  a  head  of 
a  Venetian  lady,  in  a  dress  of  crimson  velvet,  with 
dark  splendid  eyes  which  tell  a  whole  history.    By 

*  See  a  carious  letter  of  Pirkheimer  on  the  death  of  Albert 
Durer,  quoted  in  the  Foreign  Quarterly  Reriew,  No.  21.  "  In 
Albert  I  have  truly  lost  one  of  the  best  friends  I  liad  in  the 
whole  world,  and  nothing  grieves  me  deeper  than  that  he  should 
have  died  so  painful  a  death,  which,  under  Qod's  providence,  I 
can  ascribe  to  nobody  but  his  huswife,  who  gnawed  into  his  verj 
heart,  and  so  tormented  him  that  he  departed  hence  the  sooner; 
for  he  was  dried  up  to  a  fogot,  and  might  nowhere  seek  him 
a  jovial  humor  or  go  to  his  friends."  (After  much  more,  re- 
Oecticg  on  tliis  intolerable  woman,  he  concludes  with  edifying 
naive. ^;)  *'  She  and  her  sister  are  not  queans;  they  are,  I  doubt 
not,  in  the  number  of  honest,  devout,  and  altogether  God-ftar- 
jng  women,  but  a  man  might  better  have  a  quean  who  waa 
otherwise  kindly,  than  Much  a  gnawing,  suspicious^ quarrelsome 
jfooii  voman,  with  whom  he  can  have  no  peace  »r  quiet  neithtf 
by  day  nor  by  i;iglit." 


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IJTERATUBE,  AKB   CHARACTER.  Stt 

MurillO)  there  are  eight  pictures — not  one  in  hif 
most  elevated  style,  but  all  perfect  miracles  of 
painting  and  of  nature.  There  are  thirty-three 
pictures  of  Vander  Werff,  a  number  sufficient  to 
'  make  one's  blood  run  cold.  One,  a  Magdalene,  is 
of  the  size  of  life;  the  only  large  picture  by  this 
elegant,  elaborate,  soulless  painter  I  ever  saw :  he 
is  to  me  detestable. 

By  Joseph  Vemet  there  are  two  delicious  land- 
scapes, a  morning  and  an  evening.  I  cannot 
fardier  particularize ;  but  there  are  specimens  of 
almost  every  known  painter ;  those,  however,  of 
Titian,  Correggio,  Julio  Ramano,  and  Nicolo  Pous* 
tin,  are  very  few  and  not  of  a  very  high  class, 
while  those  of  the  early  German  painters,  and  the 
Dutch,  and  the  Flemish  schools,  are  first-rate. 

There  is  one  Englbh  picture — Wilkie's  "  Open- 
ing of  the  Will : "  it  is  very  much  admired  here, 
and  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  curiosity.  I  wish  the 
artists  of  the  two  countries  were  better  known  to 
each  other :  both  would  benefit  by  such  an  inter- 
course. 

At  the  palace  of  Schleissheim  *  there  are  nearly 
two  thousand  pictures :  of  these,  some  hundreds  are 
positively  bad;  some  hundreds  are  curious  and 
valuable,  as  illustrating  the  history  and  progress 

*  BehMashrfm  te  a  country  pakee  of  th«  king  of  BaTarla,  aboal 
■is  mllM  from  Mnnfeh ;  it  ^as  originally  been  a  beautlAU  baUd* 
Ing,  but  Is  not  now  inhabited,  and  looks  forlorn  and  dilapidated 
TIm  pictares  are  distribnted,  wiihout  any  attenpt  at  arranga 
ment,  tluroni^  fbrty  flve  rooms 


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«2<?  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

f»f  art ;  some  few  are  really  and  intnnsically  id 
mirable. 

But  the  grand  attraction  here  la  the  far-famed 
Boisser^e  Gallerj,  which  is  arranged  at  Schleiss- 
heim,  until  the  Pinakothek  is  ready  for  its  recep-  - 
tion.  This  is  the  collection  about  which  so  many 
volumes  have  been  written,  and  which  has  excited 
such  a  general  enthusiasm  throughout  Grermany. 
This  enthusiasm,  as  a  fashion,  a  mania,  is  be^n- 
ning  to  subside,  but  the  impress  it  has  left  upon  art, 
and  the  tone  it  has  given  to  the  pursuit,  the  feeling 
of  art,  will  not  so  soon  pass  away.  The  gallery 
derives  its  name  from  two  brothers,  Sulpitz  and 
Melchior  BoisserjSe,*  who,  with  a  friend  (Bertram) 
were  employed  for  many  years  in  collecting  from 
various  convents,  and  old  churches,  and  obscure 
collections  of  family  relics,  the  productions  of  the 
«arly  painters  of  Germany,  from  William  of  Co- 
logne, called  by  the  Germans  "  Meister  Wilhelm," 
down  to  Albert  Durer  and  Holbein. 

The  productions  of  the  Greek  or  Byzantine 
painters  found  their  way  into  Grermany,  as  into 
Italy,  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  Wilhelm  of 
Cologne  appeared  to  have  been  the  Cimabue  of 
the  north — the  founder  of  that  school  of  psdnting 
called  the  Byzantine-Niederrheinische^  or  Flemish 
ichool,  and  the  precursor  of  Rubens,  as  Cimabue 
was  the  precursor  of  Michael  Angelo. 

Out  of  this  stiff,  and  rude,  and  barbarous  8<yl# 

•  NatiTM,  I  beliere,  of  Cologne. 


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LITEKATUBE,  AND   CHARACTER.  227 

»f  art,  arose  and  spreai  the  Alt-Deutsche  or  Gotbic 
ichool  of  paiDting,  which  produced  successively, 
Van  Eyck,  (1870,)  Hemling,  Wohlgemuth,*  Alar- 
tin  Schoen,  Mabuse,  Johan  Schoreel,  Lucas  Kra- 
nach,  Eulmbach,  Albert  Altorfier,  Hans  Asper> 
Johan  von  Mechlem,  Behem,  Albert  Durer,  and 
the  two  Holbeins.  I  mention  here  only  those  ar- 
tists whose  pictures  fixed  my  attention ;  there  are 
many  others,  and  many  pictures  by  unknown 
aathors.  Albert  Durer  was  bom  exactly  one 
hundred  years  after  Van  Eyck. 

The  Boisser^e  gallery  contains  about  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pictures ;  but  I  did  not  count  them ; 
and  no  official  catalogue  has  yet  been  published. 
The  subjects  are  generally  sacred ;  the  figures  are 
heads  of  saints,  and  scenes  from  Scripture.  A  few 
are  portraits ;  and  there  are  a  few,  but  very  few, 
subjects  from  profane  history.  The  painters  whose 
works  I  at  once  distinguished  from  all  others,  were 
Van  Eyck,  Johan  Schoreel,  Hemling,  and  Lucas 
Kranach.  I  can  truly  say  that  the  two  pictures  of 
Van  Eyck,  representing  St  Luke  painting  the 
portrait  of  the  "Virgin,  and  the  offering  of  the  three 
kings ;  and  that  of  Johan  Schoreel,  representing 
the  death  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  perfectly  amazed 
me.  I  remember  also  several  wondrous  heads  by 
Lucas  Er^mach ;  one  by  Behem,  called,  I  know 
not  why,  **  Helena : "  and  a  picture  of  Christ  and 
the  little  children,  differing  from  all  the  rest  iv 

*  Albert  Diner  was  the  sohoUtr  of  Wohlflemuth 


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128  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

ityle,  with  something  of  the  Italian  grace  d  drai^ 
mg,  and  suavity  of  color.  The  artist,  Sedlar,  had 
studied  in  Lombardy,  probably  under  Correggio; 
(one  of  the  children  certainly  might  call  Correggio 
father.)  The  date  on  this  extraordinary  produc- 
tion is  15S0.  Of  the  painter  I  know  nothing.  The 
general  and  striking  faults,  or  rather  deficienciei 
of  the  old  German  school  of  art,  are  easily  enume- 
rated. The  most  flagrant  violations  of  taste  and 
costume,  *  bad  drawing  of  the  figure  and  extrem- 
ities, faulty  perspective ;  stiff,  hard,  meagre  compo- 
ntion,  negligence  or  ignorance  c^  all  effect  of 
chiaro-scuro.  But  what,  then,  is  the  secret  of  the 
interest  which  these  old  painters  inspire,  of  the  en- 
thudasm  they  excite,  even  in  these  cultivated  days? 
It  arises  from  a  perception  of  the  mind  they  brought 
to  bear  upon  their  subjects,  the  simplicity  and  in- 
tegrity of  feeling  with  which  they  worked,  and  the 
elaborate  marvellous  beauty  of  the  execution  of 
parts.  I  could  give  no  idea  in  words  cf  the  intense 
nature  and  expression  in  some  of  the  heads,  of  the 
grand  feeling  united  to  the  most  finished  delicacy 
in  the  conception  and  painting  of  countenance^  of 
the  dazzling  splendor  of  coloring  in  the  draperiet, 


*  I  particularly  recollect  a  pictvre,  eontaioing  many  hundred 
tgattMy  all  painted  with  the  elaborate  finish  of  a  mtniature,  and 
representing  the  victory  of  Alexander  over  Darins.  All  the  Per* 
ilans  are  dressed  like  Tnrks,  while  Alexander  and  his  host  aif 
armed  to  the  teeth,  in  the  fhll  costume  of  chivaby,  with  heraldls 
banners,  displaying  the  different  detioes  of  the  old  Germanlt 
«obltM,  the  cross,  the  bbok  eagle,  &o.  &«. 


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LITER  A.TX7R£,  AND  CHARACTBB.  22!^ 

md  the  richness  of  fancy  in  the  ornaments  and 
iccessories. 

But  I  do  fear  that  the  just  admiration  excited  by 
this  kind  of  excellence,  and  a  great  deal  of  national 
enthusiasm,  has  misled  the  modem  German  artists 
to  a  false,  at  least  an  exaggerated  estimate,  and  an 
injudicious  imitation,  of  their  favorite  models.  It 
Las  produced  or  encouraged  that  general  hardness 
of  manner,  that  tendency  to  yiolent  color,  and  high 
glazy  finish,  which  interfere  too  often  with  the 
beauty,  and  feeling,  and  efiect  of  their  composi- 
tions, at  least  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  are  ac- 
customed to  the  free  broad  style  of  English  art* 

•  The  obseryatiocB  of  Mr.  Phillips,  (Lectures  on  the  ffistory 
and  Principles  of  Pidnting,)  on  Oiotto,  and  the  earliest  Italian 
ichool,  apply  in  a  great  measure  to  the  early  German  painten, 
and  I  cannot  refhse  myself  the  pleasure  of  quoting  them.—**  As 
it  appears  to  me,  that  painting  at  the  present  time,  is  swerving 
among  us  firom  the  true  point  of  interest,  tending  to  ornament, 
to  the  loss  of  truth  and  sentiment,  I  think  I  cannot  do  better 
than  endeavor  to  restrain  the  encroachment  of  so  insidious  a  foe, 
to  prevent,  if  possible,  our  advance  in  so  erroneous  and  &tal  a 
viDurse,  by  showing  how  strong  Is  the  influence  of  art  where 
tmth  and  dmpUcity  prevail ;  and  that,  where  no  ornament  is  to 
be  found— nay,  where  imperfections  are  numerous;  where  draw* 
Ing  is  frequently  defective,  perspective  violated,  coloring  em 
ployed  without  science,  and  chiaro-scuro  rarely,  if  ever  thought 
M.  The  natural  question  then  is,  what  can  excite  so  mueh  In* 
lerest  In  pictures,  where  so  much  is  wanting  to  render  them  per* 
fcct?  I  answer,  that  which  leads  to  the  Ibrgetfhlness  of  th« 
want  of  those  Interesting  and  desirable  qualities  in  the  pictUNi 
Of  Giotto,  Is  the  excitation  caused  by  their  ftdness  of  Ibeling— 
vell-dlreoted,  ardent,  concentrated  feeling!  by  which  his  mind 
vas  engaged  in  ccnnprehending  ttie  points  most  worthy  of  dia- 
.  %]ij)  in  the  subject  he  unierto<^  to  represent,  and  led  to  the 


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030  8KEIC1IES  OF  ART, 

Thursday  Evening. — At  the  theatre.    Schiller^ 
*  firaut  Yon  Mesnna."    This  was  the  first  time  1 


ilearneas  and  intelligence  with  wfaJch  he  ha*  selected  then  ,  add 
bo  this  the  simpUeitj  and  ability  with  which  he  has  displayed 
Uiat  feeUng."  •  •  •  «*  This  is  the  first  trae  step  in  the  natural 
system  of  the  art,  or  of  the  application  of  it,  and  this  was  €Hot> 
lo's  more  especially.  The  rest  is  nsefhl,  as  it  assists  the  inflnenoe 
of  this,  the  indispensable.  This,  to  continue  the  figure,  taken 
firom  the  stage,  (in  a  previous  part  of  the  Lecture,)  is  as  Garrick 
acting  Blacbeth  or  Lear  in  a  tie-wig  and  a  general's  uniform  of 
his  day;  the  passion  and  the  character  reaching  men's  hearts, 
notwithstanding  the  absurd  costume.  If  the  art  be  found  thus 
strong  to  attract  the  mind,  to  excite  fieeling  and  thought,  and  to 
engage  the  heart,  by  the  mere  force  of  unadorned  truth  in  the 
Important  points,  and  without  the  aid  of  the  Taluable  auzUiariof 
I  have  aboTe  alluded  to,  is  it  not  manifest  that  in  its  basis  it  ii 
eorrect?  and  that  the  utmost  finrce  of  historical  painting  is  to  be 
sought  by  continual  emendation  of  this  system,  maintaining  the 
spirit  of  its  dmplicity,  supplying  its  wants,  calling  in  the  aid  of 
those  auxiliaries  within  reasonable  bounds,  not  permitting  them 
to  usurp  the  throne  of  taste  and  attraction,  but  rather  requix- 
Ing  them  to  asdst  in  humbler  guise  to  maintain  and  strengthen 
the  legitimate  authority  of  feeling." 

After  reading  these  beautiful  passages,  written  by  a'  man  who 
unites  the  acute  discriminatiTe  Judgment  of  a  practical  artist 
with  the  finest  feeling  of  the  ultimate  object  and  aim  of  high 
poetical  art,  I  felt  almost  tempted  to  expunge  my  own  super> 
fldal  and  imperfect  notes,  (above  written,)  and  should  have  dons 
so,  but  fbr  the  hope  that  my  deficiencies  will  induce  some  ono 
fiove  cmnpetent  in  taste  and  knowledge  to  take  up  the  subject 
of  the  early  German  painters.  It  Is  certain  that  the  modem 
historical  painters  of  Germany  are  working  on  the  principle  hen 
laid  down  by  Mr.  Phillips,  particularly  Overbeck  and  Wach, 
whieh  they  have  derived  from  a  study  of  their  national  school  ti 
art;  but  other  enthusiasts  should  remember  that  the  redeeming 
ueeUence  of  this  school  was  feeling,  and  that  feeling  can  nef«r 
ko  a  matter  of  mere  imitation.  I  cannot  understand  why  the 
Kuissiono  (if  Ignorance  should  be  confounded  with  the  achiero 


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UTERATUBE,  AND  CHARACTEB.  2SI 

kad  ever  seen  the  tragic  chonisses  brought  on  the 
ftage,  in  the  genuine  style  of  the  Greek  drama; 
and  the  deep  sonoro^is  voice  and  measured  recita- 
tion (I  could  abnost  say  recitative)  of  Esladr,  who 
was  at  the  head  of  the  chorus  of  Don  Manuel — 
the  emphatic  lines  being  repeated  or  echoed  by  hif 
followers — ^as  well  as  the  peculiar  style  ot  the  whole 
representation,  impressed  me  with  a  kind  of  solenm 
terror.  It  was  wholly  different  from  any  thing  I 
had  ever  witnessed,  and  T^as  rather  like  a  poem  do- 
claimed  on  the  stage,  than  what  we  are  accustomed 
to  call  a  play.  I  was  fortunate  in  seeing  Madame 
Schroder  in  Donna  Isabella,  for  she  does  not  often 
perform,  and  it  is  one  of  the  finest  parts  of  this 
grand  actress.  Don  Manuel  and  Don  Caesar  were 
played  by  Forst  and  Schunke — both  were  youngi 
very  well  looking,  and  good  actors.  Beatrice  was 
played  by  Mademoiselle  Shbller.  The  costumes 
were  beautiful,  and  all  the  arrangements  of  the 
stage  contrived  with  the  most  poetical  effect  One 
scene  in  the  first  act,  where  Donna  Isabella  stands 
between  her  two  sons,  a  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
each,  beseeching  them  to  be  reconciled ;  while  they 
remain  silent,  turning  from  each  other  with  folded 
arms,  and  dark  averted  faces ; — ^the  chonisses  drawn 
tip  on  each  side,  all  dressed  alike,  all  precisely  in 

BMnts  of  natiTe  genius,  by  those  Ibr  whom  **  knowledge  hM  un 
kwkeu  her  ample  stores,"  and  to  whom  ^he  recorery  of  thoM 
**  rich  spoils  of  time,"  the  antique  marbles,  must  haye  rerealed 
Jbe  wide  difference  between  **  the  simplicity  of  elegance  "  »n^ 
*  the  simplicity  of  indigence." 


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ES2  BKKTCUES   OF   ARf, 

the  same  attitude,  leaning  on  their  shields,  witt 
bwering  looks  fixed  on  the  group  in  the  centre, 
was  admirably  managed ;  and,  from  the  efiect  that 
it  produced,  made  me  feel  that  uniformity  may  be 
one  element  of  the  sublime.  Afterwards,  a  very 
lively  soiree. 

♦  ♦  ♦ 

Friday, — The  Hofgarten  at  Munich  is  a  square, 
planted  with  trees,  and  gravelled,  and  serving  as  a 
public  promenade.  On  one  side  is  the  royal  pal- 
ace; opposite  to  it,  the  picture  gallery;  on  the 
east,  the  king's  riding  house,  and  on  the  west,  a  long 
arcade,  open  towards  the  garden  which  connects  the 
palace  and  the  picture  gallery ;  under  this  arcade 
are  shops,  caf^^s,  restaurateurs^  &c.  as  in  the  Pcdaii 
Royal  at  Paris. 

But  what  distinguishes  this  arcade  from  all  others, 
is  the  peculiar  style  of  decoration.  It  is  painted  in 
fresco  by  the  young  artists  who  studied  under  Cor- 
nelius. There  is,  first,  a  series  of  sixteen  compart- 
ments, about  eleven  feet  in  length,  containing  sub- 
jects from  the  history  of  Bavaria.  They  are  all  by 
various  artists,  and  of  course  of  different  degrees  ol 
merit,  generally  better  in  the  composition  than  th< 
painting,  but  some  have  great  vigor  and  animation 
in  both  respects. 

For  instance,  Otho  von  Wittelsbach  receiving 
Irom  the  emperor,  Frederic  Barbarossa,  the  inve»- 
dture  of  the  dukedom  of  Bavaria  in  1180,  painted 
*>y  Zimmermann. 

The  marriage  of  Otho  the  Illustrious,  to  Agnes 


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MTERATURft,   AND   CHARACTER.  28S 

Countess  Palatine  of  the  Rhine,  in  1225,  pmnted 
ny  mj  fhend,  Wilhekn  Rbckel,  of  Schleissheim,  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  many  polite  attentions. 

The  engagement  between  Louis  the  Sevens,  ol 
Bava/ia,  and  the  fierce  fiery  Ottocar,  king  of  Bo- 
hemia, upon  the  bridge  at  MUhldorf,in  1258,  paint* 
ed  by  Stiirmer  of  Berlin.  This  is  very  animated 
and  terrific.  I  think  the  artist  had  Rubens's  defeat 
of  the  Amazons  full  in  his  mind. 

The  victory  of  the  emperor,  Louis  of  Bavaria, 
over  Frederic  of  Austria,  his  competitor  for  the 
empire  in  1822,  painted  by  Hermann  of  Dresden. 

The  storming  of  Godesberg,  when  the  unfortu- 
nate Archbishop  Gerard,  and  Agnes  of  Mansfield 
had  taken  refuge  theipe  in  1683,*  painted  by  Gas- 
sen  of  Coblentz. 

Maximilian  L  in  1628,  invested  with  the  forfeit 
electorate  of  the  Palatine  Frederic  V.f  painted  by 
Eberle  of  Dusseldorf. 

Maximilian  Joseph  L  father  of  the  present  king, 
bestowing  on  his  people  a  new  constitution  and 
representative  government  in  1818,  painted  by 
Monten  of  Dusseldorf. 

These  have  dwelt  on  my  memory.  Over  all  the 
pictures,  the  name  of  the  subject  and  the  date  are 
inscribed  in  large  gold  letters,  so  that  those  who 
walk  may  read.  The  costumes  and  manners  of 
each  epoch  have  been  attend^  to  with  the  most 
bcmpulous  accuracy ;  and  I  see  e^ery  day  groupi 

•8MP.66.  t8Mp.66^ 


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fiS4  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

of  soldiers,  and  of  the  common  people,  with  theii 
children,  standing  before  these  paintings,  spelling 
the  titles,  and  discussing  the  various  subjects  repre- 
lented.  The  further  end  of  the  arcade  is  painted 
with  a  series  of  Italian  scenes,  selected  by  the  king 
after  his  return  from  Italy,  and  executed  by  Bott- 
mann  of  Heidelberg,  a  young  landscape-painter  of 
great  merit,  as  De  Elenze  assures  me,  and  he  is  a 
judge  of  genius.  Under  each  picture  is  a  distich, 
composed  by  the  king  himself.  These  are  in  dis- 
temper, I  believe :  freely,  but  rather  hastily  exe- 
cuted, and  cold  and  ineffective  in  color,  perh;^ 
the  fault  of  the  vehicle.  The  ceilings  and  pillars 
are  also  gaily  painted  with  arabesques,  and  othei 
ornaments ;  and  at  the  upp«r  end  there  is  a  grand 
seated  figure,  looking  magnificent  and  contempla- 
tive, and  calling  herself  Bavaria.  This  is  weU 
painted  by  Kaulbach. 

I  walk  through  these  arcades  once  or  twice  every 
day,  as  I  have  several  friends  lodged  over  them ; 
and  can  seldom  arrive  at  the  end  without  pausing 
two  or  three  times. 

I  learn  that  the  king's  passion  for  building,  and 
the  forced  encouragement  given  to  the  enlargement 
and  decoration  of  his  capital,  has  been  carried  to 
an  excess,  and,  like  all  extremes,  has  proved  mis- 
chievous, at  least  for  the  time.  He  has  rendered  it 
too  much  a  fashion  among  his  subjects,  who  are  suf- 
fering from  rash  speculations  of  this  kind.  Manj 
Deautiful  edifices  in  the  Ludwig's  Strasse,  and  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Maximilian's  Platz,  and  the 


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LITEBATUBE,   AND  CHARACTER.  %86 

K.aroiine'8  Platz,  remain  untenanted.  A  ^uite  of 
beautifnl  nnfumifihed  apartanents,  and  even  a  pret- 
ty houae  in  the  finest  part  of  Munich  may  be  had 
for  a  trifle.  Some  of  these  new  houses  are  enor- 
mous. Madame  M.  told  me  that  she  has  her  whole 
edtablishment  on  one  floor,  but  then  she  has  twsnty 
three  rooms. 

Thot^h  the  country  round  Munich  is  flat  and 
•'gly*  ^  few  hours'  journey  brings  us  into  the  very 
midst  of  the  Tyrolian  Alps.  In  June  or  July  all 
the  people  fly  to  the  mountains,  and  baths,  and 
lakes  in  South  Bavaria,  and  rusticate  among  the 
most  glorious  scenery  in  the  world.  ^^  Come  to  us," 
said  my  friend,  Luise  K — ;  ^come  to  us  in  the 
summer  months,  and  we  will  play  at  Arcadia" 

And  truly,  when  I  listened  to  her  description  of 
her  mountain  life,  and  all  its  tranquil,  primitive 
pleasures,  and  all  the  beauty  and  grandeur  which 
lie  beyond  that  giant-barrier  which  lifls  itself 
against  the  evening  sky,  and  when  I  looked  into 
those  clear  affectionate  eyes — **dieser  Blick  voll 
Treu  und  Gute,"  and  beheld  the  expression  of  a 
settled  happiness,  the  light  of  a  heart  at  peace  with 
itself  and  all  the  world,  reflected  on  the  counte- 
nances of  her  children — a  recollection  of  the  un- 
quiet destiny  which  drives  me  ii.  an  opposite  direc^ 
tion  came  over  me — 

Tbon  art  a  soul  in  bliM;  but  I  am  bound 
Upon  a  wheel  of  fire,  which  mine  own  tean 
Do  scald  like  molten  lead. 

Tuesday- — ^M.  de  Elenze  calhd  this  morning  iUid 


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IS6  SKSTCHES   OF  ART, 

eondacted  me  over  the  whole  of  the  new  palace 
The  design,  when  completed,  will  fonn  a  vast  quad* 
rangle.  It  was  begun  about  seven  years  ago ;  and 
as  only  a  certain  sum  is  set  apart  every  year  for  the 
works,  it  will  probably  be  seven  years  more  before 
the  portion  now  in  progress,  which  is  the  south  side 
of  the  quadrangle,  can  be  completed. 

The  exterior  of  the  building  is  plain,  but  has  an 
air  of  grandeur  even  from  its  simplicity  and  uni- 
formity. It  reminds  me  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney's 
beautiful  description — ^^  A  house  built  of  fair  and 
strong  stone ;  not  affecting  so  much  any  extraor- 
dinary kind  of  fineness,  as  an  honorable  represent* 
ing  of  a  firm  stateliness ;  all  more  lasting  than 
beautiful,  but  that  the  consideration  of  the  exceeds 
ing  lastingness  made  the  eye  believe  it  was  exceed- 
ing beautiful.** 

When  a  selfish  despot  designs  a  palace,  it  is  for 
himself  he  builds.  He  thinks  first  of  his  own  per- 
sonal tastes  and  peculiar  habits,  and  the  arrange- 
ments are  contrived  to  suit  his  exclusive  propensi* 
ties.  Thus,  for  Nero's  overwhelming  pride,  no 
ipace,  no  height,  could  suffice ;  so  he  built  hii 
'  golden  house"  upon  a  scale  which  obliged  its 
next  possessor  to  pull  it  to  pieces,  as  only  fit  to 
lodge  a  colossus.  George  the  Fourth  had  a  predi- 
lection for  low  ceilings,  so  all  the  future  inhabitants 
of  the  Pimlico  palace  must  endure  suffocation ;  and 
as  his  majesty  did  not  live  on  good  terms  with  hii 
wife,  no  accommodation  was  prepared  for  a  futun 
^ucen  of  England. 


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LITERATUBB,   AND  CBABACT£R  387 

The  commands  which  the  king  of  Bavaria  gav€ 
De  Klenze  were  in  a  different  spirit  ^  Build  m^ 
»  palace,  in  which  nothing  within  or  without  shall 
be  of  transient  fashion  or  interest ;  a  palace  for  my 
posterity,  and  my  people,  as  well  as  myself;  oi 
which  the  decorations  shall  be  durable  as  well  as 
splendid,  and  shall  appear  one  or  two  centuries 
hence  as  pleasing  to  the  eye  and  taste  as  they  do 
now.**  "Upon  this  principle,"  said  De  Klenze, 
looking  round,  "I  deagned'what  you  now  see." 

On  the  first  floor  are  the  apartments  of  the  king 
and  queen,  all  facing  the  south:  a  parallel  range  y( 
apartments  behind,  contains  accommodation  for  the 
attendants,  ladies  of  honor,  cham\)erlains,  &c. ;  a 
grand  staircase  on  the  east  leads  to  the  apartments 
of  the  king,  another  on  the  west  to  those  of  the 
queen ;  the  two  suites  of  apartments  uniting  in  the 
centre,  where  the  private  and  sleeping  rooms  com- 
municate vrith  each  other.  All  the  chambers  allot- 
ted to  the  king's  use  are  painted  with  subjects  from 
the  Greek  poets,  and  those  of  the  queen  from  the 
Grerman  poets. 

We  began  with  the  king's  apartments.  The  ap- 
I  roach  to  the  staircase  I  did  not  quite  understand, 
for  it  appears  small  and  narrow ;  but  this  pait  cA 
Ihe  building  is  evidently  incomplete. 

The  staircase  is  beautiful,  but  simple,  conasting 
of  a  flight  of  wide  broad  steps  of  the  native  mar- 
ble; there  b  no  gilding  ;  the  ornaments  on  the 
veiling  represent  the  different  arts  and  manufac- 
tures carried  on  in  Bavaria.     Over  the  door  which 


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t38  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

•peus  into  the  apartments  is  the  king's  motto  ii 
gold  letters,  Gerecht  und  Beharrlich — Just 
and  Firm.  Two  Caryatides  support  the  entrance 
on  one  side  the  statue  of  Astrea,  and  on  the  other 
the  Greek  Victory  without  wings — the  first  express- 
ing justice,  the  last  firmness  or  constancy.  These 
figures  are  colossal,  and  modelled  by  Schwanthaler 
in  a  grand  and  severe  style  of  art. 

L  The  first  antechamber  is  decorated  with  great 
simplicity.  On  the  cornice  round  the  top  is  repre- 
sented the  history  of  Orpheus  and  the  expedition 
of  the  Argonauts,  fix>m  Linus,  the  earliest  Greek 
poet  The  figures  are  in  outline,  shaded  in  brown, 
but  without  relief  or  color,  exactly  like  those  on 
the  Etruscan  vases.  The  walls  are  stuccoed  in 
imitation  of  marble. 

n.  The  second  antechamber  is  less  simple  in  its 
decoration.  The  frieze  round  the  top  is  broader, 
(about  three  feet,)  and  represents  the  Theogony, 
tlie  wars  of  the  Titans,  &c.  from  Hesiod.  The  fig- 
ures are  in  outline,  and  tinted,  but  without  relief, 
in  the  manner  of  some  of  the  ancient  Greek  paint- 
ings on  vases,  tombs,  &c.  The  efiect  is  very  classi- 
cal, and  very  singular.  Schwanthaler,  by  whom 
these  decorations  were  designed,  has  displayed  aU 
the  learning  of  a  profound  and  accomplished  schol- 
ar>  as  well  as  the  skill  of  an  artist.  In  general 
feeling  and  style  they  reminded  me  of  Flaxman'a 
outlines  to  ^schylus. 

The  walls  of  this  room  are  also  stuccoed  in  imi- 
tation of  marble,  with  compartments,  in  which  are 


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LITER ATUBE,  AND   CHARACTER.  ^3D 

represented,  in  the  same  styie,  other  subjects  fniui 
the  **  Weeks  and  Days,"  and  the  "  Birth  of  Pan- 
dora." The  ornaments  are  in  the  oldest  Greek 
•tyle. 

ni.  A  saloon,  or  reception  room,  for  those  who 
are  to  be  presented  to  the  king.  On  this  room, 
which  is  in  a  manner  public,  the  utmost  luxury  of 
decoration  is  to  be  expended ;  but  it  is  yet  unfin- 
ished. The  subjects  are  from  Homer.  In  com- 
partments on  the  ceiling  are  represented  the  gods 
of  Greece ;  the  gorgeous  ornaments  with  which 
they  are  intermixed  being  idl  in  the  Greek  style. 
Round  the  frieze,  at  the  top  of  the  room,  the  sub- 
jects are  taken  from  the  four  Homeric  hymns.  The 
walls  will  be  painted  from  the  Siad  and  Odyssey, 
in  compartments,  mingled  with  the  richest  ara- 
besques. The  effect  of  that  part  of  the  rocm 
which,  is  finished  is  indescribably  splendid ;  but  I 
cannot  pause  to  dwell  upon  minutiae. 

IV.  The  throne-room.  The  decorations  of  this 
room  combine,  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  the 
utmost  splendor  and  the  utmost  elegance.  The 
whole  is  adorned  with  bass-reliefs  in  white  stucco, 
raised  upon  a  ground  of  dead  gold.  The  composi- 
tions are  from  Pindar.  Round  the  frieze  are  the 
games  of  Greece,  the  chariot  and  foot-race,  the 
horse-race,  the  wrestlers,  the  cestus,  &c.  Immedi- 
ately over  the  throne,  Pin'^ar,  singing  to  his  lyre, 
before  the  judges  of  the  Olympic  games.  On  each 
vide  a  comic  and  a  tragic  poet  receiving  a  prize. 
The  exceeding  lightness  and  grace,  the  various 


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240  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

fancy,  the  purity  of  style,  the  vigor  of  life  ind 
movement  displayed  here,  all  prove  that  Schi  ran- 
thaler  has  drank  deep  of  classical  inspiration,  and 
that  he  has  not  looked  upon  the  frieze  of  the  Par- 
thenon in  vain.  The  subjects  on  th^  walls  are 
various  groups  from  the  same  poet ;  over  the  throne 
is  the  king's  motto,  and  on  each  side,  Akides  and 
Achilles ;  the  history  of  Jason  and  Medea,  Castor 
and  Pollux,  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  &c.  occupy 
compartments,  differing  in  form  and  size.  The 
decoration  of  this  magnificent  room  appeared  to  me 
a  little  too  much  broken  up  into  parts — and  yet,  on 
the  whole,  it  is  most  beautiful ;  the  Graces  as  well 
as  the  Muses  presided  over  the  whole  of  these 
"  fancies,  chaste  and  noble ; "  and  there  is  excel- 
lent taste  in  the  choice  of  the  poet,  and  the  sul> 
jects  selected,  as  harmonizing  with  the  destination 
of  the  room:  all  are  expressive  of  power,  of 
triumph,  of  moral  or  physical  greatness.*  The 
walls  are  of  dead  gold,  from  the  floor  to  the  ceil- 
ing, and  ^e  gilding  of  this  room  alone  cost  72,000 
florins. 

Y.  A  saloon,  or  antechamber.  The  ceiling  and 
walls  admirably  painted,  from  the  tragedies  of 
iEschylus. 

VL  The  king's  study,  or  cabinet  de  travail.   The 

*  In  Che  throne-room  at  the  Buokingham  Palace  tiie  idea  of 
frandeur  is  suggested  by  a  vile  heraldic  crown,  stuck  on  tbi 
eapitals  of  the  columns.  Conceiye  the  flagrant,  the  vnlgw 
barbarity  of  taste !  !  It  cannot  surely  be  attributed  to  tbt 
aiehlteotr 


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LITEBATURF,  AND  CHARACTER.  241 

lubjc  ^*t8  from  Sophocles,  equally  classical  in  tastOi 
ani  rich  in  color  and  efi'ect.  In  the  arch  at  one 
end  of  this  room  are  seven  compartments,  in  which 
are  inscnbed  in  gold  letters,  the  sayings  of  the 
seven  Greek  sages. 

Sehwanthaler  furnished  the  outlines  of  the  com- 
positions &om  ^schylus  and  Sophocles,  which  are 
executed  in  colors  by  Wilhelm  Bockel  of  Schleiss- 
heim. 

Vn.  The  king's  dresdng-room.  The  subjects 
from  Aristophanes,  pmnted  by  Hiltensberger  of 
Suabia,  certainly  one  of  the  best  painters  here. 
There  is  exquisite  fantastic  grace  and  spirit  in 
these  designs. 

**It  was  fit,"  said  de  Klenze,  "  that  the  first  ob- 
jects  which  his  majesty  looked  upon  on  rising  fixim 
his  bed  should  be  gay  and  mirth-inspiring.'' 

Vin.  The  king's  bedroom.  The  subjects  from 
Theocritus,  by  different  painters,  but  principally 
Professor  Heinrich  Hess  and  Bruchmann.  This 
room  pleased  me  least 

No  description  could  give  an  adequate  idea  of 
the  endless  variety,  and  graceful  and  luxuriant 
ornament  harmonizing  with  the  various  subjects, 
and  the  purpose  of  each  room,  and  lavished  on  the 
walls  and  ceilings,  even  to  infinitude.  The  general 
style  is  very  properly  borrowed  from  the  Greek 
decorations  at  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii ;  not  ser- 
vilely copied,  but  varied  with  an  exhaustless  prod* 
igality.  of  fancy  and  invention,  and  applied  with 
exquisite  taste.  The  combinatiou  of  the  gayest 
16 


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242  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

brightest  colors  has  been  studied  with  care,  thmi 
proportion  and  approximation  calculated  on  scien- 
tific principles ;  so  that  the  result,  instead  of  being 
gaudy  and  perplexing  to  the  eye,  is  an  effect  the 
most  captivating,  brilliant,  and  harmonious  that  can 
be  conceived. 

The  material  used  is  the  encaustic  painting, 
which  has  been  revived  by  M.  de  Klenze.  He 
fpent  four  months  at  Naples  analyzing  the  colors 
used  in  the  encaustic  paintings  at  Herculaneum 
and  Pompeii,  and  by  innumerable  experiments 
reducing  the  process  to  safe  practice.  Professor 
Zimmermann  explained  to  me  the  other  day,  as  I 
stood  beside  him  while  he  worked,  the  general 
principle,  and  the  advantages,  of  this  style.  Vt 
is  much  more  rapid  than  oil  painting;  it  is  al)^ 
much  less  expensive,  requiring  both  cheaper  mv 
terials  and  in  smaller  quantity.  It  dries  moK» 
quickly :  the  surface  is  not  so  glazy  and  unequat, 
requiring  no  particular  light  to  be  seen  to  ad  van* 
tage.  The  colors  are  wonderfully  bright:  it  u 
capable  of  as  high  a  finish,  and  it  is  quite  as  durablt 
as  oils.  Both  mineral  and  vegetable  colors  can  bt 
used. 

Now  to  return.  The  king's  bedchamber  opem 
into  the  queen's  apartments,  but  to  take  these  io 
order  we  must  begin  at  the  beginning.  The  stair- 
case, which  is  still  unfinished,  will  be  in  a  much 
richer  style  of  architecture  than  that  on  the  king^ 
lide:  it  is  sustained  with  beautiful  columns  ci 
native  marble. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  249 

L  Antechamber ;  painted  from  the  history  an«l 
poems  of  Walther  von  der  Yogelweide,  by  Gasseo 
of  Coblentz,  a  young  painter  of  distinguished 
merit. 

Walther  "of  the  Inrd-meadow,"  for  that  is  th« 
literal  signification  of  his  name,  was  one  of  the  most 
celebrated  of  the  early  Suabian  Minnesingers,* 
and  appears  to  have  lived  from  1190  to  1240.  He 
led  a  wandering  life,  and  was  at  different  times  in 
the  service  of  several  princes  of  Grermany.  He 
figured  at  the  famous  "  strife  of  poets,"  at  the  castle 
of  Wartsburg,  which  took  place  in  1207,  in  pres- 
ence of  Hermann,  landgrave  of  Thuringia  and  the 
landgravine  Sophia ;  this  is  one  of  the  most  cele- 
brated incidents  in  the  history  of  German  poetry. 
He  also  accompanied  Leopold  VH.  to  the  Holy 
Land.  His  songs  are  warlike,  patriotic,  moral,  and 
religious.  "  Of  love  he  has  always  the  highest  con- 
ception, as  of  a  principle  of  action,  a  virtue,  a  re- 
ligious affection  ;  and  in  his  estimation  of  female 
excellence,  he  is  below  none  of  his  contempor» 

ries-^t 

In  the  centre  of  the  ceiling  is  represented  the 
poetical  contest  at  Wartsburg,  and  Walther  is  re- 
citing his  verses  in  presence  of  his  rivals  and  the 


•  Then  )■  •  mrj  pretty  llttte  edition  of  hie  lyrical  poeme,  na 
lered  into  tlie  modern  German  by  Karl  Simroek,  an^  publishel 
It  Berlin  In  1888. 

t  See  a  very  interesting  aoeonnt  oT  Walther  von  der  TofM 
iMide,  with  translationfl  of  aome  of  his  poems  in  **  The  Lays  «f 
Ihe  llinnesincers,'*  published  in  1825. 


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t44  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

jttoembled  judges.  At  tho  upper  end  of  the  tqvq» 
Walther  is  exhibited  exactly  as  he  describes  him- 
lelf  in  one  of  his  principal  poems,  seated  on  a 
high  rock  in  a  melancholy  attitude,  leaning  on  his 
elbow,  and  contemplating  the  troubles  of  his  deso- 
late country ;  in  the  opposite  arch,  the  old  poet  is 
represented  as  feeding  the  little  birds  which  are 
fluttering  round  him — in  allusion  to  his  will,  which 
directed  that  the  birds  should  be  fed  yearly  upon 
his  tomb.  Another  compartment  represents  Wal< 
ther  showing  to  his  Geliebte  (his  mistress)  th< 
reflection  of  her  own  lovely  face  in  his  polished 
shield.  There  are  other  subjects  which  I  cannot 
recall.  The  figures  in  all  these  groups  are  the  size 
of  life. 

n.  The  next  room  is  panted  from  the  poems  of 
Wolfram  of  Eschenbach,  another,  and  one  of  the 
most  fertile  of  the  old  Minnesingers ;  he  also  was 
present  at  the  contest  at  Wartsburg, "  and  wandered 
from  castle  to  castle  like  a  true  courteous  knight, 
dividing  his  time  between  feats  of  arms  and  min- 
strelsy. '  He  versified,  in  the  German  tongue,  the 
romance  of  the  ^*  Saint-Greal,"  making  it  an  original 
production,  and  the  central  point,  if  the  expression 
may  be  allowed,  of  an  innumerable  variety  of  ad- 
ventures, which  he  has  combined,  like  Ariosto,  in 
artful  perplexity,  in  the  poems  of  Percival  and  11- 
turel.  *  These  adventures  furnish  the  subjects  of 
the  paintings  on  the  ceiling  and  walls,  which  are 

*  8m  ft  Tery  learned  and  well-wiltten  article  on  the  anefeitf 
l^xman  and  northern  poetry  in  the  Edinboigh  ReTiew,  toI.  S0 


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LITBRATURE,   AND  CHABACTER.  24A 

ixecuted  by  Hermann  of  Dresden,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  of  the  pupils  of  Cornelius. 

The  oinaments  in  these  two  rooms,  which  are 
exceedingly  rich  and  appropriate,  are  in  the  old 
gothic  style,  and  reminded  me  of  the  illuminations 
in  the  ancient  MSS. 

ni.  A  saloon  (salon  de  service)  appropriated 
to  the  ladies  in  wsdting :  painted  from  the  ballads 
of  Burger,  by  Foltz  of  Bingen.  The  ceiling  of  this 
room  is  perfectly  exquisite — ^it  is  formed  entirely 
of  small  rosettes,  (about  a  foot  in  diameter,)  vary- 
ing in  form,  and  combining  every  hue  of  the  rain- 
bow— ^the  delicacy  and  harmony  of  the  entire  effect 
is  quite  indescribable.  The  rest  of  the  decorations 
are  not  finished,  but  the  choice  of  the  poet  and  the 
subjects,  considering  the  destination  of  the  room, 
delighted  me.  The  fate  of  "  Lenora,"  and  that  of 
the  "  Curate's  Daughter,**  will  be  edifying  subjects 
of  contemplation  for  the  maids  of  honor. 

lY.  The  throne-room.  Magnificent  in  the  gen- 
eral effect ;  elegs^nt  and  appropriate  in  the  design. 

On  the  ceiling,  which  is  richly  ornamented,  are 
four  medallions,  exhibiting,  under  the  effigies  of 
four  admirable  women,  the  four  feminine  candnal 
virtues.  Constancy  is  represented  by  Maria  The- 
tesa;  maternal  love,  by  Cornelia^;  charity,  by  St 
Elizabeth,  (the  Margravine  of  Thuringia ;  *)  and 
filial  tenderness,  by  Julia  Ra  Alpinula. 

*  The  legend  of  this  charming  saint,  one  of  the  most  popnla. 
in  Germany,  Is  bnt  little  known  among  ns.  She  was  the  wift  ol 
I  margraTB  of  Tbniingia,  who  was  tk  ieroe,  aTarioions  man.  n  hiki 


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146  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

And  there — 0  sweet  and  sacred  be  the  naoMl 

Julia,  the  daaghter,  the  devoted,  gave 
Her  yoath  to  Heaven;  her  heart  beneath  a  claim 

Nearest  to  Heaven*8,  broke  o*er  a  father's  grav«. 

Lord  Btrox. 

'*I  always  avoid  emblemad'^al  and  allegorical 
figures,  wherever  it  b  possible,  for  they  are  cold 
and  arbitrary,  and  do  not  speak  to  the  heart  1" 
said  M.  de  Elenze,  perceiving  how  much  I  was 
charmed  with  the  idea  of  thus  personifying  the 
womanly  virtues. 

The  paintings  round  the  room  are  from  the 
poems  of  Elopstock,  and  executed  by  Wilhehoo 
Kaulbach,  an  excellent  artist.  Only  the  frieze  ii 
finished.  It  consists  of  a  series  of  twelve  compart- 
ments :  three  on  each  side  of  the  room,  and  divided 
from  each  other  by  two  boys  of  colossal   size, 

•he  herself  was  all  made  up  of  tendemesi  and  melting  pity.  Shs 
lived  with  her  husband  in  his  castle  on  the  Wartsbnrg,  and  was 
aoeustomed  to  go  out  every  morning  to  distribute  alms  among 
thepoor  of  the  valley;  her  husband,  jealous  and  covetous,  fc> 
^Mkde  her  thus  to  exercise  her  bounty;  but  as  she  regarded  bm 
duty  to  God  and  the  poor,  even  as  paramount  to  conjugal  obe- 
dience, she  secretly  continued  her  charitable  offlees.  Her  hoi- 
oand  encountered  her  one  morning  at  sunrise,  as  she  was  leav- 
ing the  castle  with  a  covered  basket  containing  meat,  bread,  and 
wine,  for  a  starving  fiunily.  He  demanded,  angrily,  what  shi 
had  in  her  basket  *  Elisabeth,  trembling,  not  for  herself,  but 
tcT  her  wretched  protegees,  replied,  with  a  Altering  voice,  thai 
she  had  been  gathering  roses  in  the  garden.  The  fierce  chieftain, 
not  believing  her,  snatched  off  the  napkin,  and  Elizabeth  fell  ov 
lier  knees.— But,  beliold,  a  miracle  had  been  operated  tn  hei 
bvoi !— The  basket  was  ftall  of  roses,  fresh  gathered,  aad  w# 
dtbdew 


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LllERATUBE,   AND   CHJLRACTKR.  247 

grouped  as  Caryatides,  and  in  very  high  relie£ 
These  compartments  represent  the  various  scenei 
Df  the  Herman-Schlacht ;  the  sacrifices  of  th« 
Druids ;  the  adieus  of  the  women ;  the  departure 
of  the  warriors;  the  fight  with  Varus;  the  vic- 
tory ;  the  return  of  Herman  to  his  wife  Thusnel- 
da,  &c. 

**  Herman,  or,  as  the  Roman  historians  call  him, 
Arminius,  was  a  chieftain  of  the  Cheruscans,  a 
Iribe  of  northern  Germany.  After  serving  in  Illy- 
ria,  and  there  learning  the  Roman  arts  of  warfare, 
he  came  back  to  his  native  country,  and  fought 
successfully  for  its  independence.  He  defeated, 
beside  a  defile  near  Detmold,  in  Westphalia,  the « 
Roman  legions  under  the  command  of  Varus,  with 
a  slaughter  so  mortifying,  that  the  proconsul  is  said 
to  have  killed  himself,  and  Augustus  to  have  re- 
ceived the  news  of  the  catastrophe  with  indecoroui 
expressions  of  grief.  It  b  this  defeat  of  Vanu 
which  forms  the  theme  of  one  of  Elopstock's  choruih 
dramas,  entitled,  ''  The  Battle  of  Herman.''  The 
dialogue  is  concise  and  picturesque ;  the  character! 
various,  consistent,  and  energetic ;  a  lofty  colossal 
firame  of  being  belongs  to  them  all,  as  in  the  paint- 
mgs  of  Caravaggio.  To  Herman,  the  disinterested 
zealot  of  patriotism  and  independence,  a  preference 
(tf  importance  is  wisely  given ;  yet,  perhaps,  hif 
wife  Thusnelda  acts  more  strongly  on  the  sympathy 
ay  the  enthusiastic  veneration  and  affection  she 
iisplays  for  her  hero-consort.* 

*  9iw  I^yIor'«  "  Hiatorio  Survey  of  Oerman  Poetry."   Hwidh 


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148  8KE1CHES  OF  ABT, 

y.  Saloon,  or  drawing-rodm.  The  paintiii||^ 
from  Wieland,  by  Eugene  Neurather,  (already 
known  in  England  by  his  beautiful  arabesque  illni- 
tradons  of  Goethe's  ballads.)  The  frieze  only  d 
this  room,  which  is  from  the  Oberon,  is  in  progreK. 

VI.  The  queen's  bedroom.  The  paintings  fiwn 
Groethe,  and  chiefly  by  Kaulbach.  The  ceiling  ii 
exquisite,  representing  in  compartments  various 
scenes  from  Goethe's  principal  lyrics ;  the  Herman 
and  Dorothea;  Pausias  and  Glycera,  &c.,  inter- 
mixed with  the  most  rich  and  elegant  ornaments  in 
relief. 

VII.  The  queen's  study,  or  private  sitting-room. 
•   A  small  but  very  beautiful  room,  with  paintings 

from  Schiller,  principally  by  Lindenschmidt  of 
Mayence.  On  the  ceiling  are  groups  from  the 
Wallenstein ;  the  Maid  of  Orleans ;  the  Bride  of 
Corinth ;  VHlhelm  Tell :  and  on  the  walls,  in  com- 
partments, mingled  with  the  most  elegant  orna- 
ments, scenes  from  the  Fridolin,  the  Toggenburg, 
the  Dragon  of  Rhodes,  and  other  of  his  lyrics. 

Vin.  The  queen's  library.  As  the  wsJls  will  be 
covered  with  book-cases,  all  the  splendor  of  deco- 
ration  is  lavished  on  the  ceiling,  which  is  inexprei^ 
sibly  rich  and  elegant  The  paintings  are  from  the 
works  of  Ludwig  Tieck — ^from  the  Octavianus,  the 
Genoneva,  Fortunatus,  the  Puss  in  Boots,  &c.,  and 
executed  by  Von  Schwind. 

The  dinmg-room  is  magnificently  painted  witb 

«M  afterwards  murdered  by  a  band  of  conspirators,  and  Thus 
ealda,  on  loajrning  the  fkte  of  her  husband,  died  brokenheartod. 


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MTERATUKB,  AND  CHARACTER.  249 

mbjects  from  Anacreon,  intermixed  with  om»* 
ments  and  bacchanalian  83rmbol8,  all  in  the  richest 
coloring.  In  the  compartments  on  the  ceiling,  the 
figures  are  the  size  oC  life — ^in  those  round  the 
walls,  half-life  size.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  luxu- 
riant fancy,  the  gaiety,  the  classical  elegance,  and 
amenity  of  some  of  these  groups.  They  are  all  by 
Professor  Zinmiermann. 

One  of  these  paintings,  a  group  representing,  1 
think,  Auacreon  with  the  Graces,  (it  is  at  the  east 
end  of  the  room,)  b  usually  pointed  out  as  an  ex- 
ample of  the  perfection  to  which  the  encaustic 
painting  has  been  carried :  in  fact,  it  would  be  dif- 
ficult to  exceed  it  in  the  mingled  harmony,  purity^ 
and  brilliance  of  the  coloring. 

M.  Zimmermann  told  me  that  when  he  submitted 
the  cartoons  for  these  paintings  to  the  king's  ap- 
probation, his  majesty  desired  a  slight  alteration 
to  be  made  in  a  group  representing  a  nymph  em- 
braced by  a  bacchanal;  not  as  being  in  itself  fault}', 
but  **  k  cause  de  ses  enfans,"  his  eldest  daughters  be- 
ing accustomed  to  dine  with  himself  and  the  queen. 

Now  it  must  be  remembered  that  these  seven- 
teen rooms  form  the  domestic  apartments  of  the 
royal  family;  and  magnificent  as  they  are,  a  certain 
elegance,  cheerfidness,  and  propriety  has  been 
more  consulted  than  parade  and  grandeur:  but  oii 
the  ground-fioor  there  is  a  suite  of  state  apartments, 
prepared  for  the  reception  of  strangers,  &c.,  on 
great  and  festive  occasions ;  and  these  excited  mi 
tdmiration  more  than  all  tlie  rest  together. 


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fM)  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

The  paindDgs  are  entirely  executed  in  fiesco,  oa 
ft  p*and  scale,  by  Julius  Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld, 
certainly  one  of  the  greatest  living  artists  of  £a 
rope :  and  these  four  rooms  will  form,  when  com- 
pleted, the  very  triumph  of  the  romantic  school  of 
painting.  It  is  not  tdone  the  invention  displayed 
in  the  composition,  nor  the  largeness,  boldness,  and 
freedom  of  the  drawing,  nor  the  vigor  and  splendor 
of  the  coloring ;  it  is  the  enthusiastic  sympathy  of 
the  painter  with  his  subject ;  the  genuine  spirit  of 
the  old  heroic,  or  rather  Teutonic  ages  of  €rerm»> 
ny,  breathed  through  and  over  his  singular  crea- 
tions, which  so  peculiarly  distinguish  them.  They 
are  the  very  antipodes  of  all  our  notions  of  the 
classical — they  take  us  back  to  the  days  of  Gothic 
romance,  and  legendary  lore — to  the  "  fiery  Franks 
and  furious  Huns  " — ^to  the  heroes,  in  short,  of  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  &om  which  all  the  subjects  are 
taken. 

To  enable  the  merely  English  reader  to  feel,  or 
ai  least  understand,  the  interest  attached  to  ihif 
grand  series  of  paintings,  without  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  do  justice  to  the  artist,  it  is  necessary  to 
give  a  slight  sketch  of  the  poem  which  he  has  thai 
magnificentiy  illustrated.* 

*  Th«  notlees  which  follow  are  abrida^  from  the  euaj  **oa 
Andent  German  and  Norttiem  Poetry,*'  before  mentioned— fron 
the  Pralkce  to  the  edition  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  by  M.  Yon  dv 
Hagen— and  the  analysii  of  the  poon  in  the  Illustrationa  d 
Northern  Antiquities.  My  own  first  acquidntance  with  thi^ 
NIbriangen  lied,  I  owed  to  an  accomplished  friend,  who  gave  ii% 

detailed  and  Unij  aoaijiifl  of  the  story  and  ehaiacters;  anl 


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UTEEATURB,  AND   CHARACTER.  26\ 

**  Thiri  Dational  epic,  as  it  is  justly  termed  by  M. 
Von  der  Hagen,  has  lately  attracted  a  most  unpre- 
cedented degree  of  attention  in  Germany.  It  now 
Actually  forms  a  part  of  the  philological  courses  in 
many  of  their  universities,  and  it  has  been  hailed 
with  ahnost  as  much  veneration  as  the  Homeric 
KHigs.  Some  allowance  must  be  made  for  German 
enthusiasm,  but  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  Nibe- 
lungen  Lied,  though  a  little  too  bloody  and  dolor- 
ous, possesses  extraordinary  merits."  The  hero 
and  heroine  of  this  poem  are  Siegfried,  (son  of 
Siegmund,  king  of  Netherland,  and  of  Sighelind 
his  queen,)  and  Chrimhilde,  princess  of  Burgundy, 
Siegfried,  or  Sifrit,  the  Sigurd  of  the  Scandinavian 
Sagas,  is  the  favorite  hero  of  the  northern  parts  of 
Germany.  His  spear,  "  a  mighty  pine  beam,"  was 
preserved  with  veneration  at  Worms ;  and  there, 
In  the  church  of  St  Cecilia,  he  is  supposed  to  have 
been  buried.  The  German  romances  do  not  rep- 
resent him  as  being  of  gigantic  proportions,  but 
they  all  agree  that  he  became  invulnerable  by 
bathing  in  the  blood  of  a  dragon,  which  guarded 
the  treasures  of  the  Kibelungen,  and  which  he 
overcame  and  killed ,  but  it  happened  that  as  he 
bathed,  a  leaf  fell  and  rested  between  his  shoulders, 
and  consequently,  that  one  little  spot,  about  a 
hand's  breadth,  still  remained  susceptible  of  injury. 
Siegfried  also  possesses  the  wondrous    tarn-cap, 

lertalnly  no  ehild  erer  hnng  opon  a  tale  of  ogres  and  fldrlai 
irtth  more  intense  Interest  than  I  did  upon  bm  reeital  of  tlMi  ad 
mmliiTeB  of  the  mbelnngsn. 


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f^2  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

vrbicli  had  the  power  of  rendering  the  wearer  Di- 
visible. 

This  formidable  champion,  after  winning  die 
love  and  the  hand  of  the  fair  pnncess  Chrimhilde, 
and  performing  a  thousand  valiant  deeds,  is  treach 
erously  murdered  by  the  three  brothers  of  Chrim 
hilde,  Gunther,  king  of  Burgundy,  Ghiseler,  Gemot, 
and  their  uncle  Hagen,  instigated  by  queen  Brun- 
hilde,  the  wife  of  Gunther.  Chrimhilde  meditates 
for  years  the  project  of  a  deep  and  deadly  revenge 
on  the  murderers  of  her  husband.  This  vengeance 
b  in  fact  the  subject  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied,  as 
the  wrath  of  Achilles  is  the  subject  of  the  Biad. 

The  poem  opens  thus  beautifully  with  a  kind  of 
argument  of  the  whole  eventful  story. 

**  In  ancient  song  and  story  maiprels  high  are  told, 
Of  knights  of  bold  emprize  and  adventures  mani-fold; 
Of  joy  and  merry  feasting,  of  lamenting,  woe,  and  fear: 
Of  champions'  bloody  battles  many  marvels  shall  ye  hear 

A  noble  maid  and  fair,  grew  up  in  Burgandy, 

In  all  the  land  about,  fairer  none  might  be ; 

She  became  a  queen  full  high,  Chrimhild  was  she  hi^t, 

But  for  her  matchless  beauty  fell  many  a  blade  of  mij^ 

For  love  and  for  delight  was  framed  that  lady  gay, 
Many  a  champion  bold  sighed  for  that  gentle  May; 
Beauteous  was  her  form!  beauteous  without  compare  1 
The  virgin's  virtues  might  adorn  many  a  lady  faur. 

Throe  kings  of  might  had  the  maiden  in  their  care, 
King  Gunther  and  king  Gemot,  champions  bold  they  werq 
And  Ghiselar  the  young,  a  chosen  peerless  blade: 
1  he  lady  was  their  sister,  and  much  they  loved  the  maid. 


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LITBBATURE,  AND  CHABACTER.  259 

Then  follows  an  enumeration  of  the  heroes  in 
ittendance  on  king  Gunther :  Haghen,  the  fierce ; 
Dankwart,  the  swift ;  Yolker,  the  minstrel  knight ; 
ind  others ;  **  all  champions  bold  and  free ; " — and 
tiien  the  poet  proceeds  to  open  the  argument 

**  One  night  the  queen  Ghrimhild  dreamt  her  as  she  lay. 
How  the  had  trained  and  nourished  a  falcon,  wild  and  gay , 
When  suddenly  two  eagles  fierce  the  gentle  hawk  hare 

slain — 
Never,  in  this  world  felt  she  such  orael  pain! 

To  her  mother,  Uta,  she  told  her  dream  with  fear. 
Full  mournfully  she  answered  to  what  the  maid  did  spier, 
*The  falcon,  whom  you  cherished,  a  gentle  knight  is  he. 
God  take  him  to  his  ward !  thou  must  lose  him  suddenly.* 

What  speak  you  of  the  knight?  dearest  mother,  say  I 
Without  the  love  of  Champion,  to  my  dying  day, 
Ever  thus  fair  will  I  remain,  nor  take  a  wedded  fere 
To  gain  such  pain  and  sorrow— though  the  knight  were 
without  peer  I' 

Speak  not  thou  too  rashly !  *  her  mother  spake  again. 
*  If  ever  in  this  world,  thou  heart-felt  joy  wilt  gain. 
Maiden  must  thou  be  no  more;  Leman  must  thou  have, 
God  will  grant  thee  for  thy  mate,  some  gentle  knight  and 
brave.* 

0  leave  thy  words,  lady  mother;  speak  not  of  wedded 

mate, 
PnU  many  a  gentle  maiden  hath  found  the  truth  toi 

late: 
Btin  has  their  fondest  love  ended  with  woe  and  pain; 
ITIrgin  will  I  ever  be,  nor  the  love  of  Leman  gain.* 


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254  SKBTCHSS  OF  ABT, 

hi  Tirtves  bf^  and  noble  tlmt  genfle  maidan  dw«lt» 
Fun  manj  a  night  and  day,  nor  love  for  Leman  fdt. 
To  never  a  knight  or  champion  would  she  plight  Imi 

Tirgin  truth, 
Fill  she  wari  gained  for  wedded  fere  bj  a  right  noUt 

youth* 

That  3  outh,  he  was  the  foloon,  she  in  her  dream  beheld. 
Who  by  the  two  fierce  eagles,  dead  to  the  ground  ww 

feU'd: 
But  since  right  dreadful  vengeance  she  took  upon  his 

foen; 
Fur  the  death  of  that  bold  hero,  died  full  many  a  mother's 

son." 


After  this  exordium  the  story  commences,  the 
first  half  ending  with  the  assassination  of  Siegfried. 

Some  years  after  the  murder  of  Siegfried,  Chiim- 
hilde  gives  her  hand  to  Etzel,  (or  Attila,)  king  of 
the  Huns,  in  order  that  through  his  power  and  in- 
fluence she  may  be  enabled  to  execute  her  long- 
cherished  schemes  of  vengeance.  The  assassins 
accordingly,  and  all  their  kindred  and  followers,  are 
induced  to  visit  King  Etzel  at  Vienna,  where,  by  the 
instigation  of  Chrimhilde,  a  deadly  feud  arises ;  izi 
the  course  of  which  almost  the  whole  army  on  both 
sides  are  cruelly  slaughtered.  By  the  powerful, 
but  reluctant  aid  of  Dietrich  of  Bern,*  Hagen,  the 
murderer  of  Siegfried,  is  at  last  vanquished,  ano 


*  INetrioh  of  Bern  (i.  e.  Theodorle  of  Yerona,)  Is  the  great 
Imto  of  South  Germany— the  King  Arthur  of  Teutonic  romancei 
vho  figures  in  all  the  warlike  lays  and  legends  of  the  middle  age* 


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LITERATUBB,  AND  CHABACTEBl.  2ft5 

biVHight  bound  to  the  feet  of  the  queen,  who  at 
once  raises  the  sword  of  her  departed  hero,  and 
with  her  own  hand  strikes  off  the  head  of  his  en- 
emy. Hildebrand  instantly  avenges  the  atrociouf 
and  unhospitable  act,  by  stabbing  the  queen,  who 
falls  exulting  on  the  body  of  her  hated  victim. 

When  Gunther's  arms,  and  those  of  his  brothew 
and  champions,  are  brought  to  Worms,  Brunhllde 
repents  too  late  of  her  treachery  to  Siegfried,  and 
the  old  queen  Uta  dies  of  grief.  As  to  King  Etzel, 
the  poet  professes  himself  ignorant,  ^*  whether  he 
died  in  battle,  or  was  taken  up  to  heaven,  or  fell 
out  of  his  skin,  or  was  swallowed  up  by  the  devil ;  ** 
leaving  to  his  reader  the  choice  of  these  singular 
catastrophes ; — and  thus  the  story  ends.* 

The  rivalry  between  Chrimhilde  and  her  ama- 
Eonian  sister-in-law,  Brunhilde,  forms  the  most  in- 
teresting and  amusing  episode  in  the  poem ;  and 
Ine  characters  of  the  two  queens — the  fierce 
haughty  Brunhilde,  and  the  impassioned,  devoted, 
confiding  Chrimhilde — (whom  the  very  excess  ci 
conjugal  love  converts  into  a  relentless  fury,)  are 
admirably  discriminated.  **The  work  is  divided 
into  thirty-eight  books,  or  adventures  ;  and  besides 
a  liberal  allowance  of  sorcery  and  wonders,  con- 
tains a  great  deal  of  clear  and  animated  narrative, 
md  innumerable  curious  and  picturesque  traits  of 
he  manners  of  the  age.  The  characters  of  the 
different  warriors,  as  well  as  those  of  the  two  queeni| 

«  iM  the  niostratlons  of  Northern  Antiquities,  p.  211. 


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S56  •     SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

and  \heir  heroic  consorts,  are  very  naturally  and 
powerfully  drawn — especially  that  of  Hagen,  the 
murderer  of  Siegfried,  in  whom  the  virtues  ol  ao 
heroic  and  chivalrous  leader  are  strangely  united 
with  the  atrocity  and  impenitent  hardihood  of  an 


**  The  author  of  the  Lay  of  the  Nibelungen  has 
not  been  ascertained.  In  its  present  form  it  must 
have  existed  between  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries; — this  is  proved  by  the  language;  but 
the  manners,  tone,  thoughts,  and  actions,  which 
are  all  in  perfect  keeping,  bear  testimony  to  an 
antiquity  far  beyond  that  of  the  present  dress  of 
the  poem." 

Here  then  was  a  boundless,  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  inspiration  for  such  a  painter  as  Julius 
Schnorr ;  and  his  poetical  fancy  appears  to  have 
absolutely  revelled  in  the  grand,  the  gay,  the  tragic 
subjects  afforded  to  his  creative  pencil. 

In  the  first  room,  immediately  over  the  entrance, 
he  has  represented  the  poet,  or  presumed  author 
of  the  Nibelungen ;  an  inspired  figure,  attended 
by  two  listening  genii.  On  each  side,  but  a  little 
lower  down,  are  two  figures  looking  towards  him ; 
on  one  side  a  beautiful  female,  striking  a  harp,  and 
attended  by  a  genius  crowned  with  roses — ^reppb- 
lents  song  or  poesy.  On  the  other  side  a  sibyJ 
listening  to  the  voice  of  Time,  represents  tradition. 
The  figures  are  ail  colossal. 

Below,  on  each  side  of  this  door,  are  two  beauti* 
fbl  groups.    That  to  the  right  of  the  spectator  r» 


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LITERATUBE,  AND  CHARACTER.  257 

presents  Siegfried  and  Chrimhilde.  She  is  leaning 
on  the  shouldsr  of  her  warlike  husband  with  an 
air  of  the  most  inimitable  and  graceful  abandon- 
ment  in  her  whole  figure :  a  falcon  sits  upon  hei 
hand,  on  which  her  eyes  are  turned  with  the  most 
profound  expression  of  tenderness  and  melancholy ; 
she  is  thinking  upon  her  dream,  in  which  was  fore- 
ihadowed  the  early  and  terrible  doom  of  her  hus- 
band. 

It  is  said  at  Munich,  that  the  wife  of  Schnorr, 
an  exquisitely  beautiful  woman,  whom  he  married 
under  romantic  circumstances,  was  the  model  of 
his  Chrimhilde,  an^  that  one  of  her  spontaneouf 
attitudes  furnished  the  idea  of  this  exquisite  group, 
on  which  I  never  look  without  emotion.  The  depth 
and  splendor  of  the  coloring  adds  to  the  effect 
The  figures  are  rather  above  the  size  of  life. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  door,  as  a  pendant^ 
we  have  Gunther,  and  his  queen,  Brunhilde.  He 
holds  one  of  her  hands,  with  a  deprecating  ex- 
pression. She  turns  from  him  with  an  averted 
countenance,  exhibiting  in  her  whole  look  and 
attitude,  grief,  rage,  and  shame.  It  is  evident  that 
fhe  has  just  made  the  fatal  discovery  of  her  hus- 
band's obligations  to  Siegfried,  which  urges  her  to 
the  destruction  of  the  latter.  I  have  heard  trav- 
ellers ignorantly  criticize  the  grand,  and  somewhat 
exaggerated  forms  of  Brunhilde,  as  being  **  really 
quite  coarse  and  unfeminine.**  In  the  poem  she 
b  represented  as  possessing  the  strength  of  twelve 
men ;  and  when  Hagen  see^  her  throw  a  spear. 
17 


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258  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

which  it  required  four  warriors  to  Tift,  he  exc 
fco  her  alarmed  suitor,  King  Gunther, 

**Aj\  how  is  it,  King  Gnnthnr?  here  most  70a  tiM 

your  h'fe ! 
The  lady  you  would  gain,  well  might  he   the  deviTi 

wife!" 

It  is  by  the  secret  assistance  of  Siegfried,  and  hii 
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  por- 
traits of  the  other  principal  personages  who  figure) 
in  the  Nibelungen  Lied — portraits  they  may  well 
be  called,  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  swi 
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,  Gremot 
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  ai 
the  court  of  Etzel :  and  lowei*  down  on  each  sidf 


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LITEBATUBB,  AND  CHABACTER.  259 

if  the  window,  King  Etzel  with  his  fiiend  Rudiger. 
fend  thoee  faithM  companions  in  arms,  old  Hilde- 
brand  and  Dietrich  of  Bern.  The  power  of  in- 
vention, 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  Chrimhilde 
and  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  compart- 
ments 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 
colors  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  beautifui  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 
tw)  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  victo- 
rious SJegfried  by  the  two  queena  Uta  and  Chrim> 


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160  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

hilde.  This  is  the  first  interriew  of  the  loreim 
and  lurnishes  one  of  the  most  admired  passages  la 
the  poem. 

*  And  now  the  beauteons  lady,  like  the  rosy  mom, 
Dispersed  the  misty  clouds ;  and  he  who  lonp;  had  borna 
In  his  heart  the  maiden,  banishM  pain  and  care, 
Ab  now  before  his  eyes  stood  the  glorious  maiden  fkir. 

From  her  embroidered  garment,  glittered  many  a  gvni. 
And  on  her  lovely  cheek,  the  rosy  red  did  gleam; 
Whoever  in  his  glowing  soul  had  imaged  lady  bright, 
Confessed  that  fairer  maiden  Dever  stood  before  his  sight 

And  as  the  moon  at  night,  stands  high  the  stars  among, 
And  moves  the  mirky  cloads  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  secdnd  of  these 
frescos  is  nearly  finished ;  of  the  others  I  only  saw 
the  cartoons,  which  are  magnificent.  The  third  room 
will  contidn,  arranged  in  the  same  manner,  three 
grand  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  tro- 
phies   from  the   vanquished    Brunhilde.*     2dly. 

*  In  the  altereatton  between  fhe  two  queens,  Chrlmhilds 
•OMts  of  possessing  these  trophies,  and  displays  them  In  trinmpli 
to  her  mortifled  riyal;  Ibr  which  indiscretion,  as  she  afterwards 
tomplains,  **  her  husband  was  in  high  anger,  and  btat  her  fttoes 


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LITEBATUBB,  AND  CHARACTEB.  261 

Fhe  death  of  Siegfried,  assassinated  by  Hagen,  who 
tabs  the  hero  in  the  back,  as  he  stoops  to  drink 
from  the  forest-well.  And  8dly.  The  body  of 
Siegfried  exposed  in  the  cathedral  at  Worms,  and 
watched  by  Chrimhilde,  "  who  wept  three  day«  and 
three  nights  by  the  corse  of  her  murdered  lonl, 
without  food  and  without  sleep." 

The  fourth  room  will  contsun  the  second  marriage 
of  Chrimhilde ;  her  complete  and  sanguinary  ven- 
geance ;  and  her  death.  None  of  these  are  yet  in 
progress.  But  the  three  cartoons  of  the  death  of 
Siegfried ;  the  marriage  of  Siegfried  and  Chrim- 
hilde ;  and  the  fatal  curiosity  of  Chrimhilde,  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  in  Professor  Schnorr's  studio 
at  the  academy ;  I  sa^  at  the  same  time  his  picture 
of  the  death  of  the  emperor  Frederic  Barbait)ssa, 
which  has  excited  great  admiration  here,  but  I  con- 
fess 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  hare  I  walked  up  and  down  these  superb 
rooms,  looking  up  at  Sdinorr  and  his  assistants, 
and  watching  intently  the  preparation  and  the  pro- 
cess 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 
whey  give  to  have  two  or  three  hundred  feet  of 
space  before  them,  to  cover  at  will  with  grand  and 

tmd  MtM."  This  treatment,  however,  which  seems  to  have  btea 
f  nite  a  matter  of  course,  does  not  jlmlnbth  the  fond  idolatry  of 
ibe  wift,— rather  incresMs  it. 


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•  162  BKETCHES  OF  ART, 

glorious  creations, — scenes  from  Chaucer,  or  Spen* 
■er,  or  Shakspeare,  or  Milton,  proudly  consciooi 
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  I  Alas  I  how  different  I —  with  us  such 
men  as  Hilton  and  Etty  illustrate  annuals,  and  the 
genius  of  Turner  shrinks  into  a  vignette  I 

OcL   14. — Accompanied  by  my   kind  fnend, 

Madame  de  K ,  and  conducted  by  Roekel,  the 

painter,  I  visited  the  unfinished  chapel  adjoining 
the  new  palace.  It  is  painted  (or  rather  painting) 
in  fresco,  on  a  gold  ground,  with  extraordinary 
richness  and  beauty,  uniting  the  old  Greek,  or 
rather  Byzantine  manner,  with  the  old  Italian  style 
of  decoration.  It  reminded  me,  in  the  general 
efiect,  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  colors — 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 
tircle  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  th« 
fiist  covenant  In  the  four  comers,  the  colossa^ 
figu'-es  of  the  patriarchs,  Noah,  Abraham,  Isaac,  and 


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/  UTEUATUBE,  AND  CHABACIBR.  261 

Jacob.  These  are  designed  in  a  veiy  grand  and 
levere  style.  The  second  cupola  is  dedicated  to 
tihe  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  various  expression  in  these  heads, 
which  must,  I  am  afraid,  be  lost  when  viewed  from 
below.  Around,  in  a  circle,  the  twelve  apostles ; 
SDd  in  the  four  comers,  the  four  evangelists,  cor- 
responding with  the  four  patriarchs  in  the  other 
dome.  In  the  arch  between  the  two  domes,  as  con- 
necting the  Old  and  New  Testaments,  we  have  the 
Nativity  and  other  scenes  from  the  life  of  the  Vir- 
gin. In  the  arch  at  the  farthest  end  will  be  placed 
the  Crucifixion,  as  the  consunmiation  of  all. 

The  painter  to  whom  the  direction  of  the  whole 
work  has  been  entrusted,  is  Professor  Heinrich 
Hass,  (or  Hess,)  one  of  the  modt  celebrated  of  the 
German  historical  painters.  He  was  then  employed 
in  painting  the  Nativity ;  stretched  upon  his  back 
on  a  sort  of  inclined  chidr.  Notwithstanding  the 
mconvenience  and  even  peril  of  leaving  his  work 
▼hile  the  plaster  was  wet,  he  came  down  from  his 
^^iddy  height  to  speak  to  us,  and  explained  the  gen^ 
eral  design  of  the  whole.  I  expressed  my  honest 
admiration  of  the  genius,  and  the  grand  feeling  dis- 
played in  many  of  the  figures ;  and,  in  particular, 
>f  the  group  he  was  then  painting,  of  which  the 
extreme  simplicity  charmed  me ;  but  as  honestiy,  I 
%xpres8ed  my  surprise  that  nothing  new  in  the  geia< 


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264  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

aral  at} la  of  the  decoration  had  been  attempted 
a  representation  of  the  Omnipotent  Being  wa> 
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  ii 
not  so  well  to  venture  into  those  paths,  upon  which 
daring  Grenius,  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  color 
One  might  call  them  Byzantine ;  at  least,  they  re- 
minded me  of  what  I  had  seen  in  the  old  churchef 
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, 
Dut  almost  all  speak  Italian,  and  many  can  read,  il 
Hiey  do  not  speak,  English.  He  told  me  that  hb 
had  8pent  two  years  on  the  designs  and  cartooni 
for  this  chapel ;  he  had  been  painting  here  daih 


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LIT£R.4TUBB,  AND  CHARACTER.  205 

io/  the  last  two  3rears,  and  expected  to  be  able  to 
finish  the  whole  in  about  two  years  and  a  half 
Kiore:  thus  giving  six  years  and  a  half,  or  mor* 
probably  seven  years,  to  this  grand  task.  He  haa 
four  pupils,  or  assistants,  besides  those  employed  in 
the  decorations  only. 

Oct  15. — After  dinner  we  drove  through  the 
beautiful  English  garden — a  public  promenade— 
which  is  larger  acd  more  diversified  than  Kensing- 
ton Gardens ;  but  the  trees  are  not  so  fine,  being  of 
younger  growth.  A  branch  of  the  Isar  rolls  through 
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  caff^^s 
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  even- 
ings;— altogether  it  was  a  beautiful  day,  and  a 
delightfid  drive. 

In  the  evening  at  the  opera  with  the  ambass** 
dress  and  a  large  party.  It  was  the  queen's  fSte,  and 
the  whole  court  was  present.  The  theatre  wai 
brilliantly  illuminated — crowded  in  every  part:  in 
short,  it  was  all  very  gay  and  very  magnificent ;  ai 
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 
tnisic  ?  **  said  I,  innocently,  to  a  lady,  whose  volu- 


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B<$6  BKETCHES  OF  ART, 

bility  had  ceased  not  from  the  moment  we  eiiterw' 
fcho  box.  "  Moi !  si  je  I'aime  I — ^mais  avec  passion !  * 
And  then  without  pause  or  mercy  continued  tJw 
same  incessant  flow  of  spirituel  small-talk  while 
Scheckner-Wagen  and  Meric,  now  brought  for  the 
first  time  into  competition,  and  emulous  of  each 
other, — one  pouring  forth  her  full  sosienuto  warble, 
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  demeanor  of 
Madame  Scheckner-Wagen.  She  is  not  remark- 
able for  beauty,  nOr  is  there  any  thing  of  the  com- 
mon 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  hei 
"  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  in- 
ilifferent — 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  individual  woman,  I  do  not  say 
that  this  is  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  good  acting — on  the 
contrary ;  though  it  is  a  mistake  to  imagine  thsi 
(he  moral  character  of  an  actress  or  a  singer  goei 
for  nothing  with  an  audience— but  of  this  more  at 
•ome  future  time.  Madame  Scheckner's  style  of 
NUgin^  has  the  same  characteristic  simplicity  a^^^ 


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UTBBATUBE,  AN£    CHABACTEB.  267 

iigaity ;  her  T<nce  is  of  a  fine  full  quality,  well  cnl* 
tivated,  well  managed.  I  have  known  her  a  littk 
indolent  and  careless  at  times,  but  never  forced  oi 
affected ;  and  I  am  told,  that  in  some  of  the  grand 
classical  Grerman  operas,  Gluck's  Iphigenia,  for 
mstance,  her  acting  as  well  as  her  fflnging  is  admir- 
able. 

I  wish,  if  ever  we  have  that  charming  Devrient- 
Schrdder  (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  Milder  was  a  third,  but  her  reign  is  past. 
This  extraordinary  creature  absolutely  could  not, 
or  would  not,  sing  the  modem  Italian  music ;  no 
one,  I  believe,  ever  heard  her  sing  a  note  of  Ros- 
sini in  her  life.  Madame  Yespermann  is  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  ten, 
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'Armansbeig, 
the  former  minister,  (now  in  Greece  taking  caro 
af  the  young  King  Otho,)  and  Prince  Walleratein, 
^e  present  minister  of  the  interior.     He  describe^} 


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I6S  BKSTCHBS  OF  ABT, 

the  king's  extremely  versatile  character,  and  Us 
vwacit^j  and  lamented  his  present  unpopularity 
with  the  liberal  party  in  Germany,  the  dispntei 
between  him  and  the  Chambers,  and  the  opinion! 
entertained  of  the  recent  conferences  between  the 
king  and  his  brother-in-law,  the  Emperor  of  Aus- 
tria, at  Lintz,  &c.  I  learnt  much  that  was  new, 
much  that  was  interesting  to  me,  but  do  not  under- 
stand 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  is  his  metropolis, — in  fact,  this  rich  and 
powerful  noble  is  little  less  than  a  sovereign  prince. 
•  •  •  •  « 

16. — I  went  with  Madame  von  A  —  and  he? 
daughters  to  the  BunBlbevefn,  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  then 
ig  a  constant  variety.  As  yet,  however,  I  hare 
seen  no  very  striking,  though  many  pleasing  pio* 
tores ;  but  I  have  added  several  names  to  my  Utt 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER  96^ 

if  Grerman  artists.  *  To-day  at  the  Kunstverein, 
there  was  a  series  of  smaDl  pictures  framed  together, 
Uie  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  Finakothek,  as  a  trial  of  skill.  Of 
the  designs  from  Notre  Dame,  the  central  and 
largest  picture  is  the  scene  in  the  garret  between 
Phcebus  and  Esmeralda,  when  the  former  is  stabbed 
by  the  priest  FroUo:  one  can  hardly  imagine  a 
more  admirable  subject  for  painting,  if  properly 
treated;  but  this  is  a  failure  in  effect  and  in  char- 
acter. It  fails  in  effect  because  the  light  is  too 
generally  diffused: — it  is  daylight,  not  lamplight 
The  monk  ought  to  have  been  thrown  completely 
into  shadow,  only  just  visible,  terribly,  mysteriously 
visible,  to  the  spectator.  It  fails  in  character,  be- 
cause the  figure  of  Esmeralda,  instead  of  the 
elegant,  fragile,  almost  ethereal  creature  she  ii 
V  escribed,  rather  renunds  us  of  a  coarse  Italian 
eontadina ;  and,  for  the  expression — a  truly  poeti- 
cal p^unter  would  have  averted  the  face,  and  thrown 
the  whole  expression  into  the  attitude.  It  will 
hardly  be  believed  that  of  su/*h  a  subject,  the 
^nter  has  made  a  cold  picture,  merely  by  nol 

•  rUs  list  wiU  be  subjoined  at  the  end  of  fheie  Sketeliee 


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870  SKETCHES  OP  ART, 

feeling  the  bounds  within  which  he  ought  to  have 
kept.  The  small  pictures  are  much  better,  par- 
ticularly the  Sachet  embracing  her  child,  and  tiM 
Inmult  IB  front  of  Notre  Dame.  There  were  some 
other  striking  pictures  by  the  same  artist,  particu- 
larly Chilperic  and  Fredegonde  strangling  the 
young  queen  Galsuinde,  painted  with  shocking 
skill  and  truth.  That  taste  for  horrors,  which  ii 
now  the  reigning  fashion  in  French  art  and  Frencfc 
literature,  speaks  iU  for  French  sensihilit^ — ^a  word 
they  are  so  fond  of-— for  that  sensibility  cannot  be 
great  which  requires  such  extravagant  stimuU, 
Painters  and  authors,  all  alike !  They  remind  me 
of  the  sentimental  negresses  of  queen  Carathis,  in 
the  Tale  of  Vathek — "  qui  avaient  un  gout  particu- 
lier  pour  les  pestilences."  Couder,  however,  has 
undoubted  talent  His  portrait  of  de  Elenze, 
painted  since  he  came  here,  is  all  but  alive. 

In  the  evening  at  the  theatre  with  M.  and  Mad. 
S— .  We  had  Karl  von  Holtei's  melo-drama  of 
Lenore,  founded  on  Biirger*s  well-known  ballad  ;^ 
but  with  the  omission  of  the  spectre,  which  wai 
something  like  acting  Hamlet  ^*  with  the  part  of 
Hamlet  left  out,  by  particular  desire."  Lenore  ii, 
however,  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most  effective  ol 
the  petites  pihces  I  have  seen  here — very  tragical 
and  dolorous  of  course.  Madll.  Scholler  acted  L^ 
Dore  with  more  f seling  and  power  than  I  though 
was  in  her.  There  is  a  mad  scene,  in  which  she 
fancies  her  lover  at  her  window,  calling  to  her,  ai 
the  spectre  calls  in  the  ballad — 


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LITERATURE,  AKD  CHARACT7/.  272 

**  Sleep*8t  thou,  or  wak^st  thou,  Leon«i.e  /  -" 

And  which  was  so  fine  as  a  picture,  aiid  so  weO 
icted,  that  it  quite  thrilled  me — no  easy  m&tter. 
Holtei  is  one  of  the  first  dramatists  in  Germany  for 
comedies,  melo-dramas,  farces,  and  musical  pieces. 
fn  this  particular  department  he  has  no  rival.  He 
played  to-night  himself,  being  for  hb  own  ocnefity 
•nd  sung  his  popular  Mantel  Lied,  or  cu>ak^ong. 
which,  like  his  other  songs,  may  be  heard  fit>m  one 
end  of  Germany  to  the  other.  ^ 

18. — A  grand  military  fite.  The  cousecratioo 
of  the  great  bronze  obelisk,  which  the  king  has 
erected  in  the  Karoline-Platz,  to  the  gioi'y  and  the 
memory  of  the  thirty-seven  thou.sand  Bavarian 
conscript*  w^p  followed,  or  rathex  weie  dragged 
by.  Napoleon  to  the  fatal  RussitMi  campaign  in 
1812.  Of  these,  about  six  thousand  returned  alive : 
most  of  them  mutilated,  or  witb  diseases  which 
shortened  their  existence.  Of  m^ny  thousands  no 
account  ever  reached  home.  Th».y  perished,  God 
knows  how  or  where.  There  was,  m  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  one  hundred  survive,  of  whom  four 
hundred  contiirie  in  the  army;  the  rest  had  re- 
toned  to  their  civil  pursuits,  and  had  become 
peasants  or  tradesmen  in  different  parts  of  th» 


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179  BKETCHES  OF   ART, 

kingdom.  Now,  it  appe&rs,  that  several  huodreda 
o(  these  men  have  arrived  in  Munich  within  the 
last  few  days  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  cere* 
mony:  and  some,  irom  the  mere  sentiment  of 
honor,  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  arrange- 
ments previously  made,  the  veteran  soldiers  who 
remained  in  the  army,  were  alone  to  be  admitted 
within  the  eqplosure  round  the  monument.  The 
others,  I  believe  about  five  hundred  in  number, 
who  had  quitted  the  service,  but  who  had  equally 
fought,  sufiered,  bled,  in  the  same  disastrous  expe- 
dition, demanded,  very  naturally,  the  same  privi- 
lege. It  was  refused;  because  for^th  they  had 
DO  uniforms,  and  the  unseemly  intrusion  of  drab 
coats  and  blue  worsted  stockings  among  epaulettes 
and  feathers  and  embroidered  facings,  would  cer- 
tainly spoil  the  synmietry — the  effect  of  the  coup 
d*ceU/  They  complained,  murmured  aloud,  re- 
listed; and  all  night  there  was  fighting  iii  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  were  renvoy^.  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  m  the 
first  instance  ought  indeed  to  have  been  rather  a? 


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LITERATURE,   AliD   CHARACTER.  273 

jnTitation,  now  secme  1  forced,  ungraceful,  and  un- 
gracious. There  was  a  palpable  cloud  of  discon- 
tent over  all;  for  the  popular  feeling  was  with 
them.  For  myself,  a  mere  stranger,  such  was  my 
indignation,  the  whole  proceeding  appeared  to  me 
■0  heartless,  so  unkingly,  so  unkind,  and  my  sym- 
pathy with  these  brave  men  was  so  profound,  that 
I  could  scarce  persuade  myself  to  go ; — however,  1 
went  I  had  been  invited  to  view  the  ceremony 
fhxn  the  balcony  of  the  French  ambassador's  house, 
which  is  exactly  opposite  to  the  obelisk. 

I  had  indulged  my  ill-humor  till  it  was  late; 
already  all  the  avenues  leading  to  the  Karoline- 
Platz  were  occupied  by  the  military,  and  my  car- 
riage 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  dismissed  him  too.  A  little  further 
on  I  was  myself  stopped,  and  civilly  commanded  to 
turn  back.  I  pleaded  that  I  only  wished  to  enter 
the  house  to  which  I  pointed.  "  It  was  impossible." 
Now,  what  had  I  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  in- 
difierent  or  lowering  looks  of  the  crowd  had  struck 
me.  I  observed  to  a  well-dressed  man,  who  po- 
litelj  tried  to  make  way  for  me,  that  it  was  strange 
to  8&9  so  much  severity  of  discipline  at  a  public 
flite.    "Public  filter*  he  repeated   with  scornftd 


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If 4  SKUTCiUCS  OF  ABT, 

oitterness;  "Je  vous  demande  paratn,  madame 
c'est  une  f(gte  pour  quelques  una,  mais  ce  n'cst  pu 
ime  f(gte  pour  nous,  ce  n'est  pas  pour  le  peuple  1 " 
At  length  I  fortunately  met  an  officer,  with  whoa 
I  was  sightly  acquainted,  who  immediately  con- 
ducted me  to  the  door.  The  spectacle,  merely  ai 
a  spectacle,  was  not  striking ;  but  to  me  it  had  a 
peculiar  interest  There  was  a  raised  platform  on 
one  nde  for  the  queen  and  her  children,  who,  at> 
tended  by  a  numerous  court,  were  spectators.  Ad 
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  tarpaul- 
ing.  But  all  my  attention  was  fixed  on  the  dis- 
banded soldiers  without  uniforms,  who  stood  to- 
gether 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  <^ 
Austria,  Marshal  Wrede,  and  followed  by  a  troop 
of  generals,  equerries,  &c.  There  was  a  dead 
silence,  and  not  a  shout  was  raised  to  greet  him. 
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  **  Grod  save  the  King,?  which  is  nationalized 
•8  the  loyal  anthem  all  over  Germany.  The  can- 
vas covering  fell  at  once,  and  displayed  the  obeliik, 
which  is  entirely  of  bronze,  raised  upon  four  gran- 
ite steps.    It  bears  a  simple  inscription.    I  think 


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1.1TKBATUB8,   AND  CHARACTER.  97ft 

ifc  18  *<  Ludivig  I ,  king,  to  the  soldien  of  Bayana 
•f ho  fell  in  the  Rossian  campaign ; "  or  nearly  t« 
diat  purpose.  Marshal  Wrede  then  alighted  &om 
nis  horse  and  addressed  the  soldiers.  This  was  a 
linking  moment;  for  while  the  outer  circle  of  mili- 
tary remained  immoveable  as  statues,  the  soldiers 
within,  both  those  with,  and  those  without  uniforms, 
finding  themselves  out  of  ear-shot,  advanced  a  few 
iteps,  and  then  breaking  their  ranks,  pressed  foi^ 
ward  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  ha- 
rangue, which,  as  I  afterwards  heard,  was  any  thing 
rather  than  satisfactory. 

I  heard  it  remarked  round  me  that  the  Duke  da 
Leuchtenberg,  (the  son  of  Eugene  Beauhamais,) 
was  not  present,  neither  as  ono  of  the  royal  cortege 
nor  as  a  spectator. 

The  whole  lasted  about  twenty  minutes.  The 
day  was  cold;  and,  in  truth,  the  ceremony  wai 
eddy  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  The  Earolin*- 
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  wiU 
manage  it;  for  he  is  !iimself  the  very  antipodes  of 
Austrian  carelessness  and  sluggishness:  a  restlen 


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176  SKETCHES  OP  ART, 

enthtudast-^nd  of  intellectxial  excitement— fond  of 
noveltj — ^with  no  natoral  taste,  one  would  think, 
for  Metternich's  meilleries.  If  he  adopt  Austruui 
principles,  his  theory  and  his  practice,  his  precept 
and  example,  will  always  be  at  yariance.  At  the 
conclusion  of  the  ceremony  the  king  and  his  suite 
rode  up  to  the  platform  and  saluted  the  queen: 
and  when  she — who  is  so  universally  and  truly  be- 
loved here  that  I  believe  the  people  would  die  for 
her  at  any  time — rose  to  depart,  I  heard  a  cheer, 
the  first  and  last  this  day  I  The  disbanded  soldiers 
approached  the  platform,  at  first  timidly  by  twos 
and  threes,  and  then  in  great  numbers,  taking  ofi" 
their  hats.  She  stood  up,  leaning  on  the  princess 
Matilda,  and  bowed.  The  royal  cortege  then  dis- 
appeared. The  military  bands  struck  up,  and  one 
battalion  after  another  filed  off.  I  expected  thai 
the  crowd  would  have  rushed  in,  but  the  people 
leemed  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  Y — f 
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 
liOttisI  You  ought  at  least  to  understand  your 
metier  de  Rot  better  than  to  degrade  the  **  f  omp 
Rnd  circumstance  of  glorious  war  **  in  the  eyes  of 
your  people,  and  make  them  feel  for  what  a  poo^ 
recompence  they  may  fight,  bleed,  die — ^be  madf 


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LITERATURE,   AND  CHARACTER  S7I 

Ik  once  Tictims  and  executioners  in  the  contests  of 
royal  and  ambitious  gnmblers  I 

I  saw  to-daj,  at  the  house  of  the  court  bankar, 
Eichthal,  a  most  charming  picture  by  the  Baronesi 
de  Freyberg,  the  sister  of  my  good  friend,  M. 
Stnntz.  It  is  a  Madonna  and  child — ^loveliest  of 
lubjects  for  a  woman  and  a  mother  I— «he  is  sure  to 
put  her  heart  into  it,  at  least ;  but,  in  this  particular 
picture,  the  surpassing  delicacy  of  touch,  the  sof^ 
ness  and  purity  of  the  coloring,  the  masterly  draw- 
ing in  the  hands  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  limbs  of 
the  child  equalled  the  feeling  and  the  expression — 
and,  in  truth,  surprised  me.  Madame  de  Freyberg 
gave  this  picture  to  her  &ther,  who  is  not  rich, 
and,  unhappily,  blind.  Of  him,  the  present  pos- 
sessor purchased  it  for  fifteen  hundred  florins, 
(about  140Z.)  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  amusing  sairie 
at  the  house  of  Dr.  Martins.  We  had  some  very 
good  music.  Young  Vieux-temps,  a  pupil  of  De 
Beriot,  was  well  accompanied  by  an  orchestra  of 
funateurs.  I  met  here  also  a  young  lady  of  whom 
[  had  heard  much — Josephine  Lang,  looking  so 
{entle,  so  unpretending,  so  imperturbable,  that  no 
me  would  have  accused  or  suspected  her  of  being 
ine  of  the  Muses  in  disguise,  until  she  sat  down 
lo  the  piano,  and  ^ng  her  cwn  beautiful  and  orig- 


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178  SKETCHm  OF  AXTf 

bal  compositions  in  a  st^rle  peculiar  to  heimIC 
She  is  a  musician  by  natore,  by  choice,  and  hy  pro* 
fession,  exercising  her  rare  talent  iinth  as  much 
modesty  as  good-nature.  The  painter  Zimmer* 
mann,  who  has  a  magnificent  bass  voice,  sung  for 
me  Mignon's  song — ^  Eennst  du  das  Land  I "  And^ 
lastly,  which  was  the  most  interesting  amusement 
of  the  evening,  Karl  von  Hdtei  read  aloud  the 
second  act  of  Groethe's  Tassa  He  read  most  ad* 
mirably,  and  with  a  voice  which  kept  attention  en- 
chained, enchanted;  still  it  was  genuine  reading. 
He  kept  equally  clear  of  acting  and  of  declama* 
tion. 

Oct  20,  Sunday. — ^I  went  with  M.  Stuntz  to  hear 
a  grand  mass  at  the  royal  chapeL 

«  «  «  « 

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

'Twas  like  the  bright  procesdoii 
Of  skiey  visions  in  a  solemn  dream, 
From  which  men  wake  as  fh>m  a  paradise, 
And  draw  fresh  strength  to  tread  the  thorns  of  llfel 

While  looking  at  the  Castor  and  Pollux  of  Bo- 
bens,  I  remembered  what  the  biographers  asserted 
3f  this  most  wonderful  man — ^that  he  spoke  fluently 
^ven  languages,  besiies  being  profoundly  ddlle^ 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  379 

ii  many  sciences,  and  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
iiplomatists  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  the  tram- 
mels of  low-thoughted  care,  he  let  her  loose  into 
the  airy  regions  of  imagination. 

What  Groethe  says  of  poets,  must  needs  be  ap- 
plicable to  painters.  He  says,  ^  If  we  look  only 
at  the  principal  productions  of  a  poet,  and  neglect 
to  study  himself,  his  character,  and  the  circum- 
stances  with  which  he  had  to  contend,  we  fall  into 
a  sort  of  atheism,  which  forgets  the  Creator  in  his 
creatLon." 

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  ever}'  picture  (which  is 
the  production  of  mind)  has  an  individual  charac« 
ter,  reflecting  the  predominant  temperament — nay, 
MHnetimes,  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  and 
^tingiishing  character.  There  is,  besides  the 
physiognomy  of  the  individual  represented,  the 
physiognomy,  if  I  may  so  express  myself,  of  the 


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E80  8KETCHB8  OF  ART, 

picmre ;  detected  at  once  by  the  mere  coniioisseu 
as  a  distinction  of  manner,  style,  execution:  boi 
of  which  the  reflecting  and  philosophical  observer 
might  discoTcr  the  key  in  the  mind  or  life  of  tlifl 
individual  painter. 

In  the  heads  of  Titian,  what  subtlety  of  intelle<^ 
mixed  with  sentiment  and  passion  1  In  those  of 
Velasquez,  what  chivalrous  grandeur,  what  high- 
hearted contemplation  1  When  Ribera  painted  a 
head — what  power  of  sufferance  1  In  those  of 
Giorgione,  what  profound  feeling  1  In  those  of 
Guido,  what  elysian  grace  1  In  those  of  Rubens, 
what  energy  of  intellect — what  vigorous  life  1  In 
those  of  Vandyke,  what  high-bred  elegance  I  In 
those  of  Rembrandt,  what  intense  individuality  J 
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  calTs  head  look  sensible,  as 
Gainsborough  made  our  queen  Charlotte  look 
picturesque. 

If  I  should  whisper  that  since  I  came  to  Gei^ 
many  I  have  not  seen  one  really  fine  modem  por' 
trait,  the  Germans  would  never  forgive  me ;  they 
would  fall  upon  me  with  a  score  of  great  names — 
Wach,  Stieler,  Vogel,  Schadow — and  >»eat  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  por< 
traits  besida  those  of  Titian  or  Vandyke,  or  comt 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  SSI 

to  England,  and  look  upon  our  school  of  portru- 
tare  here  I  I  think  they  would  allow,  that  with  all 
Iheir  merits,  they  are  in  the  wrong  road.  Admira- 
ble, 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  imi- 
tation may  be  carried  so  far  as  to  cease  to  be  nature 
— ^to  be  error,  not  truth  ?  For  instance,  by  the 
C(»nmon  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  see  first  the  em- 
broidery of  the  canezou  or  the  pattern  on  the 
waistcoat  ?  if  not — why  should  it  be  so  in  a  pic- 
ture ?  The  vulgar  eye  alone  is  caught  by  such 
misplaced  skill — the  vulgar  artist  only  ought  to 
leek  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 
lladame  Stuntz,  to  Thalkirchen,  the  country* 
house  of  the  Baron  de  Freyberg.  The  road  pur 
lued  the  banks  of  the  rapid,  impetuous  Isar,  and 
tbo  range  of  the  Tj  rolian  alps  bounded  the  prof- 


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285  SKETCHES  OF   ART, 

pect  before  us.  An  hour's  driye  brought  os  to 
Thalkirchen,  where  we  were  obviously  quite  vat 
expected,  but  that  was  nothing: — I  was  at  onoe 
received  as  a  friend,  and  introduced  without  cere- 
mony to  Madame  de  Freyberg's  painting-room. 
Though  now  the  fond  mother  of  a  large  little 
family,  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  por- 
trait of  M.  de  Freyberg,  evidently  painted  con 
amare,  and  full  of  spirit  and  character ;  a  head  ol 
Cupid,  and  a  piping  boy,  quite  in  the  Italian  man- 
ner 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  color,  and^ 
at  the  same  time,  with  a  breadth  of  style  and  a 
freedom  in  the  handling,  which  I  have  not  yel 
seen  among  the  German  portrait  painters.  A 
glance  over  a  portfolio  of  loose  sketches  and  un- 
finished 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  Angelica 
Kaufiman  in  grace  and  delicacy,  she  far  exceedii 
her  in  power,  both  of  drawing  and  coloring.  She 
teminded  me  more  of  the  Sofonisba,*  but  it  is  a 

*  Sofonisba  Auguaciola,  one  of  the  most  channing  of  portrU 
Mloters.    She  died  in  1826,  at  the  age  of  ninety-thrM. 


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LITERATUKE,  AND  CHARACTER.  281 

iifl'erent,  and,  1  think,  a  more  delicate  style  of 
color,  than  I  have  observed  in  the  pictures  of  tiw 
latter. 

We  had  coffee,  and  tnen  strolled  through  the 
grounds— the  children  pla3ring  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  c^  his  wife,  whom 
he  married  in  despite  c^  all  prejudices  of  birth  and 
rank. 

In  this  truly  Grerman  dwelling  there  was  an  ex- 
treme 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  denominate  comfort;  yet  with  the  obvious 
presence  of  that  crowning  comfort  of  all  comforts 
— KK>rdial  domestic  love  and  union — which  im- 
pressed me  altogether  with  pleasant  ideas,  long 
after  borne  in  my  mind,  and  not  yet,  nor  ever  to 
be,  effaced.  How  littie  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  Frey- 
berg was  handing  me  to  the  carriage,  he  made  me 
•dvance  a  few  stepa  and  pause  to  look  round ;  he 
pmnted  to  the  western  sky,  still  flushed  with  a 
bright  geranium  tint,  between  the  amber  and  tiie 
tMe ;  while  agunst  it  lay  the  dark  purple  outline 
il  the  Tyrolian  mountains.    A  branch  of  the  Isar, 


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tS4  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

whicb  just  above  the  house  overflowed  and  spread 
itself  into  a  wide  still  pool,  mirrored  in  its  cleat 
bosom  not  only  the  glowing  Aj  and  the  huge  dark 
mountidns,  and  the  banks  and  trees  blended  into 
black  formless  masses,  but  the  very  stars  above  out 
heads ; — ^it  was  a  heavenly  scene  1 — "  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  in  recalling  it,  you  will  perhaps  re- 
member us — who  will  not  forget  you!  Adieu, 
madame  1  ** 

Afterwards  to  the  opera :  it  was  Herold's  "  Zam- 
pa :  **  noisy,  riotous  music,  which  I  hate.  I  thought 
Madame  Scheckner^s  powers  misplaced  in  this 
opera — ^yet  she  sang  magnificently. 

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

One  of  the  most  interesting  monuments  in  Mu- 
nich, is  the  tomb  of  Eugene  Beauhamais,  in  tho 
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  efiect,  and 
vices  not  tell  its  story  well.  Upon  a  lof^  pedestal, 
there  is  first,  io  the  centre,  the  colossal  figure  of  the 


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LITEBAIUBB,  AND   CHARACTER.  885 

lake  stepping  forward ;  one  hand  is  pressed  upoo 
Ids  heart,  and  the  other  presents  the  civic  crown— 
(but  to  whom  ?) — his  military  accoutiements  lie  at 
his  feet  The  drapery  is  admirably  managed,  and 
the  attitude  simple  and  full  of  dignity.  On  his  lef) 
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 
yirtues  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  cmnplacency.  The  statue  is,  moreover,  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful  and  expressive — so  are  the 
genii ;  and  the  figure  of  Eugene  is  magnificent ; 
and  yet  the  combination  d  the  whole  is  not  effec- 
tive. Another  fault  is,  the  color  of  the  marble, 
which  has  a  grey  tinge,  and  ought  at  least  to  have 
been  relieved  by  constructing  the  pedestal  and  ac- 
companiments 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  her  hus- 
band, 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  volun- 
tarily have  committed  such  a  solecism.  I  was  in- 
ibrmed  that  the  princess- widow  insisted  on  the 
introduction  of  this  piece  of  barbarity  as  emble- 


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486  0KBTCHES  OF  ABT, 

madcal  of  the  vice-royalty  of  Italy ;  any  royaU^y 
being  apparently  better  than  none. 

I  remember  that  when  travelling  in  the  Nether* 
lands,  at  a  time  when  the  people  were  celebrating 
the  Fete-DieUf  I  saw  a  village  carpenter  busily 
employed  in  erecting  a  r^posoir  for  the  Madonna, 
of  painted  boards  and  draperies  and  wreaths  of 
Bowers.  In  the  mean  time  as  if  to  deprecate 
criticism,  he  had  chalked  in  large  letters  over  hii 
work,  "  La  critique  est  aisde^  mats  Vart  est  difficUe." 
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  of  Thorwaldson,  all 
the  genius,  all  the  skill,  ail  the  patience,  all  the 
time,  expended  on  its  production,  I  think  the  fore- 
going trifling  criticisms  appear  very  ungrateM  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  Eirche,  there 
IS  another  most  admirable  monument,  a  che/ 
(Tauvre^  in  the  Grothic  style.  It  is  the  tomb  of  the 
Emperor  Louis  of  Bavaria,  who  died  excommu- 
nicated in  1347 ;  a  stupendous  work,  cast  in  bronie. 
At  the  four  comers  are  four  colossal  knights  kneel- 
ing in  complete  armour,  each  bearing  a  lance  ana 
ensign,  and  guarding  the  recumbent  e^f^g^  of  tht 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTEIt.  887 

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 
and  workmanship.*  It  should  seem  that  in  the 
sixteenth  century  the  art  of  casting  in  bronze  wai 
not  only  brought  to  the  highest  perfection  in  Ger- 
many, but  found  employment  on  a  very  grand 
scale. 

In  the  evening  there  wan  a  concert  at  the  Salle 
de  rOdeon — 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  semicircle,  are 
the  busts  of  the  twelve  great  Crerman  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  Eapelmeister  Stuntz,  and 
Scheckner,  and  Meric,  who  sang  h  Vtnvie  Cune  de 
Vautre,  The  concert  began  at  seven,  and  ended  a 
little  after  nine ;  and  much  as  I  love  music,  I  felt  I 
had  had  enough.  Thev  certainly  manage  these 
social  pleasures  much  better  here  than  in  London, 
where  a  grand  concert;  almost  invariably  proves  a 

•  I  Ngnt  thftt  I  omitted  to  note  the  naniu  of  the  artist  of  this 
na|oiflcent  vsrk.  There  is  a  still  more  admirable  monument  •• 
Ihe  same  period  in  the  church  at  Inspruek,  the  tomb  of  the 
ATchdnke,  Ferdinand  of  Tyrol,  consisting,  I  believe,  of  twtkf^ 
*«k)i8a.  statues  in  bronii. 


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288  SKETCHES  OF  ABl, 

most  awful  bore,  from  which  we  return  weaned, 
jrawning,  jarred,  satiated. 

Count  amused  me  this  evening  with  his 

laconic  summing  up  of  the  rise,  progress,  and  catas- 
trophe of  a  Polish  amour ; — se  passioner,  se  battre, 
•e  miner,  enlever,  ^pouser,  et  divorcer ;  and  so 
ends  this  six-act  tragico-comico-heroieo  pastoral. 

28. — 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  build- 
ing being  still  in  progress.  As  far  as  I  can  under- 
stand the  arrangements,  they  will  be  admirable. 
The  destination  of  the  edifice  seems  to  have  been 
the  first  thing  kept  in  view.  The  situation  of  par- 
ticular pictures  has  been  calculated,  and  accurate 
experiments  have  been  made  for  the  arrangement 
of  the  light,  &c.  Professor  Zinmiermann  has 
kindly  promised  to  take  me  over  the  whole  once 
more.    He  has  the  direction  of  the  fresco  paintings 

here. 

«  »  «  » 

Society  is  becoming  so  pleasant,  and  engage- 
ments of  every  kind  so  multifarious,  that  I  have 
little  time  for  scribbling  memoranda.  New  char- 
acierft  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  tt 
linger — and  yet  it  does  som<xtimes. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CUARACTER.  28Sf 

Our  circumstances  alter ;  our  opimons  change 
0ur  passions  die;  our  hopes  sicken,  and  perish 
utterly : — our  spirits  are  broken ;  our  health  is 
broken,  and  even  our  hearts  are  broken ;  but  will 
lurviyes — the  unconquerable  strength  of  will,  which 
b  in  later  life  what  passion  is  when  young.  In  this 
world,  there  is  always  something  to  be  done  or 
fufiered,  even  when  there  is  no  longer  any  thing  to 
be  desired  or  attained. 

The  Glyptothek  is,  at  certain  hours,  open  to 
strangers  only,  and  strangers  do  not  at  present 
abound :  hence  it  has  twice  happened  that  I  have 
foimd  myself  in  the  gallery  alone — to-day  for  the 
second  time.  I  felt  that,  under  some  circumstanoes, 
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  pave- 
ments, looking  upon  the  cahn,  pale,  motionless  forms 
around  me,  almost  exj  ecting  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  moi*e  life- 
like. A  dim,  unearthly  glory  effused  those  grace- 
M  limbs  and  perfect  forms,  of  which  the  exact 
outline  was  lost,  vanishing  into  shade,  while  the 
sentiment — the  ideal — of  their  immortal  loveliness, 
remained  distinct,  and  became  every  momei  t  more 
impressive :  and  thus  they  stood ;  and  their  melau* 
choly  beauty  seemed  to  m  }lt  into  the  heart 
1» 


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290  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

As  the  Graces  round  the  throne  of  Venus,  to 
music,  painting,  sculpture,  wait  as  handmsdds  round 
the  throne  of  Poetry.  "  They  from  her  golden  urn 
draw  light,"  as  planets  drink  the  sunbeams ;  and  in 
return  they  array  the  divinity  which  created  %nd 
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  the  voice  of  poetry,  is,  for  the  moment, 
by  far  the  most  complete  and  intoxicating,  but  also 
the  most  transient  Painting,  with  its  lovely  colors 
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  im- 
parts 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, 
seutiment,  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  as  the  presence  ofthoughi^ 
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  ao 
external  cause,  and  a  consequent  diminution  of  the 
sfiTsct  of  internal  power.  This  is  not  well  ex- 
pressed^ I  fear.     Perhaps  I  might  illustrate  th« 


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LITBRATUBB,  AKD  CHABACTBB.  29) 

HiougLl  thus :  the  Yenns  de  Medici  looks  as  if  she 
were  content  to  stand  on  lier  pedestal  and  be  wor^ 
ihipped ;  Canoya's  Hebe  looks  as  if  she  would  fain 
Btep  o£f  the  pedestal — if  she  could :  the  Apollo  Bel- 
vedere, as  if  he  could  step  from  his  pedestal — ^if  he 
would. 

Among  the  Greeks,  in  the  best  ages  of  sculpture, 
and  in  all  their  yery  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  e£fort,  to 
be  avoided.  When  the  ancients  did  express  mo- 
tion, they  made  it  flowing  or  continuous,  as  in  tb« 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon. 

ALONB. 
IK  THB  OALLEBT  OF  SCULPTUBB  AT  MUinOB 

7e  pale  and  glorious  forms,  to  whom  was  given 
AH  that  we  mortals  covet  under  heaven- 
Beauty,  renown,  and  immortality. 
And  worship!— in  your  passive  grandeur,  ye 
Are  what  we  most  adore,  and  least  would  wish  to  bel 

There's  nothing  new  in  life,  and  nothing  old; 
The  tale  that  we  might  tell  hath  oft  been  told. 
Many  have  look*d  to  the  bright  sun  with  sadness; 
Many  have  look'd  to  the  dark  grave  with  gladness; 
Many  have  griev*d  to  death— have  lov*d  to  madness  I 

^at  has  been,  is ;— what  i&  wOl  be ;— I  know, 
£ven  while  the  het jrt  drops  oiood,  it  muti  be  so. 


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t92  SKETCHES   OF  ART, 

[  lite  and  smile — for  0  the  griefs  that  kill. 

Kill  slowly— and  I  bear  within  me  still 

My  conscious  self,  and  my  anconqaer*d  wflll 


And  knowing  what  I  have  been — what  has  i 
My  misery,  I  will  be  no  more  betray*d 
By  hollow  mockeries  of  the  world  around. 
Or  hopes  and  impulses,  which  I  have  foimd 
Like  ill-aim*d  shafts,  that  kill  by  their  rebound. 

Complaint  is  for  the  feeble*  and  despair 
For  evil  hearts.    Mine  still  can  hope — still  bear- 
Still  hope  for  others  what  it  never  knew 
Of  truth  and  peace;  and  silently  pursue 
A  path  beset  with  briers,  "  and  wet  with  tears  like  dew  V 


To-day  I  devoted  to  the  Pinakotliek — for  the  last 
tiinel 

Just  before  I  lefl  England  our  projected  national 
gallery  had  excited  much  attention,  lliose  who 
were  usually  indifferent  to  such  matters  were  roused 
to  interest ;  and  I  heard  the  merits  of  different  de- 
signs, so  warmly,  even  so  violently  discussed  in 
public  and  in  private,  that  for  a  long  time  the  sub* 
ject  kept  possession  of  my  mind.  On  my  arrival 
here,  the  Pinakothek  (for  that  is  the  designation 
given  to  the  new  national  gallery  of  Munich)  be- 
came to  me  a  principal  object  of  interest  I  have 
been  most  anxious  to  comprehend  both  the  general 
tesign  and  the  nature  of  the  arrangements  in  de- 
tail ;  but  I  might  almost  doubt  my  own  competency 
"o  convey  an  exact  idea  of  what  I  understand  an^ 


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UTEBATURE,  AND    CHARACTER.  291 

idmire,  to  the  compreliensioii  of  another.  I  must 
by,  however,  while  the  impressionB  remaia  fresh 
and  strong,  and  the  memory  not  yet  encmnbered 
and  distracted,  as  it  must  be,  even  a  few  l/bvaj 
hence,  by  the  variety,  and  novelty,  and  interest, 
of  all  I  see  and  hear  around  me. 

The  Pinakothek  was  founded  in  1826 ;  the  king 
himself  laying  the  first  stone  with  much  pomp  and 
ceremony  on  the  7th  of  April,  the  birthday  of  Raf- 
&elle. 

It  is  a  long,  narrow  edifice,  facing  the  souths 
measuring  about  five  hundred  feet  from  east  to 
west,  and  about  eighty  or  eighty-five  feet  in  depth. 
At  the  extremities  are  two  wings,  or  rather  pro- 
jections. The  body  of  the  building  is  of  brick,  but 
not.  of  common  brickwork :  for  the  bricks,  which 
are  of  a  particular  kind  of  clay,  have  a  singular 
tint,  a  kind  of  greenish  yellow ;  while  the  friezes, 
balustrades,  architraves  of  the  windows,  in  short, 
all  the  ornamental  parts,  are  of  stone,  the  color  of 
which  is  a  fine  warm  grey ;  and  as  the  stone  work- 
manship is  extremely  rich,  and  the  brickwork  of 
unrivalled  elegance  and  neatness,  and  the  colon 
harmonize  well,  the  combination  produces  a  very 
handsome  efiect,  rendering  the  exterior  as  pleasing 
to  the  eye  as  the  scientific  adaptation  of  the  build- 
ing to  its  peculiar  purpose  is  to  the  understanding. 

Along  the  roof  runs  a  balustrade  of  stone,  adorned 
with  twenty-four  colossal  statues  of  celebrated 
painters.  A  public  garden,  which  is  already  in 
preparation,  wiU  be  planted  around,  beautifulH 


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894  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

laid  out  with  shady  walks,  flower-beds,  fountaiiiB; 
oms,  and  statues.  I  believe  the  enclosure  of  this 
garden  will  be  about  a  thousand  feet  each  way,  and 
that^t  will  ultimatelj  be  bounded  (at  least  on  three 
sides)  with  rows  of  houses  forming  a  vast  square, 
of  which  the  Pinakothek  will  occupy  the  centre. 
It  consists  of  a  ground-floor  and  an  upper-story. 
The  ground-floor  will  comprise,  1st,  the  collection 
of  the  Etruscan  vases ;  2dly,  the  Mosaics,  ancient 
and  modem,  of  which  there  are  here  some  rare 
and  admirable  specimens;  3dly,  the  cabinet  of 
drawings  by  the  old  masters ;  4thly  the  cabinet  of 
engravings,  which  b  said  to  be  one  of  the  richest 
in  Europe ;  5thly,  a  library  of  all  works  pertiuning 
to  the  fine  arts;  lastly,  a  noble  entrance-hall:  a 
private  entrance ;  with  accommodations  for  stu- 
dents, and  other  offices. 

The  upper  story  is  appropriated  to  the  pictures, 
and  is  calculated  to  contain  not  less  than  fifteen 
hundred  specimens,  selected  from  various  galleries, 
and  arranged  according  to  the  schools  of  art 

We  ascend  from  the  entrance-hall  by  a  wide  and 
handsome  staircase  of  stone,  very  elegantly  carved, 
which  leads  first  to  a  kind  of  vestibule,  where  th*» 
attendants  and  keepers  of  the  gallery  are  in  wait- 
ing. Thence,  to  a  splendid  reception-room,  about 
Ifty  feet  in  len^ :  this  will  contain  the  fiill-length 
portraits  of  the  founders  of  the  gallery  of  Munich 
—the  Palatine  John  William ;  the  Elector,  Maxt 
viilian  Emanuel  of  Bavaria ;  the  Duke  Charles  of 
DeuxpoEts;  the  Palatine  Charles  Theodore ;  Maxi 


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X.ITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  295 

liilian  Joseph  L,  king  of  Bavaria ;  and  his  son,  (the 
present  monarch,)  Louis  L  The  ceiling  and  the 
tneze  of  this  room  are  splendidly  decorated  with 
groups  of  figures  and  ornaments  in  white  relief,  on 
a  gold  ground,  and  the  walls  will  be  hung  with 
crimson  damask. 

Along  the  south  front  of  the  building  from  east 
to  west  runs  a  gallery  or  corridor  about  four  hun* 
dred  feet  in  length,  and  eighteen  in  width,  lighted 
(m  one  side  by  twenty-five  lofty  arched  windows, 
having  on  the  other  side  ten  doors,  opening  into 
the  suite  of  picture  galleries,  or  rather  halls.  These 
occupy  the  centre  of  the  building,  and  are  lighted 
from  above  by  vast  lanterns.  They  are  eight  in 
number,  varying  in  length  from  fifty  to  eighty  feet, 
Dut  all  forty  feet  in  width  and  fifly  feet  in  height 
&om  the  floor  to  the  summit  of  the  lantern.  The 
walls  will  be  hung  with  silk  damask,  either  of  a 
dark  crimson  or  a  dark  green — according  to  the 
style  of  art  for  which  the  room  is  destined.  The 
ceilings  are  vaulted,  and  the  decorations  are  inex- 
pressibly rich,  composed  of  magnificent  arabesques, 
intermixed  with  the  effigies  of  celebrated  painters, 
and  groups  illustrative  of  the  history  of  art,  &c.,  aU 
moulded  in  white  relief  upon  a  ground  of  dead 
gold.  Mayer,  one  of  the  best  sculptors  in  Munich, 
has  the  direction  of  these  works. 

Behind  these  vast  galleries,  or  saloons,  there  is  a 
range  of  cabinets,  twenty-three  In  number,  appro- 
priated to  the  smaller  pictures  of  the  differenl 
ichools:  these  a*e  each  about  nineteen  feet  bj 


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i9S  BKETCHES  OF   ART, 

fifteen  in  size,  and  lighted  from  the  north,  eacb 
having  one  high  lateral  window.  The  ceilings  and 
upper  part  of  the  walls  are  painted  in  fresco,  (of 
distemper,  I  am  not  sure  which,)  with  very  graceful 
arabesques  of  a  quiet  color; — the  hangings  wiU 
also  be  of  silk  damask. 

Of  the  principal  saloons,  the  first  is  appropriated 
to  the  productions  of  modem  and  living  artists, 
and  has  three  cabinets  attached  to  it.  The  second 
will  contain  the  old  German  pictures,  including 
the  famous  Boisser^e  gallery,  and  has  four  cabinets 
attached  to  it  The  third,  fourth,  and  fiflh  saloons  ' 
(of  which  the  central  one,  the  hall  of  Rubens,  is 
eighty  feet  in  length)  are  devoted,  with  the  nine 
adjoining  cabinets,  to  the  Flemish  and  Dutch 
schools.  The  sixth,  with  four  cabinets,  will  contain 
the  French  and  Spanish  pictures ;  and  the  8eve*»th 
and  eighth,  with  three  cabinets,  will  contain  the 
Italian  school  of  painting.  All  these  apartments 
communicate  with  each  other  by  ample  doors ;  but 
from  the  corridor  already  mentioned,  which  opens 
into  the  whole  suite,  the  visitor  has  access  to  any 
particular  gallery,  or  school  of  painting,  without 
passing  through  the  others :  an  obvious  advantage, 
which  will  be  duly  estimated  by  those  who,  m 
visiting  a  gallery  of  painting,  have  felt  their  eyei 
dazzled,  their  heads  bewildered,  their  attention 
distracted,  by  too  much  variety  of  temptation  and 
attraction,  before  they  have  reached  tLe  particulaf 
object  or  school  of  art  to  which  their  attention  wai 
^peciall}  directed. 


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LITBKATURE,  AKD  CHARACVilli.  Itl 

To  this  beautifiil  and  most  convenient  corridor, 
9r,  as  it  is  called  here,  loggia^  we  must  now  retunii 
i  have  said  that  it  is  four  hundred  feet  in  lengtn, 
and  lighted  by  five-and-twenty  arched  windows,— 
which,  by  the  way,  command  a  splendid  prospect, 
boundeu  ^v  the  far-off  mountains  of  the  Tyrol. 
The  wall  opposite  to  these  windows  is  divided  into 
twenty-five  corresponding  compartments,  arched, 
and  each  surmounted  by  a  dome;  these  compart- 
ments are  painted  in  fresco  with  arabesques,  some- 
thing in  the  style  of  Raffaelle's  Loggie  in  the  Vati- 
can; while  every  arch  and  cupola  contains  (also 
painted  in  fresco)  scenes  from  the  life  of  some 
great  painter,  arranged  chronologically:  thus,  in 
fact,  exhibiting  a  graphic  history  of  the  rise  and 
progress  of  modem  painting — from  Cimabue  down 
to  Rubens. 

Of  this  series  of  frescos,  which  are  now  in  pro- 
gress, a  few  only  are  finished,  from  which,  however, 
a  very  satisfactory  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  whole 
design.  The  first  cupola  is  painted  from  a  poem 
of  A.  W.  Schlegel  "  Der  Bund  der  Kirche  mit  den 
Kiinsten,"  which  celebrates  the  alliance  between 
religion  (or  rather  the  church)  and  the  fine  arts. 
The  second  cupola  represents  the  Crusades,  be- 
cause from  these  wild  expeditions  (for  so  Provi- 
dence ordained  that  good  should  spring  from  evil) 
arose  the  regeneration  of  art  in  Europe.  With  the 
third  cupola  coromenoes  the  series  of  painters.  In 
the  arch,  or  lunette,  »b  represented  the  Madonna 
jf  Cimabue  carried  lu  triumphal  procession  through 


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198  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

the  streets  of  Florence  to  the  church  of  Santa  M» 
ria  Novella ;  and  in  the  dome  above,  various  scenei 
firom  the  painter's  life.  In  the  next  cupola  is  the 
history  of  Giotto ;  then  follows  Angelico  da  Fesole, 
who,  partly  from  humility  and  partly  from  love  for 
his  art,  refused  to  be  made  Archbishop  of  Florence ; 
then,  fourthly,  Masaccio;  fifthly,  Bellini:  in  one 
compartment  he  is  represented  painting  the  favorite 
sultana  of  Mahomet  IL  Several  of  the  succeeding 
cupolas  still  remain  blank,  so  we  pass  them  over 
and  arrive  at  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  painting  the 
queen  Joanna  of  Arragon ;  then  Michael  Angelo, 
meditating  the  design  of  St  Peter's ;  then  the  his- 
tory of  Raffaelle :  in  the  dome  are  various  scenea 
from  his  life.  The  lunette  represents  his  death: 
he  is  extended  on  a  couch,  beside  which  sits  his 
virago  love,  the  Fomarina  "  in  disperato  dolor ; " 
Pope  Leo  X.  and  Cardinal  Bembo  are  looking  on 
overwhelmed  with  grief; — ^in  the  backgroimd  is 
Hie  Transfiguration. 

I  wonder,  it  Bafiaelle  had  survived  this  fatal 
illness,  which  of  the  two  alternatives  he  would 
have  chosen — ^the  cardinal's  hat  or  the  niece  d 
Cardinal  Bibbiena?  M.  do  Klenze  gave  us,  the 
other  night,  a  most  picturesque  jind  animated  de- 
scription of  the  opening  of  Raffaelle's  tomb, — ^at 
which  ho  had  himself  assisted — the  discovery  of  hit 
remains,  and  those  of  his  betrothed  bride,  the  niece 
of  Cardinal  Bibbiena,  deposited  near  him.  She 
survived  him  several  years,  but  in  her  last  moments 
requested  to  be  buried  m   the  same  tomb  witi 


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LITEBATURE,  AND  OHARACIEB  299 

him.  This  was  at  least  quite  in  the  genre  roman* 
Uque. 

"  Charming  I"  exclaimed  one  of  the  ladies  pre»< 
«it 

"  Et  generewc  !  **  exclaimed  another. 

The  series  of  the  Italian  painters  will  end  witii 
the  CarraccL  Those  of  the  Grerman  painters  will 
begin  with  Van  Eyck,  and  end  with  Rubens.  Of 
many  of  the  frescos  which  are  not  yet  executed,  ] 
saw  the  cartoons  in  professor  Zimmermann's  studio 

Though  the  general  decoration  of  this  gallery 
was  planned  by  Cornelius,  the  designs  for  particu- 
lar parts,  and  the  direction  of  the  whole,  have  been 
confided  to  Zimmermann,  who  is  assisted  in  the 
execution  by  five  other  painters.  One  particular 
picture,  which  represents  Giotto  exhibiting  his  Ma- 
donna to  the  pope,  was  pointed  out  to  my  especial 
admiration  as  the  most  finished  specimen  of  fresco 
painting  which  has  yet  been  executed  here ;  and 
in  truth,  for  tenderness  and  freshness  of  color,  soft- 
ness in  the  shadows,  and  delicacy  in  the  handling, 
it  might  bear  comparison  with  any  psdnting  in  oils. 
We  were  standing  near  it  on  a  high  scaffold,  and 
it  endured  the  closest  and  most  minute  considerar 
fcion ;  but  when  seen  from  below,  it  may  possibly 
be  less  effective.  It  shows,  however,  the  extreme 
finish  of  which  the  fresco  painting  is  susceptible. 
This  was  executed  by  Hiltenspergor,  of  Swabia, 
from  the  cartoon  of  Zimmermann.  At  one  end  of 
this  gallery  there  is  to  be  a  large  fresco,  represent- 
•ng  his  majesty  King  Louis,  introduced  by  the  m'lsi 


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100  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

of  Poetry*  to  the  assembled  poets  and  painters  ol 
Germany.  Now,  this  species  of  allegorical  adula* 
kion  appears  to  me  flat  and  out  of  date.  I  well 
remember  that  long  ago  the  famous  picture  of  Vol- 
taire, introduced  into  the  Elysian  fields  by  Henri 
Quatre,  and  making  hb  best  bow  to  Racine  and 
Moli^re,  threw  me  into  a  convulsion  of  laughter: 
and  the  cartoon  of  this  royal  apotheosis  provoked 
the  same  irrepressible  feeling  of  the  ridiculous.  I 
wish  somebody  would  hint  to  Ejng  Louis  that 
this  is  not  in  good  taste,  and  that  there  are  many, 
many  ways  in  which  the  compliment  (which  he 
truly  merits)  might  be  better  managed. 

On  the  whole,  however,  it  may  truly  be  said  that 
the  luxuriant  and  appropriate  decorations  of  this 
gallery,  the  variety  of  color  and  ornament  lavished 
on  it,  agreeably  prepare  the  eye  and  the  imagina- 
tion for  that  glorious  feast  of  beauty  within,  to 
which  we  are  immediately  introduced:  and  thus 
the  overture  to  the  Zauberfldte,  (which  we  heard 
last  night,)  with  its  rich  iwvolved  harmonies,  its 
brilliant  and  exciting  movements,  attuned  the  ear 
and  the  fancy  to  enjoy  the  grand,  thrilling,  bewitch- 
ing, love-breathing  melodies  of  the  opera  which 
followed. 

I  omitted  to  mention  that  there  are  also  on  the 
upper  floor  of  the  Pinakothek  two  rooms,  each 
about  forty  feet  square ;  one,  called  the  Reserve* 
Saal,  13  intended  for  the  reception  of  those  pictiirei 
which  are  temporarily  removed  from  their  places. 
!tew  acquisitions,  &c.     The  other  room  is  fitted 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER  801 

ip  with  every  convenience  for  students  and  copy 
ista. 

The  WDOie  of  this  immense  edifice  is  warmeo 
throughout  by  heated  air;  the  stoves  being  de- 
tached from  the  body  of  the  building,  and  so  man- 
aged as  to  preclude  the  possibility  of  danger  from 
fire. 

It  does  not  appear  to  be  yet  decided  whether  the 
floors  will  be  of  the  Venetian  stucco,  or  of  parquet 

Such,  then,  is  the  general  plan  of  the  Pinakothek, 
the  national  gallery  of  Bavaria.  I  make  no  com- 
ment, except  that  I  felt  and  recognized  in  every 
part  the  presence  of  a  directing  mind,  and  the  ab- 
sence of  all  narrow  views,  all  truckling  to  the  in- 
terests, or  tastes,  or  prejudices,  or  convenience,  of 
any  particular  class  of  persons.  It  is  very  possible 
that  when  finished  it  will  be  found  by  scientific 
critics  not  absolutely  perfect^  which,  as  we  know, 
all  human  works  are  at  least  intended  and  expected 
to  be ;  but  it  is  equally  clear  that  an  honest  anx- 
iety for  the  glory  of  art,  and  the  benefit  of  the' 
public — not  the  caprices  of  the  king,  nor  the  in- 
dividual vanity  of  the  architect — has  been  the 
tnoving  principle  throughout. 

»  »  »  » 

Fresco  painting,  or,  as  the  Italians  call  it,  hwm 
fresco,  had  been  entirely  discontinued  since  the 
time  of  Raphael  Mengs.  It  was  revived  at  Rome 
Sn  1809-10,  when  the  late  M.  Bartholdv,  the  Prus- 
lian  consul-general,  caused  a  saloon  in  his  house 
to  be  painted  in  fresco  by  Peter  Cornelius,  Ovei* 


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2  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

beck,  and  Philip  Veith,  all  German  artists,  then 
resident  at  Rome.  The  subjects  are  taken  from 
the  Scriptures,  and  one  of  the  admirable  cartoons 
of  Overbeck,  (Joseph  sold  by  his  brethren,)  I  saw 
at  Frankfort  These  first  essays  are  yet  to  be  seen 
in  Barthold/s  house,  in  the  Via  Sistina  at  Rome. 
They  are  rather  hard,  but  in  a  grand  style  of  com- 
position. The  success  which  attended  this  spirited 
undertaking,  excited  much  attention  and  enthusi- 
asm, and  induced  the  Marchese  Massimi  to  have 
his  villa  near  the  Lateran  adorned  in  the  same 
style.  Accordingly,  he  had  three  grand  halls  or 
saloons  painted  with  subjects  fi*om  Dante,  Ariosto, 
and  Tasso.  The  first  was  ^ven  to  Philip  Veith, 
the  second  to  Julius  Schnorr,  and  the  third  to 
Overbeck.  Veith  did  not  finish  his  work,  which 
was  afterwards  terminated  by  Koch ;  the  two  other 
painters  completed  their  task,  much  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  Marchese,  and  to  the  admiration  of 
all  Rome. 

But  these  were  mere  experiments — mere  at- 
tempts, compared  to  what  has  since  been  executed 
in  the  same  style  at  Munich.  It  is  true  that  the 
art  of  fresco-painting  had  never  been  entirely  lost 
The  theory  of  the  process  was  well  known,  and 
also  the  colors  formerly  used ;  only  practice,  and 
the  opportunity  of  practice,  were  wanting.  This 
has  been  afforded ;  and  there  is  now  at  Munich  a 
school  of  fresco-painting,  under  the  direction  of 
Cornelius^  Julius  Schnorr,  and  Zinmiermann,  io 
which  the  mechanical  process  has  been  brought  to 


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LITERATUBE,   AND   CHARACTER.  809 

luch  perfection,  that  the  neatness  of  the  execution 
may  vie  with  oils,  and  they  can  eyen  cut  out  a  fea- 
ture and  replace  it  if  necessary.  The  palette  hai 
also  been  augmented  by  the  recent  improvements 
in  chemistry,  which  have  enabled  the  fresco  painter 
to  apply  some  most  precious  colors,  unknown  to 
the  ancient  masters :  only  earths  and  metallic  colors 
are  used.  I  believe  it  is  universally  known  that 
tlie  colors  are  applied  while  the  plaster  is  wet,  and 
that  the  preparation  of  this  plaster  is  a  matter  of 
much  care  and  nicety.  A  good  deal  of  experience 
and  manual  dexterity  is  necessary  to  enable  the 
painter  to  execute  with  rapidity,  and  calculate  the 
exact  degree  of  humidity  in  the  plaster,  requisite 
for  the  effect  he  wishes  to  produce. 

It  has  been  said  that  fresco-painting  is  unfitted 
for  our  climate,  damp  and  sea-coal  fires  being 
equally  injurious ;  but  the  new  method  of  warming 
all  large  buildings,  either  by  steam  or  heated  air, 
obviates,  at  least,  this  objection. 

26. — The  morning  was  spent  in  the  ateliers  of 
two  Bavarian  sculptors,  Mayer  and  Bandel.  To 
Mayer,  the  king  has  confided  the  decoration  of  the 
.nteriDr  of  the  Pinakothek,  of  which  he  showed  me 
the  drawings  and  designs.  He  has  also  executed 
the  colossal  statue  of  Albert  Durer,  in  stone,  fof 
the  interior  of  that  building. 

It  appears  that  the  pediment  of  the  Glyptothek, 
now  vacant,  will  be  adorned  by  a  group  of  fourteen 
»  fifteen  figures,  representing  all  the  different  pro* 
.•esses  in  the  ait  of  sculpture ;  the  modeller  in  clay. 


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804  SKETCHES   OF   ABT, 

the  hewer  of  the  mai^ble,  the  caster  in  bronze,  th« 
sarver  in  wood  or  ivory,  &c.  all  in  appropriate  at- 
titudes, all  colossal,  and  grouped  into  a  whole.  The 
general  design  was  modelled,  I  believe,  by  Eber- 
hardt,  professor  of  sculpture  in  the  academy  here ; 
and  the  execution  of  the  different  figures  has  been 
given  to  several  young  sculptors,  among  them 
Mayer  and  Bandel.  This  has  produced  a  strong 
feeling  of  emulation.  I  observed  that  notwith- 
standing the  height  and  the  situation  to  which  they 
are  destined,  nearly  one-half  of  each  figure  being 
necessarily  turned  from  the  spectator  below,  each 
statue  is  wrought  with  exceeding  care,  and  per- 
fectly finished  on  every  side.  I  admired  the  purity 
of  the  marble,  which  is  from  the  Tyrol.  Mayer 
informs  me  that  about  three  years  ago  enormous. 
quarries  of  white  marble  were  discovered  in  the 
Tyrol,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  king,  as  it 
diminishes,  by  one-half,  the  expense  of  the  material. 
This  native  marble  is  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  and 
to  be  had  in  immense  masses  without  flaw  or  speck; 
but  the  grain  is  rather  coarse. 

More  than  twenty  years  ago,  when  the  king  of 
Bavaria  was  Prince  Royal,  and  could  only  antici- 
pate at  some  distant  period  the  execution  of  hit 
design,  he  projected  a  building,  of  which,  at  least, 
the  name  and  purpose  must  be  known  to  all  who 
have  ever  stepped  on  Grerman  ground.  This  is  the 
Valhalla,  a  temple  raised  to  the  national  glory 
and  intended  to  contain  the  busts  or  statues  of  ah 
Oie  illustrious  characters  of  Germany,  whether  di» 


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LITERATUBB,   AND   CHARACTER.  805 

tinguished  in  literature,  arts,  or  arms,  from  theu 
ancient  hero  and  patriot  Herman,  or  Arminius, 
down  to  Groethe,  and  those  who  will  succeed  him. 
The  idea  was  assuredly  noble,  and  worthy  of  a 
sovereign.  The  execution — never  lost  sight  of— 
has  been  but  lately  commenced.  The  Valhalla 
Las  been  founded  on  a  lofty  cliff,  which  rises  above 
the  Danube,  not  far  from  Ratisbon.*  It  will  form 
a  conspicuous  object  to  all  who  pass  up  and  down 
the  Danube,  and  the  situation,  nearly  in  the  centre 
of  Germany,  is  at  least  well  chosen.  But  I  could 
hardly  express  (or  repress)  my  surprise,  when  I 
was  shown  the  design  for  this  building.  The  first 
gUnce  recalled  the  Theseum  at  Athens ;  and  then 
follows  the  very  natural  question,  why  should  a 
Greek  model  have  been  chosen  for  an  edifice,  the 
object,  and  purpose,  and  name  of  which  are  so 
completely,  essentially,  exclusively  gothic  ?  What, 
in  Heaven's  name,  has  the  Theseum  to  do  on  the 
banks  of  the  Danube  ?  It  is  true  that  the  purity 
of  forms  in  the  Greek  architecture,  the  effect  of  the 
contipuous  lines  and  the  massy  Doric  columns, 
must  be  grand  and  beautiful  to  the  eye,  place  the 
object  where  you  will;  and  in  the  situation  de- 
signed for  it,  particularly  imposing ;  but  surely  it 
is  not  appropriate ; — ^the  name,  and  the  form,  and 
the  purpose,  are  all  at  variance — throwing  our  most 
cherished  associations  into  strange  confusion.  Noi 
could  the  explanations  and  eloquent  reasoning  with 

•  The  first  stone  of  the  Valhalla  was  laid  by  the  Kinc  of  Ba- 
vatla,  on  the  18th  o^  October,  1890. 
30 


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506  SKETCHES  OF  AKT, 

which  my  objectious  were  met,  succeed  in  convinc- 
ing me  of  the  propriety  of  the  design,  while  1 
acknowledged  its  magnificence.  The  sculptor 
Mayer  showed  me  a  group  of  figures  for  one  of  the 
pediments  of  this  Greek  Valhalla,  admirably  ap- 
propriate to  the  purpose  of  the  building — but  not 
to  the  building  itself.  It  represents  Herman  intro- 
duced by  Hermoda  (or  Mercury)  into  the  Valhalla, 
and  received  by  Odin  and  Freya.  Iduna  advances 
to  meet  the  hero,  presenting  the  apples  of  im- 
mortality, and  one  of  the  Vahlkiire  pours  out  the 
mead,  to  refresh  the  soul  of  the  Einheriar.*  To 
the  right  of  this  group  are  several  figures  repre- 
senting the  chief  epochs  in  the  history  of  Germany. 

This  design  wants  unity ;  and  it  is  a  manifest  in- 
congruity to  allude  to  the  introduction  of  Chris- 
tianity, where  the  mythological  Valhalla  forms  the 
chief  point  of  interest;  notwithstanding,  it  gave 
me  exceeding  pleasure,  as  furnishing  an  unanswer- 
able proof  of  the  possible  application  of  sculpture 
on  a  grand  scale,  to  the  forms  of  romantic  or  gothic 
poetrj- :  all  the  figures,  the  accompaniments,  attri- 
butes, are  strictly  Teutonic ;  the  effect  of  the  whole 
is  grand  and  interesting ;  but  what  would  it  be  on 
a  Greek  temple  ?  would  it  not  appear  misplaced 
and  discordant  ? 

I  am  infoimed,  that  of  the  two  pediments  of  the 
Valhalla,  one  will  be  given  to  Ranch  of  Berlin, 
tnd  the  other  to  Schwanthaler. 

*  The  Eliiheriar  are«the  0O11L1  of  heroes  admitted  into  tin 
FalhaUa. 


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LITURATURE,   AKD  GHARACTEB.  807 

The  sculptor  Bandel,  with  his  quick  eye,  hit 
imple  brow,  his  animated,  benevolent  face,  and  his 
rapid  movements,  looks  like  what  he  is — a  genius. 

In  his  atelier  I  saw  some  things,  just  like  what  I 
lee  in  all  the  ateliers  of  young  sculptors— cold  im- 
itations, feeble  versions  of  mythological  subjects — 
but  I  saw  some  other  things  so  fresh  and  beautiful 
in  feeling,  as  to  impress  me  with  a  high  idea  of  his 
poetical  and  creative  power.  I  longed  to  bring  to 
England  one  or  two  casts  of  his  charming  Cupid 
Penseroso,  of  which  the  original  marble  is  at  Han- 
over. There  is  also  a  very  exquisite  bas-relief 
of  Adam  and  Eve  sleeping :  the  good  angel  watch- 
ing on  one  side,  and  the  evil  angel  on  the  other. 
This  lovely  group  is  the  conomencement  of  a  series 
of  bas-reliefs,  designed,  I  believe,  for  a  Meze,  and 
not  yet  completed,  representing  the  four  ages  of 
the  world :  the  age  of  innocence ;  the  heroic  age, 
or  age  of  physical  power ;  the  age  of  poetry,  and 
the  age  of  philosophy.  This  new  version  of  the 
old  idea  interested  me,  and  it  is  developed  and 
treated  with  much  grace  and  originsdity.  Bandel 
told  us  that  he  is  just  going,  with  his  beautiful  wife 
and  two  or  three  little  children,  to  settle  at  Carrara 
for  a  few  years.  The  marble  quarries  there  are 
now  colonized  by  young  sculptors  of  every  nation 
♦  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

The  king  of  Bavaria  has  a  gallery  of  beautiea, 
(the  portraits  of  some  of  the  most  beautiful  women 
if  Germany  and  Italy,)  which  be  shuts  up  from 
the  public  eye,  like  any  grand  Turk  —and  neithei 


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108  SKETCHES   OF  AR-^ 

bribery  nor  interest  can  procure  admission.  A 
lovely  woman  to  whom  I  was  speaking  of  it  yester- 
day, and  who  has  been  admitted  in  effigy  into  thit 
harem,  seemed  to  consider  the  compliment  rather 
equivocal.  **^  Depend  upon  it,  my  dear,"  said  she, 
^  that  fifty  years  hence  we  shall  be  all  confounded 
together,  as  the  king's  very  intimate  friends  ;  and 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  not  ambitious  of  the 
honor,  more  particularly  as  there  are  some  of  my 
illustrious  companions  in  charms  who  are  enough 
to  throw  discredit  on  the  whole  set ! " 

I  saw  in  Stieler's  atelier  two  portraits  for  this 
collection :  one,  a  woman  of  rank — a  dark  beauty : 
the  other,  a  servant  girl  here,  with  a  head  like  one 
of  Baffaelle's  angels,  almost  divine ;  she  is  painted 
in  the  little  filagree  silver  cap,  the  embroidered 
boddice,  and  mlk  handkerchief  crossed  over  the 
bosom,  the  costume  of  the  women  of  Munich,  to 
which  the  king  is  extremely  partiaL  I  am  assured 
that  this  young  girl,  who  is  not  more  than  seven- 
teen, is  as  remarkable  for  her  piety,  simplicity,  and 
spotless  reputation,  as  for  her  singular  beauty.  1 
have  seen  her,  and  the  picture  merely  does  her 
justice.  Several  other  women  of  the  bourgeoisie 
have  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  included  in  the 
king*s  collection.  One  of  these,  the  daughter,  I 
believe,  of  an  herb-woman,  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  creatures  I  ever  beheld.  On  tihe 
whole,  I  should  say,  that  the  lower  orders  of  the 
peopb  of  Munich  are  the  handsomest  race  I  hav# 
leen  in  Germany. 


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IJTEBATURB,   AND  CHARACTER.  809 

Stieler  is  the  court  and  fasbionable  portrait 
painter  here — ^the  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence  of  Munich 
—that  is,  in  the  estimation  of  the  Germans.  He 
is  an  accomplished  man,  with  amiable  mannen, 
and  a  talent  for  rising  in  the  world;  or,  as  I 
heard  some  one  call  it,  the  organ  of  getting^ 
oniveness.  For  the  elaborate  finish  of  his  poiv 
traits,  for  expertness  and  delicacy  of  hand,'  for  re- 
semblance and  exquisite  drawing,  I  suppose  he  has 
few  equals ;  but  he  has  also,  in  perfection,  what  I 
consider  the  faulty  peculiarities  of  the  German 
school.  Stieler's  artificial  roses  are  too  natural: 
his  caps,  and  embroidered  scarfs,  and  jewelled 
bracelets,  are  more  real  than  the  things  themselves 
^-or  seem  so ;  for  certainly  I  never  gave  to  the 
real  objects  the  attention  and  the  admiration  they 
challenge  in  his  pictures.  The  famous  bunch  of 
grapes,  which  tempted  the  birds  to  peck,  could  be 
nothing  compared  to  the  felt  of  Prince  Charles's 
hat  in  Stieler's  portrait :  it  actually  invites  the  hat- 
brush.  Strange  perversion  of  power  in  the  artist 
stranger  perveraon  of  taste  in  those  who  admire 
i»  1 — Ma  pasdenza  ! 

♦  «  ♦  ♦ 

The  Due  de  Leuchtenbei^  opens  his  small  but 
beautiful  gallery  twice  a  week:  Mondays  and 
Thursdays.  The  doors  are  thrown  open  and  every 
respectable  person  may  walk  in,  without  distinction 
or  ceremony.  It  is  a  delightful  morning  lounge ; 
there  are  not  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
pictures—enough  to  excite  and  gratify,  not  satiate, 


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BIO  8KBTGHES  OF  ABT, 

admiration.  The  first  room  contains  a  coUectiosk 
nt  paintings  by  modem  and  living  artists  of  France, 
Germany,  and  Italy.  There  is  a  lovely  little  pic- 
ture by  Madame  de  Freyberg  of  the  Maries  at  the 
sepulchre  of  Christ;  and  by  Heinrich  Hess,  a  group 
of  the  three  Christian  graces — Faith,  Hope,  and 
Charity,  seated  under  the  German  oak,  and  psdnted 
with  great  simplicity  and  sentiment ;  of  his  cele- 
brated brother,  Peter  Hess,  and  Wagenbauer,  and 
Jacob  Domer,  and  Quaglio,  there  are  beautiful 
specimens.  The  French  pictures  did  not  please 
me :  Girodet'8  picture  of  Ossian  and  the  French 
heroes  is  a  monstrous  combination  of  all  manner 
of  afiectat^ons. 

I  should  not  forget  a  fine  portrait  of  Napoleon, 
by  Appiani,  crowned  with  laurel;  and  anothei 
picture,  which  represents  him  throned,  with  all  the 
insignia  5>f  state  and  power,  and  supported  on 
either  side  by  Victory  and  Peace.  For  a  moment 
we  pause  before  that  proud  form,  to  think  of  all  he 
was,  all  he  might  have  been — to  draw  a  moral  from 
the  faUi  of  selfishness. 

He  rose  by  blood,  he  built  on  maii*s  distress, 
And  th*  inheritance  of  desolation  left 
To  great  expecting  hopes.* 

Among  the  pictures  of  the  old  masters  there  are 
many  fine  ones,  and  three  or  four  of  peculiar  in 
lereit    There  is  the  famous  head  by  Bronzino 


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1.ITERATUKE,  AND  CHARACTER.  811 

lenei'ally  entitled,  Petrarch's  Laura,  but  assurr^dlj 
iritliout  the  slightest  pretensions  to  authenticity, 
rhe  face  is  that  of  a  prim,  starched  precieuse,  to 
wnich  the  peculiar  style  of  this  old  portrait  painter, 
frith  his  literal  nature,  his  hardness,  and  leaden 
eoloring,  imparts  additional  coldness  and  rigidity. 

But  the  finest  picture  in  the  gallery — ^perhaps 
one  of  the  finest  in  the  world — is  the  Madonna  and 
Child  of  Murillo :  one  of  those  rare  productions  of 
mind  which  baffle  the  copyist,  and  defy  the  en- 
graver,— which  it  is  worth  making  a  pilgrimage 
but  to  gaze  on.  How  true  it  is  that  "  a  thing  of 
beauty  is  a  joy  forever ! " 

When  I  look  at  Murillo's  roguish,  ragged  beggar- 
boys  in  the  royal  gallery,  and  then  at  the  Leuch- 
tenberg  gallery  turn  to  contemplate  his  Madonna 
and  his  ascending  angel,  both  of  such  unearthly 
and  inspired  beauty,  a  feeling  of  the  wondrous 
grasp  and  versatility  of  the  man's  mind  almost 
makes  me  giddy. 

The  lithographic  press  of  Munich  is  celebrated 
all  over  Europe.  Aloys  Senefelder,  the  inventor 
of  the  art,  has  the  direction  of  the  works,  with  a 
well-merited  pension,  and  the  titie  of  Inspector  of 
Lithography.* 

*  Lithography  was  iuTented  at  Mooich  between  1795  and 
1796,  for  BO  long  were  repeated  experiments  tried  before  the  art 
became  vmtal  or  general.  Senelblder,  the  inyentor,  was  an 
aetor,  and  the  son  of  an  actor.  The  flr^  occasion  of  the  Inren- 
Hen  was  his  wish  to  print  a  little  drama  of  his  own,  in  soms 
■tanner  lees  expensive  than  the  usual  method  of  ^ype.  The  first 
feueoeesfol  experiment  was  the  printing  9f  some  music,  published 


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912  SKETCHES   OF   AKT, 


The  people  o£  Munich  are  not  only  a  well^ 
dressed  and  well-looking,  but  a  social,  kind-hearted 
race.  The  number  of  unions,  or  societies,  instituted 
for  benevolent  or  festive  purposes,  is,  for  the  size 
of  the  place,  ahnost  incredible.*  I  had  a  catalogue 

(1796)  by  Gleisraer,  one  of  the  king  of  Bayaria^s  band:  the  first 
drawing  attempted  was  a  vignette  to  a  sheet  of  music.  In  thit 
course  of  liis  attempts  to  pursue  and  perfect  his  discovery,  Sene- 
felder  was  reduced  to  such  poverty,  that  he  offered  himself  to 
enlist  for  a  common  soldier,  and,  luckily,  was  refused.  He  again 
took  heart,  and,  supported  through  every  difficulty  and  dis- 
couragement by  his  own  strong  and  enthusiastic  mind,  he  at 
length  overcame  all  obstacles,  and  has  lived  to  see  his  invention 
established  and  spread  over  the  whole  civilized  world.  Hitherto, 
I  believe,  the  stone  used  by  lithographers  is  found  only  in  B'.i* 
varia,  whence  it  is  sent  to  every  part  of  Europe  and  America, 
and  forms  a  most  profitable  article  of  commerce.  The  principal 
quarries  are  at  Solenholfen,  on  the  Danube,  about  fifty  miles 
from  Munich. 

Senefelder  has  published  a  little  memoir  of  the  origin  and  pro 
gress  of  the  invention,  in  which  he  relates  with  great  simplicity 
the  hardship,  and  misery,  and  contumely  he  encountered  beforf 
he  could  bring  it  into  use.  He  concludes  with  an  earnest  prayer. 
"  that  it  may  contribute  to  the  benefit  and  improvement  of  mac 
kind,  and  that  it  may  never  be  abused  to  any  dishonorable  or 
\nimoraI  purpose." 

If  I  remember  rightly,  a  detailed  history  of  the  art  wm  gtvea 
hi  one  of  the  early  numbers  of  the  Foreign  Review. 

*  The  population  of  Munich  is  estimated  at  about  00,000.  It 
does  not  enter  into  my  plan,  at  present,  to  give  any  detailed 
account  of  the  public  institutions,  whether  academies,  schools, 
hospitals,  or  prisons ;  yet  I  cannot  but  mention  the  prison  at 
Munich,  which  more  than  pays  its  own  expenses,  instead  of 
bdnga  burthen  to  the  state;  the  admirable  hospital  for  the 
poor,  in  which  all  who  cannot  find  work  elsewhere,  are  provided 
with  cecupation ;  two  large  hospitals  for  the  sick  poor,  in  whicli 
looms  and  attendance  art*  also  provided  for  those  who  do  noi 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  SIS 

fff  more  than  forty  given  to  me  this  morning ;  thcjr 
are  for  all  ranks  and  professions,  and  there  ia 
scarcely  a  person  in  the  city  who  is  not  enlisted 
into  one  or  more  of  these  communities.  Some  have 
reading-rooms  and  well-fiimished  libraries,  to  which 
strangers  are  at  once  introduced,  gratis ;  they  give 
balls  and  concerts  during  the  winter,  which  not 
only  include  their  own  members  and  their  friends, 
but  one  society  will  sometimes  invite  and  entertain 
another. 

The  young  artists  of  Munich,  who  constitute  a 
numerous  body,  formed  themselves  into  an  associa- 
tion, and  gave  very  elegant  balls  and  concerts,  at 
first  among  themselves  and  their  immediate  friends 
and  connexions;  but  the  circle  increased — ^these 
balls  became  more  and  more  splendid — even  the 


shoo06  to  be  a  burthen  to  ihefr  fHends,  nor  yet  dependent  on 
charity;  the  orphan  echool;  the  female  school,  endowed  bj  the 
king;  the  foundling  and  lying-in  hospitals,  establishments  un- 
happily most  necessary  in  Munich,  and  certainly  most  admirably 
conducted.  These,  and  innumerable  priTate  societies  for  ibe 
tssistance,  the  education,  and  the  improrement  of  the  hmn 
olasses,  ought  to  receive  the  attention  of  eyery  intelligent  tra?- 
rUer. 

Tnere  are  no  poor  laws  in  operation  at  Munich,  no  mendicity 
societies,  no  tract,  and  soup,  and  blanket  charities;  yet  pauper> 
Ism,  mendicity,  and  starration,  are  nearly  unknown.  For  the 
system  of  r^^lations  by  which  these  eyils  have  been  repressed 
•r  altogether  remedied,  I  believe  Bavaria  is  indebted  to  ihn 
lelebrated  American,  Count  Rumford,  who  was  in  the  service  of 
ihe  late  king,  Max-Joseph,  from  1790  to  1799. 

Several  new  manu&ctories  have  lately  been  established,  parr 
Heularly  of  glass  and  porcelain,  and  the  latter  If  carried  to  • 
ilgh  degree  of  perfoction. 


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314  SKETCHES  OF  AUT, 

king  and  the  royal  family  frequently  honored  them 
with  their  presence.  It  became  a  point  of  honor 
to  exceed  in  elegance  and  profusion  all  the  enter- 
tainments given  by  the  other  societies  of  Munich. 
Every  body  danced,  prabed,  and  enjoyed  them- 
selves. At  length  it  occurred  to  some  of  the  most 
considerate  and  kind-hearted  of  the  people,  that 
these  young  men  were  going  beyond  their  means  to 
entertain  their  friends  and  fellow-citizens.  It  had 
evidently  become  a  matter  of  great  expense,  and 
perhaps  ostentation,  and  they  resolved  to  put  down 
this  competition  at  once.  An  association  was 
formed  of  persons  of  all  classes,  and  they  gave  a 
fete  to  the  painters  of  Munich,  which  eclipsed  in 
magnificence  every  thing  of  the  kind  before  or 
since.  It  was  a  ball  and  supper,  on  the  most  ample 
and  splendid  scale,  and  took  place  at  the  Odeon. 
£ach  lady's  ticket  contained  the  name  of  the  cava- 
'/ier,  to  whose  especial  protection  and  gallantry  she 
was  consigned  for  the  evening ;  and  so  much  tacte 
'.7as  shown  in  this  arrangement,  that  I  am  told  very 
few  were  discontented  with  their  lot  Nearly  three 
thousand  persons  were  present,  and  it  was  the  month 
of  February ;  yet  every  lady  on  entering  the  room 
was  presented  by  her  cavalier  with  a  bouquet  of 
hot-house  flowers ;  and  the  Salle  de  TOdeon  was 
adorned  with  a  profusion  of  plants  and  flowering 
ihrubs,  collected  from  all  the  conservatories,  private 
and  public,  within  twenty  ndles  of  the  capital.  The 
king,  the  queen,  their  family  and  suite,  and  many 
of  the    principal  nobles  were  invited,  with,  of 


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LITBRATUBB,  AND  CHABACTEB.  81A 

course,  a  large  portion  of  the  gentry  and  trade» 
people  of  Munich ;  but,  notwithstanding  the  mi» 
eellaneous  nature  of  the  assemblage,  and  the  im- 
mense number  of  persons  present,  all  was  harmony, 
and  good-breeding,  and  gaiety.  This  f§te  produced 
the  desired  result;  the  young  painters  took  the 
hint,  and  though  they  still  give  balls,  which  are 
exceedingly  pleasant,  they  are  on  a  more  modest 
scale  than  heretofore. 

The  Liederkranz  (literally,  the  circle,  or  garland 
of  song)  is  a  society  of  musicians — amateurs  and 
professors — ^who  give  concerts  here,  at  which  the 
compositions  of  the  members  are  occasionally  per- 
formed. One  o£  these  concerts  (Fest-Production) 
took  place  this  evening  at  the  Odeon ;  and  having 
duly  received,  as  a  stranger,  my  ticket  of  invitation, 
I  went  early  with  a  very  pleasant  party. 

The  immense  room  was  crowded  in  every  part, 
and  presented  a  most  brilliant  spectacle,  from  the 
number  of  military  costumes,  and  the  glittering 
head-dresses  of  the  Munich  girls.  Our  hosts  formed 
the  orchestra.  The  king  and  queen  had  been  in- 
vited, and  had  signified  their  gracious  intention  of 
being  present  The  first  row  of  seats  was  assigned 
CO  tnem ;  but  no  other  distinction  was  made  between 
the  royal  family  and  the  rest  of  the  company. 

The  king  is  generally  punctual  on  these  occa- 
nons,  but  from  some  accident  he  was  this  evening 
delayed,  and  we  had  to  wait  his  arrival  about  ten 
minutes;  the  company  were  all  assembled — ser^ 
tants  were  already  parading  up  and  down  the  roon 


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B16  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

with  trays,  heaped  with  ices  and  refreshments — ^thfl 
orchestra  stood  up,  with  fiddle-sticks  suspended 
the  chorus,  with  mouths  half  open — and  the  con- 
ductor, Stuntz,  brandished  his  roll  of  music.  Al 
length  a  side  door  was  thrown  open :  a  voice  an- 
nounced "the  king;"  the  trumpets  sounded  a 
salute;  and  all  the  people  rose  and  remained 
standing  until  the  royal  guests  were  seated.  The 
king  entered  first,  the  queen  hanging  on  his  arm. 
The  duke  Bernard  of  Saxe-Weimar,  and  his 
duchess,*  followed;  then  the  princess  Matilda, 
leading  her  younger  brother  and  sister,  prince 
Luitpold  and  the  princess  Adelgonde ; — the  former 
a  fine  boy  of  about  twelve  years  old,  the  latter  a 
pretty  little  girl  of  about  seven  or  eight :  a  single 
lady  of  honor ;  the  Baron  de  Freyberg,  as  princi- 
pal equerry ;  the  minister  von  Schencke,  and  one 
or  two  other  officers  of  the  household  were  in 
attendance.  The  king  bowed  to  the  gentlemen  in 
the  orchestra,  then  to  the  company,  and  in  a  few 
moments  all  were  seated. 

The  music  was  entirely  vocal,  consisting  of  con- 
certed pieces  only,  for  three  or  more  voices,  and  all 
were  executed  in  perfection.  I  observed  severa] 
little  boys  and  young  girls,  of  twelve  or  fourteen, 
sin^ng  in  the  chorusses,  apparently  much  to  their 
own  satisfaction — certainly  to  ours.  Their  voices 
were  delicious,  and  perfectly  well  managed,  an<f 
their  merry  laughing  faces  were  equally  pleasanl 
to  look  upon. 

*  Ida  of  Saze-Meininfen,  sister  of  the  queen  of  England 


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UTEBArURB,  AND  CHABACTER.  817 

We  had  first  a  grand  loyal  anthem,  composed 
for  the  occasion  by  Lenz,  in  which  the  king  and 
queen,  and  their  children,  were  separately  apostro- 
phized. Prince  Maximilian,  now  upon  his  travels, 
and  young  King  Otto,  "  far  off  upon  the  throne  of 
Hellas,**  were  not  forgotten ;  and  as  the  princess 
Afatilda  has  lately  been  verloht  (betrothed)  to  the 
hereditary  prince  of  Hesse-Darmstadt,  they  put 
the  FtUur  into  a  couplet,  with  great  effect  It 
seems  that  this  marriage  has  been  for  some  time 
in  negotiation;  its  course  did  not  ''run  quite 
smooth,"  and  the  heart  of  the  young  princess  is 
supposed  to  be  more  deeply  interested  in  the  affair 
than  is  usual  in  royal  alliances.  She  is  also  very 
generally  beloved,  so  that  when  the  chorus  sang, 

*<  Hoch  lebe  Ludwig  and  MathUdel 
Ein  Herz  stets  Brantigam  and  Braatl  ** 

all  eyes  were  turned  towards  her  with  a  smiling 
expression  of  sympathy  and  kindness,  which  really 
touched  me.  As  I  sat,  I  could  only  see  her  side- 
&ce,  which  was  declined.  There  was  also  an 
allusion  to  the  late  King  Max-Joseph,  "  das  beste 
Herz,"  who  died  about  ^^q  years  ago,  and  who 
appears  to  have  been  absolutely  adored  by  his 
people.  All  this  passed  off  very  well,  and  was 
greatly  applauded.  At  the  conclumon  the  king 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  said  something  courteous 
and  good-natured  to  the  orchestra,  and  then  sat 
town.    The  other  pieces  were  by  old  Schack,  (th« 


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818  8KBTCHBS  OF  ABT, 

intimate  Mend  of  Mozart,)  Stantz,  Chelard,  and 
Marachner ;  a  drinking  song  by  Hayden,  and  on6 
o£  the  chomsses  in  the  Cosi  fan  Tutte  were  also 
introduced.  The  whole  concluded  with  the  ^'  song 
(^the  heroes  in  the  Valhalla,"  composed  by  Stuntz. 
Between  the  acts  there  was  an  interval  of  at 
least  half  an  hour,  during  which  the  queen  and 
the  princess  Matilda  walked  up  and  down  in  front 
of  the  orchestra,  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  ladies  who  were  seated  near,  and  those  whom 
the  rules  of  etiquette  allowed  to  approach  unsum- 
moned  and  pay  their  respects.  The  king,  mean- 
while walked  round  the  room  unattended,  speaking 
to  different  people,  and  addressing  the  young  bour- 
geoises, whose  looks  or  whose  toilette  pleased  him, 
with  a  bow  and  a  smile ;  while  they  simpered  and 
blushed,  and  drew  themselves  up  when  he  had 


As  I  see  the  king  frequently,  his  face  is  familiar 
to  me,  but  to-night  he  looked  particularly  well,  and 
had  on  a  better  coat  than  he  usually  condescends 
to  wear,-Miuite  plain,  however,  and  without  any 
order  or  decoration.  He  is  now  in  his  forty-seventh 
year,  not  handsome,  with  a  small  well-formed  head, 
an  intelligent  brow,  and  a  quick  penetrating  eye. 
Ilis  figure  is  slight  and  well-made,  his  movements 
quick,  and  his  manner  lively — ^at  times  even  abrupt 
and  impatient  His  utterance  is  often  so  rapid  as 
to  be  scarcely  intelligible  to  those  who  are  most 
accustomed  to  him.  I  often  meet  him  walking 
%rm-in-4rm  with  M.  de*Schenke,  M.  de  Elenzcv 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  81 S 

and  others  of  bis  friends — for  apparently  this  eccen- 
tric, accomplished  sovereign  has  friends.,  though  I 
believe  he  is  not  so  popular  as  his  father  was  before 
him 

Ihe  qneen  (Theresa,  princess  of  Saxe-Hilburg- 
hausen)  has  a  sweet  open  countenance,  and  a 
pleasing,  elegant  figure.  The  princess  Matilda, 
who  is  now  nineteen,  is  the  express  image  of  her 
mother,  whom  she  resembles  in  her  amiable  dispo- 
ntion,  as  well  as  her  person;  her  figure  is  very 
pretty,  and  her  deportment  graceful.  She  looked 
pensive  this  evening,  which  was  attributed  by  the 
good  people  around  me  to  the  recent  departure  of 
the  prince  of  Hesse-Darmstadt,  who  has  been  here 
for  some  time  paying  his  court. 

About  ten,  the  concert  was  over.  The  king  and 
queen  remained  a  few  minutes  in  conversation 
with  those  around  them,  without  displaying  any 
ungracious  hurry  to  depart ;  and  the  whole  scene 
left  a  pleasant  impression  upon  my  fancy.  To  an 
English  traveller  in  Germany  nothing  is  more 
striking  than  the  easy  familiar  terms  on  which  the 
sovereign  and  his  family  mingle  with  the  people 
on  these  and  the  like  occasions ;  it  certainly  would 
not  answer  in  England :  but  as  they  say  in  this 
expressiv3  language — Ldndlichy  sittlich,* 

Munich,  Oct  28,  1833. 

*  It  is  difflcnlt  to  translate  this  laconic  proyerb,  because  w 
hare  not  the  corresponding  words  in  English :  the  meaning  ma/ 
ke  rendered— ^^aceor<^*'ncr  to  the  country,  so  tsre  tht  matmen  >> 


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SKETCHES  OF   ART,  LITERATURK, 
AND   CHARACTER. 


U. 


NUREMBERG. 

Nuremberg — with  its  long,  narrow,  winding, 
involved  streets,  its  precipitous  ascents  and  de- 
scents, its  completely  gothic  physiognomy — ^is  by 
far  the  strangest  old  city  I  ever  beheld;  it  has 
retained  in  every  part  the  aspect  of  the  middle 
ages.  No  two  houses  resemble  each  other;  yet, 
difiering  in  form,  in  color,  in  height,  in  ornament, 
all  have  a  family  likeness ;  and  with  their  peaked 
and  carved  gabels,  and  projecting  central  balc(>> 
nies,  and  painted  fronts,  stand  up  in  a  row,  like 
so  many  tall,  gaunt,  stately  old  maids,  with  the 
toques  and  stomachers  of  the  last  century.  In  the 
upper  part  of  the  town,  we  find  here  and  there  a 
new  house,  built,  or  rebuilt,  in  a  more  modern 
fashion ;  and  even  a  gay  modem  theatre,  and  an 
unfidished  modern  church;  but  these,  instead  of 
being  embellishments,  look  ill-favored  and  mean 
\ike  patches  of  new  cloth  on  a  rich  old  brocades 


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l.fTZIlATUBE,  AND  CHABAOTEK.  321 

Age  is  here,  but  it  does  not  suggest  the  idea  of 
dilapidation  or  decay,  rather  of  something  which 
has  been  put  under  a  glass-case,  and  preserved  with 
care  from  all  extraneous  influences.  The  buildings 
are  so  ancient,  the  fashions  of  society  so  antiquated, 
the  people  so  penetrated  with  veneration  for  them- 
selves and  their  city,  that  in  the  few  days  I  spent 
there,  I  began  to  feel  quite  old  too— my  mind  was 
wrinkled  up,  as  it  were,  with  a  reverence  for  the 
past  I  wondered  that  people  condescended  to  talk 
of  any  event  more  recent  than  the  thirty  years' 
war,  and  the  defence  of  Gustavus  Adolphus ;  *  and 
all  names  of  modem  date,  even  of  greatest  mark, 
were  forgotten  in  the  fame  of  Albert  Durer,  Hans 
Sachs,  and  Peter  Vischer:  the  trio  of  worthies, 
which,  in  the  estimation  or  imagination  of  the  Nu- 
rembei^ers,  still  live  with  the  freshness  of  a  yester- 
day's remembrance,  and  leave  no  room  for  the 
heroes  of  to-day.  My  enthusiasm  for  Albert  Durer 
was  all  ready  prepared,  and  warm  as  even  the  No- 
rembergers  could  desire ;  but  I  confess,  that  of  that 
renowned  cobbler  and  meister-singer,  Hans  Sachs, 
I  knew  little  but  what  I  had  learnt  from  the  pretty 
comedy  bearing  his  name,  which  I  had  seen  at 
Manheim ;  and  of  the  illustrious  Peter  Vischer  I 
could  only  remember  that  I  had  seen,  in  the 
academy  at  Munich,  certain  casts  from  his  figures, 
which  had  particularly  struck  me.  Yet  to  visit 
Nuremberg  without  some  previous  knowledge  of 

*  When  the  city  was  besieged  by  WaUinstein,  in  1088. 


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122  SKEICHES  OF  ABT, 

these  luminaries  of  the  middle  ages,  is  to  lose  much 
of  that  pleasure  of  association,  without  which  the 
eye  wearies  of  the  singular,  and  the  mind  becomei 
Batiated  with  change. 

Nuremberg  was  the  gothic  Athens :  it  was  never 
the  seat  of  government,  but  as  a  free  imperial  city 
it  was  independent  and  self-governed,  and  took  the 
lead  la  arts  and  in  literature.  Here  it  was  thai 
clocks  and  watches,  maps  and  musical  instruments^ 
were  manufactured  for  all  Germany ;  here,  in  that 
truly  Grerman  spirit  of  pedantry  and  simplicity, 
were  music,  painting,  and  poetry,  at  once  honored 
as  sciences,  and  cultivated  as  handicrafts,  each  hav- 
ing its  guild,  or  corporation,  duly  chartered,  like 
the  other  trades  of  this  flourishing  city,  and  re- 
quiring, by  the  institution  of  the  magistracy,  a 
regular  apprenticeship.  It  was  here  that,  on  the 
first  discovery  of  printing,  a  literary  barber  and 
meister-singer  (Hans  Foltz)  set  up  a  printing-press 
in  his  own  house  ;  and  it  was  but  the  natural  con- 
sequence of  all  this  industry,  mental  activity,  and 
social  cultivation,  that  Nuremberg  should  have 
been  one  of  the  first  cities  which  declared  for  the 
Reformation. 

But  what  is  most  curious  and  striking  in  this  old 
city,  is  to  see  it  stationary,  while  time  and  change 
are  working  such  miracles  and  transformations 
everywhere  else.  The  house  where  Martin  Be- 
hjum,  four  centuries  ago,  invented  the  sphere,  anv 
drew  the  first  geographical  chart,  is  still  the  house 
of  a  map-seller.    In  the  house  where  cards  weie 


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LITERATURB,  AND   CHARACTER.  82S 

Int  iiianufactured,  cards  are  now  sold.  In  tbe 
rery  shops  where  clocks  and  watches  were  first 
•een,  you  may  still  buy  clocks  and  watches.  The 
lame  families  have  inhabited  the  same  mansions 
fiom  one  generation  to  another  for  four  or  five 
centuries.  The  great  manufactories  of  those  toys, 
commonly  called  Dutch  toys,  are  at  Nuremberg. 
I  visited  the  wholesale  depdt  of  Pestehnayer,  and 
it  is  true  that  it  would  cut  a  poor  figure  compared 
to  some  of  our  great  Birmingham  show-rooms;  but 
the  enormous  scale  on  which  this  commerce  is  con- 
ducted, the  hundreds  of  wagon-loads  and  ship-loads 
of  these  trifles  and  ghncracks,  which  find  their  way 
to  every  part  of  the  known  world,  even  to  America 
and  China,  must  interest  a  thinking  mind.  Nothing 
gave  me  a  more  comprehensive  idea  of  the  value 
of  the  whole,  than  a  complaint  which  I  heard  from 
aNuremberger,  (and  which,  though  seriously  made, 
sounded  not  a  little  ludicrous,)  of  the  falling  off  in 
the  trade  of  piUrboxes  I  he  said  that  since  the 
fashionable  people  of  London  and  Paris  had  taken 
to  paper  pill-boxes,  the  millions  of  wooden  or  chip 
boxes  which  used  to  be  annually  sent  firom  Nurem- 
berg to  all  parts  of  Europe  were  no  longer  re- 
quired; and  he  computed  the  consequent  falling 
off  of  the  profits  at  many  thousand  florins. 

Nuremberg  was  rendered  so  agreeable  to  me  by 
die  kindness  and  hospitality  I  met  with,  that  instead 
if  merely  passing  through  it,  I  spent  some  dayi 
Tandering  about  its  precincts ;  and  as  it  is  not  very 
frequently  visited  by  the  English,  I  shall  note  a 


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124  SKETCHES  OF   ABT, 

ew  of  the  objects  which  have  dwelt  on  my  memory 
premi^ng,  that  for  the  artist  and  the  antiquarian  it 
affords  inexhaustible  materials. 

The  whole  city,  which  is  very  large,  lies  crowdea 
and  compact  within  its  walls ;  but  the  fortifications, 
once  the  wonder  of  all  Germany,  and  their  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  towers,  once  the  glory  and 
Wifeguard  of  the  inhabitants,  exist  no  longer.  Four 
huge  circular  towers  stand  at  the  principal  gates,-  - 
four  huge  towers  of  almost  dateless  antiquity,  and 
blackened  with  age,  but  of  such  admirable  con- 
struction, that  the  masonry  appears,  from  its  entire- 
ness  and  smoothness,  as  if  raised  yesterday.  The 
old  castle,  or  fortress,  which  stands  on  a  height 
commanding  the  town  and  a  glorious  view,  is  a 
strange,  dismantled,  incongruous  heap  of  buildings. 
It  happened  that  in  the  summer  of  1833,  the  king 
of  Bavaria,  accompanied  by  the  queen  and  the 
princess  Matilda,  had  paid  his  good  city  of  Nurem- 
berg a  visit,  and  had  been  most  royally  entertained 
by  the  inhabitants:  the  apartments  in  the  old 
castle,  long  abandoned  to  the  rats  and  spiders,  had 
been  prepared  for  the  royal  guests,  and,  when  1 
saw  it,  three  or  four  months  afterwards,  nothing 
could  be  more  uncouth  and  fantastical  than  the 
effect  of  these  irregular  rooms,  with  all  manner  of 
Angles,  with  their  carved  worm-eaten  ceilings,  theii 
curious  latticed  and  painted  windows,  and  most 
preposterous  stoves,  now  all  tricked  out  with  fresh 
paint  here  and  there,  and  hung  with  gay  glazed 
|iap<)rs  of  the  most  modem  fashion,  and  the  most 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  821 

gaudj  patterns.  Even  the  chapel,  with  its  four  old 
pillars,  which,  according  to  the  legend,  had  been 
brought  by  Old  Nick  himself  from  Rome,  and  the 
effigy  of  the  monk  who  had  cheated  his  infernal 
adversary  by  saying  the  Litanies  faster  than  had 
ever  been  known  before  or  since,  had,  in  honor  of 
the  king's  visit,  received  a  new  coat  of  paint 
There  are  some  very  curious  old  pictures  in  the 
castle,  (which  luckily  were  not  repainted  for  the 
same  grand  occasion,)  among  them  an  original  por- 
trait of  Albert  Durer.  In  the  court-yard  of  the 
fortress  stands  an  extraordinary  relic — the  old  lime- 
tree  planted  by  the  Empress  Cunegunde,  wife  of 
the  Emperor  Henry  III. ;  every  thing  is  done  to 
preserve  it  from  decay,  and  it  still  bears  its  leafy 
honors,  after  beholding  the  revolution  of  seven 
centuries. 

From  the  fortress  we  look  down  upon  the  house 
of  Albert  Durer,  which  is  preserved  with  religious 
care ;  it  has  been  hired  by  a  society  of  artists,  who 
use  it  as  a  club-room :  his  effigy  in  stone  is  over  the 
door.  In  every  house  there  is  a  picture  or  print  of 
him ;  or  copies,  or  engravings  from  his  works,  and 
'  his  head  hangs  in  every  print  shop.  The  street  in 
which  he  lived  is  called  by  his  name,  and  the  in- 
labitants  have  moreover  built  a  fountain  to  his 
honor,  and  planted  trees  around  it ; — ^in  short,  Al- 
bert Durer  is  wherever  we  look — ^wherever  we 
move.  What  can  Fuseli  mean  oy  saying  that  Al« 
bert  Durer  ^^  was  a  man  of  extreme  ingenuity  witb* 
»ut  being  a  genius  ?  "    Does  the  man  of  mere  in- 


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126  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

gcauity  step  before  his  age  as  Albert  Darer  did 
not  as  an  artist  only,  but  as  a  man  of  science  ?  Ib 
not  genius  the  creative  power  ?  and  did  not  Albert 
Durer  possess  this  power  in  an  extraordinary  de- 
gree ?  Could  Fuseli  have  seen  his  four  apostles 
BOW  in  the  gallery  of  Munich,  when  he  said  that 
Albert  Durer  never  had  more  than  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  sublime  ? 

Fuseli,  as  an  artist,  is  an  example  of  what  I  have 
seen  in  other  minds,  otherwise  directed.  The 
stronger  the  faculties,  the  more  of  original  power 
in  the  mind,  the  less  diffused  is  the  sympathy,  and 
the  more  is  the  judgment  swayed  by  the  individual 
character.  Thus  Fuseli,  in  his  remarks  on  paint- 
ers— excellent  and  eloquent  as  they  are — scarcely 
ever  does  justice  to  those  who  excel  in  color.  He 
perceives  and  admits  the  excellence,  but  he  shows 
in  his  criticisms,  as  in  his  pictures,  that  the  faculty 
was  wanting  to  feel  and  appreciate  it :  his  remarks 
on  Correggio  and  Rubens  are  a  proof  of  this.  In 
listening  to  the  criticisms  of  an  author  on  literature 
—of  a  painter  on  pictures — and,  generally,  to  the 
opinion  which  one  individual  expresses  of  the 
character  and  actions  of  another,  it  is  wise  to  take  * 
into  consideration  the  modification  of  mind  in  the 
person  who  speaks,  and  how  far  it  may,  or  mttst^ 
influence,  even  where  it  does  not  absolutely  distort, 
the  judgment ;  so  many  minds  are  what  the  6er< 
mans  call  orte^sided  I  The  education,  habits,  men<> 
tal  existence  of  the  individual,  are  the  refracting 
riedium  tl  rough  which  the  rays  of  truth  pass  to 


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LITERATUBE,  AND   CHARACTER.  8S9 

ihe  mind,  more  or  less  bent  or  absorbed  in  theif 
passage.  We  should  make  philosophical  allowance 
for  different  degrees  of  density. 

Hans  Sachs,*  the  old  poet  of  Nuremberg,  did  ai 
much  foi  the  Reformation  by  his  songs  and  satires, 
as  Luther  and  the  doctors  by  their  preaching ;  be* 
lides  being  one  of  the  worshipful  company  of 
meister-fflngers,  he  found  time  to  make  shoes,  and 
even  enrich  himself  by  his  trade :  he  informs  us 
himself  that  he  had  composed  and  written  with  his 
own  hand  **  four  thousand  two  hundred  mastership 
songs ;  two  hundred  and  eight  comedies,  tragedies, 
and  farces;  one  thousand  seven  hundred  fables, 
tales,  and  miscellaneous  poems ;  and  seventy-three 
devotional,  military,  and  love  songs."  It  is  said  he 
exceUed  in  humor,  but  it  was  such  as  might  have 
been  expected  from  the  times — it  was  vigorous  and 
ooarse.  **  Hans,**  says  the  critic,  "  tells  his  tale  like 
a  convivial  burgher,  fond  of  his  can,  and  still  fonder 
of  his  drollery .''f  If  this  be  the  case,  his  house 
has  received  a  very  appropriate  designation :  it  is 
now  an  ale-house,  from  which,  as  I  looked  up,  the 
mixed  odors  of  beer  and  tobacco,  and  the  sound 
€i  voices  singing  in  chorus,  streamed  through  the 
old  latticed  windows.  "  Drollery  **  and  "  the  can  " 
were  as  rife  in  the  dwelling  of  the  inmiortal  shoe- 
maker as  they  would  have  been  m  his  o^n  daya, 
and  in  his  own  jovial  presence. 

*  Born  at  NorembeTg  In  1494. 

t  See  the  admirable  *'  Bsiay  on  the  Early  German  and  Northen 
Poetry/'  a.ready  alludod  to. 


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128  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

In  the  church  of  St  Sibbaid,  now  the  thief 
Protestant  church,  I  was  surprised  to  find  that 
most  of  the  Roman  Catholic  symbols  and  relics  re 
DMined  undisturbed:  the  lai^e  crucifix,  the  old 
pictures  of  the  saints  and  Madonnas  had  been  rev- 
erentially  preserved.  The  perpetual  light  which 
had  been  vowed  four  centuries  ago  by  one  of  the 
Tucher  family,  was  still  burning  over  his  tomb ;  no 
puritanic  zeal  had  quenched  that  tiny  flame  in  itf 
chased  silver  lamp ;  and  through  successive  genera- 
tions, and  all  revolutions  of  politics  and  religion, 
maintained  and  fed  by  the  pious  honesty  of  the 
descendants,  it  still  shone  on, 

Like  the  bright  lamp  that  lay  in  Kildare's  holy  fane, 
And  burned  through  long  ages  of  darkness  and  storm  I 

In  this  Protestant  church,  even  the  shrine  of  St. 
Sibbaid  has  kept  its  place,  if  not  to  the  honor  and 
glory  of  the  saint,  at  least  to  the  honor  and  glory 
of  the  city  of  Nuremberg ;  it  is  considered  as  the 
chef-cToRuvre  of  Peter  Vischer,  a  famous  sculptor 
and  caster  in  bronze,  contemporary  with  Albert 
Durer.  It  was  begun  in  1506,  and  finished  in  1619, 
and  is  adorned  with  ninety-six  figures,  among  which 
the  twelve  apostles,  all  varying  in  character  and 
attitude,  are  really  miracles  of  grace,  power,  and 
expression ;  the  base  of  the  shrine  rests  upon  six 
gigantic  snails,  and  the  whole  is  cast  in  bronze, 
and  finished  with  exquisite  skill  and  fancy.  A« 
one  end  of  this  extraordinary  composition  thf 
%rti£ber  has  placed  his  own  figure,  not  obtnisively 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  82^ 

bat  retired,  in  a  sort  of  niche ;  he  is  represented  in 
his  working  dress,  with  his  cap,  leather  apron,  and 
tools  in  his  hand.  According  to  tradition,  he  was 
paid  for  his  work  by  the  pound  weight,  twenty 
gulden  (or  florins)  for  every  hundred  weight  of 
metal;  and  the  whole  weighs  one  hundred  and 
twenty  centners,  or  hundred  weight 

The  man  who  showed  us  this  shrine  was  de- 
scended from  Peter  Yischer,  lived  in  the  same 
house  which  he  and  his  sons  had  formerly  inhab- 
ited, and  carried  on  the  same  trade,  that  of  a  smith 
and  brass-founder. 

The  Moritz-Kapel,  near  the  church,  is  an  old 
gothic  chapel  once  dedicated  to  St.  Maurice,  now 
converted  into  a  public  gallery  of  pictures  of  the 
old  German  school  The  collection  is  exceedingly 
curious;  there  are  about  one  hundred  and  forty 
pictures,  and  besides  specimens  of  Mabuse,  Albert 
Durer,  Van  Eyck,  Martin.  Schoen,  Lucas  Eranach, 
and  the  two  Holbeins,  I  remember  some  portraits 
by  a  certain  Hans  Grimmer,  which  impressed  me 
by  their  truth  and  fine  painting.  It  appears  from 
this  collection  that  for  some  time  after  Albert  Durer, 
the  Grerman  painters  continued  to  paint  on  a  gold 
ground.  Eulmbach,  whose  heads  are  quite  mar- 
vellous for  finbh  and  expression,  generally  did  so. 
This  gallery  owes  its  existence  to  the  present  king, 
and  has  been  well  arranged  by  the  architect  Hei* 
deldofT  and  professor  von  Dillis  of  Munich. 

In  the  market-place  of  Nuremberg  stands  the 
Schonebrunnen,  that  is,  the  beautiful  fountain ;  i« 


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ISO  8KBTCHES  OF  ABT, 

bean  the  date  1855,  and  in  style  resembles  the 
erosses  which  Edward  L  erected  to  Queen  EleanoTi 
but  is  of  more  elaborate  beauty  \  it  is  covered  wiA 
g^othic  figures,  carved  by  one  of  die  most  ancient  of 
the  German  sculptors,  Schonholfer,  who  modestly 
styles  himself  a  stone-cutter.  Here  we  see,  placed 
amicably  close,  Julius  Caesar,  Godfrey  of  Boulogne, 
Judas  Maccabseus,  Alexander  the  Great,  Hector 
of  Troy,  Charlemagne,  and  king  David:  all  old 
acquaintances,  certainly,  but  whom  we  might  have 
supposed  that  nothing  but  the  day  of  judgment 
could  ever  have  assembled  together  in  company. 

Talking  of  the  day  of  judgment  reminds  me  of 
the  extraordinary  cemetery  of  Nuremberg,  certainly 
as  unlike  every  other  cemetery,  as  Nuremberg  is 
unlike  every  other  city.  Imagine  upon  a  rising 
ground,  an  open  space  of  about  four  acres,  com- 
pletely covered  with  enormous  slabs,  or  rather 
blocks  of  solid  stone,  about  a  foot  and  a  half  in 
thickness,  seven  feet  in  length,  and  four  in  breadth, 
laid  horizontally,  and  just  allowing  space  for  a 
single  person  to  move  between  them.  The  name, 
and  the  armorial  bearings  of  the  dead,  cast  in 
bronze,  and  sometimes  rich  sculpture,  decorate 
these  tombs :  I  remember  one,  to  the  memory  of  a 
beautiful  girl,  who  was  killed  as  she  lay  asleep  in 
her  father's  garden  by  a  lizard  creeping  into  her 
mouth.  The  story  is  represented  in  bronze  bass* 
relief,  and  the  lizard  is  so  constructed  as  to  mov< 
when  touched.  From  this  I  shrunk  with  disgust 
and  tame>l  to  the  sepulchre  of  a  famous  worthy 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CUARAOTER.  881 

«rbo  measured  the  distance  from  Nai*emberg  to 
the  holy  sepulchre  with  his  garter :  the  implement 
of  his  pious  enterprise,  twisted  into  a  sort  of  true- 
love  knot,  is  carved  on  his  tomb.  Two  d\yn 
•fterwards  I  entered  the  dominions  of  a  reigning 
monarch,  who  is  at  this  present  moment  per- 
forming a  journey  to  Jerusalem  round  the  walls 
of  his  room.  ♦  How  long-lived  are  the  follies  of 
mankind !  Have,  then,  five  centuries  made  so 
little  difference  ? 

The  tombs  of  Albert  Durer,  Hans  Sachs,  and 
Sandraart,  were  pointed  out  to  me,  resembling  the 
rest  in  size  and  form.  I  was  assured  that  these 
huge  sepulchral  stones  exceed  three  thousand  in 
number,  and  the  whole  aspect  of  this  singular 
burial-place  is,  in  truth,  beyond  measure  striking 
~I  could  ahnost  add,  appalling. 

I  was  not  a  little  surprised  and  interested  to  find 
iLat  the  principal  Gazette  of  Nuremberg,  which 
has  a  wide  circulation  through  all  this  part  of 
Germany,  extending  even  to  Frankfort,  Munich, 
Dresden,  and  Leipsig,  is  entirely  in  female  hands. 
Madame  de  Schaden  is  the  proprietor,  and  the 
responsible  editor  of  the  paper ;  she  has  the  print- 
ing apparatus  and  ofiices  under  her  own  roof,  and 
though  advanced  in  years,  conducts  the  whole  con- 
cern with  a  degree  of  activity,  spirit,  and  talent, 
which  delighted  me.    The  circulation  of  this  papei 


•Frederic  Aogastiu,  the  preflent  king  of  Saxony.    He  is,  her* 
rver,  in  his  dotag» ,  being  now  Ji  his  eighty-fifth  year 


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)32  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

imounts  to  a1x>at  four  thousand :  a  trifling  nnmbei 
compared  to  our  papers,  but  a  laige  number  in 
this  economical  country,  where  the  same  paper  is 
generally  read  by  fifty  or  sixty  persons  at  least 

«  *  «  «  « 

All  travellers  agree  that  benevolence  and  in- 
tegrity are  the  national  characteristics  of  the  Ger- 
mans. Of  their  honesty  I  had  daily  proofi :  I  do 
not  consider  that  I  was  ever  imposed  upon  or 
overcharged  during  my  journey  except  once,  and 
then  it  was  by  a  Frenchman.  Their  benevolence 
is  displayed  in  the  treatment  of  animals,  particu- 
larly of  their  horses.  It  was  somewhere  between 
Nuremberg  and  Hof,  that,  for  the  first  and  only 
time,  I  saw  a  postilion  flog  his  horse  unmercifully, 
or  at  least  unreasonably.  The  Grermans  very 
seldom  beat  their  horses:  they  talk  to  them,  re- 
monstrate, encourage,  or  upbraid  them.  I  have 
frequently  known  a  voiturier,  or  a  postilion,  go  a 
whole  stage — which  is  seldom  less  than  fifteen 
English  miles — at  a  very  fair  pace,  without  once 
even  raising  the  whip ;  and  have  often  witnessed, 
not  without  amusement,  long  conversations  between 
a  driver  and  his  steed — the  man,  with  his  arm 
thrown  over  the  animal's  neck,  discoursing  in- a 
ftrange  jargon,  and  the  intelligent  brute  turning 
his  eye  on  his  master  with  such  a  responsive  ex- 
pression! In  this  part  of  Grermany  there  is  a 
popular  verse  repeated  by  the  postilions,  whicb 
may  be  ?illed  the  Grerman  rule  of  the  roaiL  It  it 
the  horse  who  speak*— 


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LITEBATUBS,  AND  GUABACTEB.  BBS 

Berg  »uf,  nbertrieb  mich  nicht; 
Berg  ab,  ubereil  mich  nicht; 
Anf  ebenen  Weg,  verschone  mich  nioDt} 
Im  Stall,  yergiss  mich  nicht. 

whhih  is,  literally, 

Up  hill,  overdrive  me  not; 
Down  bill,  hurry  me  not; 
On  level  ground,  spare  me  not; 
In  the  stable,  forget  me  not 

The  German  postilions  form  a  very  numeroos  and 
distinct  class ;  they  wear  a  half-military  costume— 
a  laced  or  embroidered  jacket,  across  which  is 
invariably  slung  the  bugle-horn,  with  its  parti- 
colored cord  and  tassels :  huge  jack-boots,  and  a 
smart  glazed  hat,  not  unfrequendy  surmounted 
with  a  feather  (as  in  Hesse  Cassel  and  Saxe 
Weimar)  complete  their  appearance.  They  are 
in  the  direct  service  and  pay  of  the  government; 
they  must  have  an  excellent  character  for  fidelity 
and  good  conduct  before  they  are  engaged,  and 
the  slightest  failing  in  duty  or  punctuality,  subjects 
them  to  severe  punishment ;  thus  they  enjoy  some 
degree  of  respectability  as  a  body,  and  Marschner 
thought  it  not  unworthy  of  his  talents  to  compose 
a  fine  piece  of  music,  which  he  called  The  Postil- 
ion's "  Morgen-lied,**  or  morning  song.  I  found 
them  generally  a  good-humored,  honest  set  of  men ; 
obliging,  but  not  servile  or  cringing ;  they  are  not 
allowed  to  smoke  without  the  express  leave  of  the 


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S%^  SKEVCHES  OF   ART,   ETC 

traveller,  nor  to  stop  or  delay  on  the  roaii  on  auj 
pretence  whatever.  In  short,  though  the  burle} 
German  postilions  do  not  present  the  neat  compact 
turn-out  of  an  English  post-boy,  nor  the  horses 
any  thing  like  the  speed  of  "  Newman's  greys,"  or 
the  Brighton  Age,  and  though  the  traveller  must 
now  and  then  submit  to  arbitrary  laws  and  ind^ 
vidual  inconvenience;  still,  the  travelling  regula- 
tions all  over  (Jermany,  more  especially  in  Prussia, 
are  so  precise,  so  admirable,  and  so  strictly  enforced, 
that  no  where  could  an  unprotected  female  journey 
with  more  complete  comfort  and  security.  This  1 
have  proved  by  experience,  after  having  tried 
every  different  mode  of  conveyance  in  Prussia. 
Bavaria,  Baden,  Saxony,  and  Hesse.  My  road 
expenses,  for  myself  and  an  attendant,  seldoa 
exceeded  a  napobon  arday. 


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SKETCHES    OF  ART,   LITERATURBk 
AND   CHARACTER. 


HL 

MEMORANDA  AT  DRESDEN.* 

Beautifxtl,  8tatel7  Dresden  I  if  not  the  queen, 
the  fine  lady  of  the  German  cities  1  Surrounded 
with  what  is  most  enchanting  in  nature,  and 
adorned  with  what  is  most  enchanting  in  art,  she 

*  The  deecription  of  Dresden  and  its  enTiions,  in  Rnssel^s  Tonr 
In  Germany,  is  one  of  the  best  written  passages  in  that  amusing 
book— so  admirably  graphic  and  ftdthfal,  that  nothing  can  be 
added  to  it  05  a  description,  therelbre  I  haTe  e&ced  those  notef 
which  it  lias  rendered  superfluous.  It  must,  howerer,  be 
remembered  by  those  who  refer  to  Mr.  Russel's  work,  that  a 
revolution  has  taken  place  by  which  the  king,  now  fidlen  into 
absolute  dotage,  lias  been  removed  from  the  direct  administra- 
tf on  of  the  government,  and  a  much  more  popular  and  liberal 
tone  prevails  In  the  Estates :  the  two  princes,  nephews  of  the 
king,  whom  Mr.  Russel  mentions  as  "  persons  of  whom  scarcely 
any  body  thinks  of  speaking  at  all."  have  since  made  themselves 
extremely  conspicuous; — ^Prince  Frederic  has  been  declared 
regent,  and  is  apparently  much  respected  and  beloved;  and 
Prince  John  has  distinguished  himself  as  a  speaker  in  th"  A;i- 
jembly  of  the  States,  and  takes  the  liberal  dde  on  most  occasions. 
k  spirit  of  amelioration  is  at  work  in  Dresden,  as  elsewhere,  and 


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836  SKETCHES   OF   ART, 

nts  b^  the  Elbe  like  a  fair  one  in  romance, 
wreathing  her  towery  diadem — ^so  often  scathed 
by  war — with  the  vine  and  the  myrtle,  and  look- 
ing on  her  own  beauty  imaged  in  the  river  flood, 
wbicli,  a(\cr  rolling  an  impetuous  torrent  through 
the  mountain  gorges,  here  seems  to  pause  and 
spread  itself  into  a  lucid  mirror  to  catch  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  airy  magnificence.  No  doubt  misery 
and  evil  dwell  in  Dresden,  as  in  all  the  congre- 
gated societies  of  men,  but  no  where  are  they  less 
obtrusive.  The  city  has  all  the  advantages,  and 
none  of  the  disadvantages,  of  a  capital ;  the 
treasures  of  art  accumulated  here — the  mild  gov- 
ernment, the  delightful  climate,  the  beauty  of  the 
environs,  and  the  cheerfulness  and  simplicity  of 
social  intercourse,  have  rendered  it  a  favorite 
residence  for  artists  and  literary  characters,  and 
to  foreigners  one  of  the  most  captivating  places  in 
the  world.  HoTt  often  have  I  stood  in  the  open 
space  in  front  of  the  gorgeous  Italian  church,  or 
on  the  summit  of  the  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the 
public  walk,  gazing  upon  the  noble  bridge  which 
bestrides  the  majestic  Elbe,  and  connects  the  new 
and  the  old  town ;  or,  pursuing  with  enchanted  eye 
the  winding  course  of  the  river  to  the  foot  of  those 


ih«  ten  or  twelve  yean  which  have  elapsed  siiice  Mr.  Ruasd'fe 
fidt  have  not  passed  away  without  some  salutary  ohanfM, 
while  more  are  evidently  at  hand. 

Mr.  Rnssel  speaks  of  the  secrecy  with  which  the  sittings  of  the 
Ohambers  were  then  conducted :  they  are  now  public,  and  tbt 
iebates  axe  printed  in  the  Gaxette  at  considerable  length. 


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UTERATUBb,   AND   CHAHACTEB.  8ft? 

niidulatiiig  purple  hills,  covered  with  villas  and 
vineyards,  till  a  feeling  of  quiet  grateful  enjoyment 
has  stolen  over  me,  like  that  which  Wordsworth 
describes — 

Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration. 

Bat  it  b  not  only  the  natural  beauties  of  the  bcene 
which  strike  a  stranger;  the  city  itself  has  this 
peculiarity  in  common  with  Florence,  to  which  it 
has  been  so  often  compared,  that  instead  of  being 
an  accident  in  the  landscape — a  dim,  smoky,  care- 
haunted  spot  upon  the  all-lovely  face  of  nature — 
a  discord  in  the  soothing  harmony  of  that  quiet 
enchanting  scene  which  steals  like  music  over  the 
fancy ; — it  is  rather  a  charm  the  more — an  orna- 
ment— a  crowning  splendor — a  fulfilling  and  com- 
pleting chord.  Its  unrivalled  elegance  and  neat- 
ness, a  general  air  of  cheerfulness  combined  with  a 
certain  dignity  and  tranquillity,  the  purity  and 
elasticity  of  the  atmosphere,  the  brilliant  shops,  the 
well-dressed  women,  and  the  lively  looks  and  good- 
humored  alertness  of  the  people,  who,  like  the 
Florentines,  are  more  remarkable  for  their  tact 
and  acuteness  than  for  their  personal  attractions ; — 
all  these  advantages  render  Dresden,  though  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  smallest,  and  by  no  means  one 
of  the  richest  capitals  in  Europe,  one  of  the  most 
delightful  residences  on  the  continent.  I  am  struck, 
too,  by  the  silver-toneci  voices  of  the  women,  and 
22 


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338  SKETCUES  OF   ART, 

die  courtesy  and  vivacity  of  the  men ;  for  in  B* 
Tftria  the  intonation  is  broad  and  harsh,  and  the 
people,  thoogh  frank,  and  honest,  and  good-natured, 
are  rather  slow,  and  not  pardcolarlj  polished  in 
their  demeanor. 

It  is  the  general  aspect  of  Dresden  which  charms 
OS :  it  is  not  distinguished  by  any  vast  or  striking 
architectural  decorations,  if  we  except  the  Italian 
church,  which,  with  all  its  thousand  &ult8  of  style, 
pleases  from  its  beautiiul  situation  and  its  exceed- 
ing richness.  This  is  the  only  Boman  Catholic 
church  in  Dresden :  for  it  is  curious  enough,  that 
while  the  national  religion,  or,  if  I  may  so  use  the 
word,  the  state  religion,  is  Protestant — the  court 
religion  is  Catholic ;  the  royal  family  having  been 
for  several  generations  of  that  persuasion ;  *  but 
this  has  caused  neither  intolerance  on  the  one  hand, 
nor  jealousy  on  the  other.  The  Saxons,  the  first 
who  hailed  and  embraced  the  doctrines  of  Luther, 
seem  quite  content  to  allow  their  anointed  king  to 
go  to  heaven  his  own  way ;  and  though  the  priests 
who  surround  him  are,  of  course,  mindful  to  keep 
ap  their  own  influence,  there  is  no  spirit  of  prose- 
lydsm;  and  I  believe  the  most  perfect  equali'j 
with  regard  to  religious  matters  prevails  here. 
The  Catholic  church  is  almost  always  half-full  <^ 
Protestants,  attracted  by  the  delicious  music,  for  all 
the  corps  d*opera  sing  in  the  choir.  High  mast 
begins  about  the  time  that  the  sermon  is  over  in 

*  AuguBtas  n.  abjured  the  Protestant  religion  in  1700,  if 
irdei  to  obtaia  ihe  crown  <a  Poland 


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UTERATUBE,  AND   CHARACTER.  33t 

.he  Other  churches,  and  you  see  the  Protestanti 
DurryiDg  fix)m  their  own  service,  crowding  in  at 
the  portals  of  the  Catholic  charch,  and  taking  their 
places,  the  men  on  one  side  and  the  women  on  the 
other,  with  looks  of  infinite  gravity  and  devotion : 
the  king  being  always  present,  it  would  here  be  a 
breach  of  etiquette  to  behave  as  I  have  often  seen 
the  English  behave  in  the  Catholic  churches — ^pre- 
cisely as  if  in  a  theatre.  But  if  the  good  old  mon- 
arch imagines  that  his  heretic  subjects  are  to  be 
converted  by  Cesi's  *  divine  voice,  he  is  wonder- 
folly  mistaken. 

The  people  of  Dresden  have  always  been  dis- 
tinguished by  their  love  of  music ;  I  was  therefore 
rather  surprised  to  find  here  a  little  paltry  theatre, 
ugly  without,  and  mean  within ;  a  new  edifice  has 
been  for  some  time  in  contemplation,  therefore  to 
decorate  or  repair  the  old  one  may  seem  super- 
fluous. That  it  is  not  nearly  large  enough  for  the 
place  is  its  worst  fault.  I  have  never  been  in  it 
that  it  was  not  crowded  to  suffocation.  At  this 
time  Bellini's  opera,  /  Capelletti,  is  the  rage  at 
Dresden,  or  rather  Madame  Devrienfs  impersona- 
tion of  the  Romeo,  has  completely  turned  all  heads 
and  melted  all  hearts — ^that  are  fusible.  Bellini  is 
only  one  of  the  thousand  and  one  imitators  of  Ros* 
nni ;  and  the  Capelletti  only  the  last  of  the  thousand 
fend  one  versions  of  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  and  De- 
ment is  not  generally  heard  to  the  greatest  ad 
rantage  in  the  modem  Italian  music;  but  ber  con 
•  TlM  llrat  tenor  at  BiMden  In  1888. 


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140  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

eeption  of  the  part  of  Borneo  b  new  and  belougi 
to  herself;  like  a  woman  of  feeling  and  genius  she 
has  put  her  stamp  upon  it :  it  is  quite  distinct  from 
the  same  character  as  represented  bj  Pasta  and 
Malibran — character  perhaps  I  should  not  say,  for 
in  the  IjTical  drama  there  is  properly  no  room  foi 
any  such  gradual  development  of  individual  senti> 
raents  and  motives ;  a  powerful  and  graceful  sketch, 
of  which  the  outline  is  filled  up  by  music,  b  all 
that  the  artbt  b  required  to  give ;  and  within  this 
boundary  a  more  beautiful  delineation  of  youthful 
fervid  passion  I  never  beheld:  if  Devrient  must 
yield  to  Pasta  in  grandeur,  and  to  Malibran  in 
versatility  of  power  and  liquid  flexibility  of  voice, 
she  yields  to  neither  in  pathos,  to  neither  in  de- 
licious modulation,  to  neither  in  passion,  power,  and 
originaUty,  though  in  her,  in  a  still  greater  degree, 
the  talent  of  the  artbt  b  modified  by  individual 
temperament.  Like  other  gifted  women,  who  are 
blessed  or  cursed  with  a  most  excitable  nervous 
system,  Devrient  b  a  good  deal  under  the  influence 
of  moods  of  feeling  and  temper,  and  in  the  per- 
formance of  her  favorite  parts,  (as  thb  of  Romeo, 
the  Armida,  Emmeline  in  the  Sweitzer  Familie,) 
ia  subject  to  inequalities,  which  are  not  caprices, 
but  arise  from  an  exuberance  of  soul  and  power, 
and  only  render  her  performance  more  interesting. 
Every  night  that  I  have  seen  her  since  my  arrival 
here,  even  in  parts  which  are  unworthy  of  her,  at 
in  the  "  Eagle's  Nest,"  *  has  incrf/ased  my  estimate 
*  In  opera  by  Fraiu  Olaaer  of  Berlin.    The  snl^t,  whkh  k 


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LirEBATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  841 

»l  her  talent! ;  and  last  night  when  I  saw  her  fot 
the  third  time  in  the  Romeo,  she  certainly  sur- 
passed herself.  The  duet  with  Juliet,  (Madlle. 
Schneider,)  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  threw  the 
whole  audience  into  a  tumult  of  admiration  ;  they 
inyariably  encore  this  touching  and  impassioned 
scene,  which  is  really  a  positive  cruelty,  besides 
being  a  piece  of  stupidity ;  for  though  it  may  be  at 
well  sung  the  second  time,  it  must  suffer  in  effect 
from  the  repetition.  The  music,  though  very 
pretty,  is  in  itself  nothing,  without  the  situation 
and  sentiment ;  and  after  the  senses  and  imagina- 
tion have  been  wound  up  to  the  most  thrilling  ex- 
ritement  by  tones  of  melting  affection  and  despair, 
and  Romeo  and  Juliet  have  been  finally  torn 
asunder  by  a  fiinty-hearted  stick  of  a  father,  with  a 
black  cloak  and  a  bass  voice — selon  les  regies — ^it  ia 
ridiculous  to  see  them  come  back  from  opposite 
sides  of  the  stage,  bow  to  the  audience,  and  then, 
throwing  themselves  into  each  other's  arms,  pour 
out  the  same  passionate  strains  of  love  and  sorrow. 
As  to  Devrienf  s  acting  in  the  last  scene,  I  think 
even  Pasta's  Romeo  would  have  seemed  colorless 
beside  hers ;  and  this  arises  perhaps  from  the  char- 
acter of  the  music,  from  the  very  different  style 
in  which  Zingarelli  and  Bellini  have  treated  their 
last  scene.    The  former  has  made  Romeo  tender 

dM  irell>known  story  of  the  mothtr  who  deUren  h«r  infkut 
vhen  carried  awaf  by  the  eagle,  or  rather  mltare  of  the  Alpa. 
night  make  a  good  melodrama,  but  is  not  fit  for  an  opera— an^ 
iM  mnric  is  trainante  and  mono^onoiui. 


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142  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

md  plaindye,  and  Pasta  accordingly  subdued  hei 
conception  to  this  tone;  but  Bellini  has  thrown 
into  the  same  scene  more  animation,  and  more  va- 
rious effect*  Devrient,  thus  enabled  to  color  more 
highly,  has  gone  beyond  the  composer.  There  wan 
a  flush  of  poetry  and  passion,  a  heart-breaking 
struggle  of  love  and  life  against  an  overwhemiing 
destiny,  which  thrilled  me.  Never  did  I  hear  any 
one  sing  so  completely  from  her  own  soul  as  this 
astonishing  creature.  In  certain  tones  and  pas- 
sages her  voice  issued  from  the  depths  of  her  bosom 
as  if  steeped  in  tears ;  and  her  countenance,  when 
she  hears  Juliet  sigh  from  the  tomb,  was  such  a 
sudden  and  divine  gleam  of  expression  as  I  have 
never  seen  on  any  face  but  Fanny  Kemble's.  1 
was  not  surprised  to  learn  that  Madame  Devrient 
is  generally  ill  after  her  performance,  and  unable 
to  sing  in  this  pai*t  more  than  once  or  twice  a  week. 
»  «  «  » 

Tieck  is  the  literary  Colossus  of  Dresden ;  per- 
haps I  should  say  of  Grermany.  There  are  those 
who  dispute  his  infallibility  as  a  critic ;  there  are 
those  who  will  not  walk  under  the  banners  of  his 
philosophy ;  but  since  the  death  of  Groethe,  I  be- 

*  Zingarelli  composed  his  Romeo  e  Oiviietta  in  1797:  Rallini 
prodiuoea  the  Capelletti  at  Venice  in  1832,  for  our  8ilTer-Toic«<l 
Caradori  and  the  contr^alto  GincUta  Grisi,  sister  of  that  accom- 
plished singer,  Giulietta  Grisi.  Thirty-fiye  years  are  an  age  iu 
the  history  of  music.  Of  the  two  operas,  Bellini's  is  the  vaxmx 
effsctiTe,  from  the  number  of  the  concerted  pieces,  without  cod- 
taining  a  single  air  which  can  be  placed  in  compaiison  with  tm 
«  six  in  SQngarelli's  opera. 


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<.ITERATUBE,   A1U>  CHARACTER.  S4l 

fieie  Lad  wig  Tieck  holds  undisputed  the  first  rank 
\R  an  original  poet,  and  powerful  writer,  and  has 
mcceeded,  hy  right  divine,  to  the  vacant  throne 
of  genius.  His  house  in  the  Altmarkt,  (the  tall 
red  house  at  the  southeast  corner,)  henceforth  con- 
Becrated  by  that  power  which  can  "  hallow  in  the 
core  of  human  hearts  even  the  ruin  of  a  wall,"  • 
18  the  resort  o(  all  the  enlightened  strangers  who 
flock  to  Dresden :  even  those  who  know  nothing 
of  Tieck  but  his  name,  deem  an  introduction  to 
him  as  indispensable  as  a  visit  to  the  Madonna  del 
Sisto.  To  the  English,  he  is  particularly  interest- 
ing :  his  knowledge  of  our  language  and  literature, 
and  especially  of  our  older  writers,  is  profound. 
£ndued  with  an  imagination  which  luxuriates  in 
the  world  of  marvels,  which  **  dwells  delightedly 
midst  fays  and  talismans,''  and  embraces  in  its  range 
of  power  what  is  highest,  deepest,  most  subde,  most 
practical — gifted  with  a  creative  spirit,  forever 
moving  and  working  within  the  illimitable  universe 
of  fancy,  Heck  is  yet  one  of  the  most  poignant 
satirists  and  profound  critics  of  the  age.  He  has 
for  the  last  twenty  years  devoted  his  time  and 
talents,  in  conjunction  with  Schlegel,  to  the  study, 
translation,  and  illustration  of  Shakspeare.  The 
combination  of  these  two  minds  has  done  perhaps 
what  no  single  mind  could  have  effected  in  devel- 
opingy  elucidating,  and  clothing  in  a  new  language 
the  creations  of  that  mighty  and  inspired  being. 

*  Lortf  B  JXQ11. 


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544  SKETCHES   OF   aRT, 

It  is  to  lie  hoped  that  some  translator  will  rifle  up 
ftmong  us  to  do  justice  in  return  to  Tieck.  No  one 
tells  a  fairy  tale  like  him :  the  earnest  simplicity 
of  style  and  manner  is  so  exquisite  that  he  alwavf 
gives  the  idea  of  one  whose  hair  was  on  end  at  hk 
own  wonders,  who  was  entangled  by  the  spell  of 
his  own  enchantments.  A  few  of  these  lighter 
productions  (his  Volksmarchen,  or  popular  Tales,) 
have  been  rendered  into  our  language ;  but  those 
of  his  works  which  have  given  him  the  highest 
estimation  among  his  own  countrymen  still  remsdn 
a  sealed  fountain  to  English  readers.*  • 

It  was  with  some  trepidation  I  found  myself  in 
the  presence  of  this  extraordinary  man.  Notwith- 
standing his  profound  knowledge  of  our  language, 


*  **  Tieck,''  says  Carlyle,  *'  is  a  poet  bom  as  well  as  made.  He 
b  no  mere  obserrist  and  compiler,  rendering  back  to  ns,  with 
idditions  or  subtractions,  the  beauty  which  existing  things  have 
of  themselves  presented  to  him ;  but  a  true  Maker,  to  whom  the 
actual  and  external  is  but  the  excitement  for  ideal  creations, 
representing  and  ennobling  its  efifects.  His  feeling  or  knowledge^ 
his  love  or  scorn,  his  gay  humor  or  solemn  earnestness;  all  the 
fches  of  his  inward  world  are  pervaded  and  mastered  by  the 
Iving  energy  of  the  soul  which  possesses  them,  and  their  finer 
essence  is  wafted  to  us  in  his  poetry,  like  Arabian  odors,  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind.  But  tliis  may  be  said  of  all  true  poets;  and 
each  is  distinguished  from  all,  by  his  individual  characteristics. 
Among  Tieck ^s,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  is  his  combination 
of  so  many  gifts,  in  such  tvl\  and  simple  harmony.  His  ridicule 
does  not  obstruct  his  adoration ;  his  gay  southern  flincy  lives  in 
onion  with  a  northern  heart;  with  the  moods  of  a  longing  and 
Impassioned  spirit,  he  seems  deeply  conversant;  and  a  stifi 
imafpnatlon,  in  the  highest  sense  of  that  word,  reigns  over  al 
Hid  roetio  world." 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  84S 

ne  rarely  speaks  English,  and,  like  Alfieri,  he  wiU 
not  speak  French.  1  addressed  him  in  English, 
and  he  spoke  to  me  in  Grerman.  The  conversation 
in  my  firat  visit  fell  very  naturally  upon  Shakspeare, 
for  1  had  been  looking  over  his  admirable  new 
translation  of  Macbeth,  which  he  had  just  com- 
pleted. Macbeth  led  us  to  the  English  theatre  and 
English  acting — ^to  Mrs.  Siddons  and  the  Kemblej, 
and  the  actusd  character  and  state  of  our  stage. 

While  he  spoke  I  could  not  help  looking  at  his 
head,  which  is  wonderfully  fine ;  the  noble  breadth 
and  amplitude  of  his  brow,  and  his  quiet,  but  pene- 
trating eye,  with  an  expression  of  latent  humor 
hovering  round  his  lips,  formed  altogether  a  strik- 
ing physiognomy.  The  numerous  prints  and  por- 
traits of  Tieck  which  are  scattered  over  Germany 
are  very  defective  as  resemblances.  They  have  a 
heavy  look ;  they  give  the  weight  and  power  of  his 
head,  but  nothing  of  ^ejinesse  which  lurks  in  the 
lower  part  of  his  face.  His  manner  is  courteous, 
and  his  voice  particularly  sweet  and  winning.  Ho 
is  apparently  fond  of  the  society  of  women ;  or  the 
women  are  fond  of  his  society,  for  in  the  evening 
his  room  is  generally  crowded  with  fair  worshippers. 
Yet  Tieck,  like  Goethe,  is  accused  of  entertaining 
some  unworthy  sentiments  with  regard  to  the  sex ; 
and  is  also  said,  like  Goethe,  not  to  have  upheld  us 
in  his  writings,  as  the  true  philosopher,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  true  poet,  ought  to  have  done.  It 
is  a  fact  upon  which  I  shall  take  an  opportunity  of 
enlarging,  that  almost  all  the  greatest  men  who 


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546  SKETCHES   OF   ABT, 

have  lived  in  the  world,  whether  poets,  philosophen^ 
Artists,  or  statesmen,  have  derived  their  menta« 
and  physical  organization,  more  from  the  mother^s 
than  the  father's  side ;  and  the  same  is  true,  un- 
happily, of  those  who  have  been  in  an  extraordi- 
nary degree  perverted.  And  does  not  this  laad  ua 
to  some  awful  considerations  on  the  importance  of 
the  moral  and  physical  well-being  of  women,  and 
their  present  condition  in  society,  as  a  branch  of 
legislation  and  politics,  which  must  ere  long  be 
modified  ?  Let  our  lords  and  masters  reflect,  that 
if  an  extensive  influence  for  good  or  for  evil  be  not 
denied  to  us,  an  influence  conmiencing  not  only 
with,  but  before  the  birth  of  their  children,  it  la 
lime  that  the  manifold  mischiefs  and  miseries  lurk- 
ing in  the  bosom  of  society,  and  of  which  woman 
is  at  once  the  wretched  instrument  and  more 
wretched  victim,  be  looked  to.  Sometimes  I  am 
induced  to  think  that  Tieck  is  misinterpreted  or 
libelled  by  those  who  pretend  to  take  the  tone  fixxn 
his  writings  and  opinions:  it  is  evident  that  he 
delights  in  being  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  admir* 
ing  women,  therefore  he  must  in  his  heart  honor 
and  reverence  us  as  being  morally  equal  with  man. 
for  who  could  suspect  the  great  Tieck  of  that  paltry 
coxcombry  which  can  be  gratified  by  the  adulation 
of  inferior  beings  ? 

rieck's  extraordinary  talent  for  reading  aloud  if 
Vn  ich  and  deservedly  celebrated :  he  gives  dramatic 
readings  two  or  three  times  a  week  when  his  health 
tnd  his  avocations  allow  this  exertion ;  the  com 


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LIFERAIURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  847 

pany  assemble  at  six,  and  it  is  advisable  to  )m 
punctual  to  the  moment;  soon  afterwards  tea  if 
lerved :  be  begins  to  read  at  seven  precisely,  when 
the  doors  are  closed  against  all  intrusion  whatever^ 
and  he  reads  through  a  whole  play  without  pause, 
rest,  omission,  or  interruption.  Thus  I  heard  him 
read  Julius  Caesar  and  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,  (in  the  German  translation  by.  himself  and 
Schlegel,)  and  except  Mrs.  Siddons,  I  never  heard 
any  thing  comparable  as  dramatic  reafling.  His 
voice  is  rich,  and  capable  of  great  variety  of 
modulation.  I  observed  that  the  humorous  and 
declamatory  passages  were  rather  better  than  the 
pathetic  and  tender  passages :  he  was  quite  at  home 
among  the  elves  and  clowns  in  the  Midsummer 
Nighf  s  Dream,  of  which  he  gave  the  fantastic  and 
comic  parts  with  indescribable  humor  and  effect 
As  to  the  translation,  I  could  only  judge  of  its 
marvellous  fidelity,  which  enabled  me  to  follow  him, 
word  for  word, — ^but  the  Germans  themselves  are 
equally  enchanted  by  its  vigor,  and  elegance,  and 
poetical  coloring. 

»  »  »  j» 

The  far-famed  gallery  of  Dresden  is,  of  cooTBei^ 
lae  first  and  grand  attraction  to  a  stranger. 

The  regulation  of  this  gallery,  and  the  difficulty 
af  obtaining  admission,  struck  me  at  first  as  rather 
inhospitable  and  ill-natured.  In  the  summer  months 
•t  is  open  to  the  public  two  days  in  the  week ;  but 
iuring  the  winter  months,  from  September  to 
March,  it  is  closed.    Ir.  order  to  obtain  admittance^ 


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Bi8  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

luring  this  recess,  you  must  pay  three  dollars  to 
one  of  the  principal  keepers  on  duty,  and  a  gratuity 
to  the  porter, — ^in  all  about  half-a-guinea.  Having 
once  paid  this  stun,  you  are  free  to  enter  wheneTer 
the  gallery  has  been  opened  for  another  party.  The 
ceremony  is,  to  send  the  laquais-de-plaee  at  nine  in 
the  morning  to  inquire  whether  the  gallery  will  be 
open  in  the  course  of  the  day;  if  the  answer  be  in 
the  affirmative,  it  is  advisable  to  make  your  appear- 
ance as  early  as  possible,  and  I  believe  you  may 
stay  as  long  as  you  please ;  (at  least  /  did ;)  nothing 
more  is  afterwards  demanded,  though  something 
may  perhaps  be  expected — ^if  you  are  a  very  fre- 
quent visitor.  All  this  is  rather  ungracious.  It  is 
true  that  the  gallery  is  not  a  national,  but  a  royal 
gallery, — that  it  was  founded  and  enriched  by 
princes  for  their  private  recreation  ;  that  Augustus 
HI.  purchased  the  Modena  gallery  for  his  kingly 
pleasure ;  that  from  the  original  construction  of  the 
building  it  is  impossible  to  heat  it  with  stoves,  with- 
out incurring  some  risk,  and  that  to  oblige  the  poor 
professors  and  attendants  to  linger  benumbed  and 
shivering  in  the  gallery  from  morning  to  night  is 
cruel.  In  fact,  it  would  be  difficult  to  give  an  idea 
of  the  deadly  cold  which  prevails  in  the  inner  gal- 
lery, where  the  beams  of  the  sun  scarcely  ever 
penetrate.  And  it  may  happen  that  only  a  chance 
visitor,  or  one  or  two  strangers,  may  ask  admittancr 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  But  poor  as  Saxonj 
now  is,— drained,  and  exhausted,  and  maimed  b« 
•accessive  wars,  and  trampled  by  successive  con- 


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LITEBATUBB,  AND  CHABACTEK.  349 

fuoron,  this  glorious  gallery,  which  Frederic 
•pared,  and  Napoleon  left  inviolate,  remains  the 
chief  attraction  to  strangers;  and  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  there  is  good  policy  in  making 
admittance  to  its  treasures  a  matter  of  difficulty, 
vexation,  and  expense.  There  would  be  little 
fear,  if  all  strangers  were  as  obstinate  and  enthu- 
nastic  as  myself, — ^for,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  know 
not  what  obstacle,  or  difficulty,  or  inconvenience; 
could  have  kept  me  out ;  if  all  legal  avenues  had 
been  hermetically  sealed,  I  would  have  prayed, 
bribed,  ])ersevered,  till  I  had  attained  my  purpose, 
aud  after  travelling  three  hundred  miles  to  achieve 
an  object^  what  are  a  few  dollars  ?  But  still  it  is 
ungracious,  and  methinks,  in  this  courteous  and 
liberal  capital  these  regulations  ought  to  be  re- 
formed or  modified. 

On  entering  the  gallery  for  the  first  time,  I 
walked  straight  forward,  without  pausing,  or  turn  • 
ing  to  the  right  or  the  left,  into  the  Rafiaelle-room, 
and  looked  round  for  the  Madonna  del  Sisto, — 
literally  with  a  kind  of  misgiving.  Familiar  as  the 
form  might  be  to  the  eye  and  the  fancy,  firoir 
numerous  copies  and  prints,  still  the  unknown 
original  held  a  sanctuary  in  my  imagination,  like 
the  mystic  Isis  behind  her  veil :  and  it  seemed  tba! 
whatever  I  beheld  of  lovely,  or  perfect,  or  soul- 
ipeaking  in  art,  had  an  unrevealed  rival  in  my 
Imagination :  something  was  beyond — there  was  a 
criterion  of  possible  excellence  as  yet  only  con- 
tectiired — ^foi  I  had  not  seen  the  Madonna  del  Sisf  o 


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150  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

Now,  when  I  was  about  to  lift  my  6}  es  to  it,  I 
literally  hesitated — ^I  drew  a  long  sigh,  as  if  redgn- 
ing  myself  to  disappointment,  and  looked — ^Yes 
there  she  was  indeed !  that  divinest  image  that  ever 
shaped  itself  in  palpable  hues  and  forms  to  the  liv- 
ing eye  I  What  a  revelation  of  ineffable  grace, 
and  purity,  and  truth,  and  goodness !  There  is  no 
use  attempting  to  say  any  thing  about  it ;  too  much 
has  already  been  said  and  written — and  what  are 
words  ?  Afler  gazing  on  it  again  and  again,  day 
after  day,  I  feel  that  to  attempt  to  describe  the  im- 
pression is  like  measuring  the  infinite,  and  sounding 
the  unfathomable.  When  I  looked  up  at  it  to-day 
it  gave  me  the  idea,  or  rather  the  feeling,  of  a 
vision  descending  and  floating  down  upon  me.  The 
head  of  the  virgin  is  quite  superhuman :  to  say 
that  it  is  beautiful,  gives  no  idea  of  it  Some  of 
Correggio's  and  Guido's  virgins — ^the  virgin  of 
Murillo  at  the  Leuchtenberg  palace — have  more 
beauty,  in  the  common  meaning  of  the  word ;  but 
every  other  female  face,  however  lovely,  however 
majestic,  would,  I  am  convinced,  appear  either 
trite  or  exaggerated,  if  brought  into  immediate 
comparison  with  this  divine  countenance.  There 
is  such  a  blessed  cahn  in  every  feature !  and  the 
eyes,  beaming  with  a  kind  of  interns^  ligbt,  look 
straight  out  of  the  picture — not  at  you  or  me— nr< 
at  any  thing  belonging  to  this  world, — but  through 
And  through  the  universe.  The  unearthly  Child  ix 
a  sublime  vision  of  power  and  grandeur,  and  seems 
aot  80  much  supported  as  enthroned  in  her  amuk 


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LLTEKATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  851 

ind  what  fitter  throne  for  the  Divinity  thai*  a 
woman's  bosom  full  of  innocence  and  love  ?  The 
expression  in  the  face  of  St  Barbara,  who  looks 
down,  has  been  differently  interpreted .  to  me  she 
seems  to  be  giving  a  last  look  at  the  earth,  above 
which  the  group  is  raised  as  on  a  hovering  cloud. 
St.  Sixtus  is  evidently  pleading  in  all  the  combined 
fervour  of  faith,  hope,  and  charity,  for  the  congre- 
gation of  sinners,  who  are  supposed  to  be  kneeling 
before  the  picture — that  is,  for  us — to  whom  he 
points.  Finally,  the  cherubs  below,  with  their  uj)- 
ward  look  of  rapture  and  wonder,  blending  the 
most  childish  innocence  with  a  sublime  inspiration, 
complete  the  harmonious  whole,  uniting  heaven 
with  earth. 

While  I  stood  in  contemplation  of  this  all-perfect 
work,  I  felt  the  impression  of  its  loveliness  in  my 
deepest  heart,  not  only  witihout  the  power,  but  with- 
out the  thought  or  wish  to  give  it  voice  or  words, 
till  some  lines  of  Shelley's — Klines  which  were  not, 
but,  methinks,  ought  to  have  been,  inspired  by  t'ne 
Madonna — came,  uncalled,  floating  through  mjr 
memory — 

Seraph  of  Heaven !  too  gentle  to  be  hnman^ 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  womaa 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee. 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality ! 
Sweet  Benedic'iion  in  the  eternal  corse! 
Veiled  Glory  of  this  lampless  nniverM! 
Thou  Harmony  of  Nature's  art! 
I  measure 


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M2  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee, 
And  find— alas  I  mine  own  infirmity!  * 

On  the  first  morning  I  spent  in  the  gallery,  a 
most  benevolent-looking  old  gentleman  came  up  to 
me,  and  half  lifting  his  velvet  cap  from  his  gray 
hairs,  courteously  saluted  me  by  name.  I  replied, 
without  knowing  at  the  mom  mt  to  whom  I  spoke. 
It  was  Bottigar,  the  most  formidable — no,  not  for- 
midable — but  the  most  erudite  scholar,  critic,  anti- 
quarian, in  Germany.  Bottigar,  I  do  believe,  has 
read  every  book  that  ever  was  written ;  knows 
every  thing  that  ever  was  known  ;  and  is  ac- 
quainted with  every  body,  who  is  any  body,  in 
the  four  quarters  of  the  world.  He  is  not  the 
author  of  any  large  work,  but  his  writings,  in  a 
variety  of  form,  on  art,  ancient  and  modern, — on 
literature,  on  the  classics,  on  the  stage,  are  known 
over  all  Germany ;  and  in  his  best  days  few  have 
exercised  so  wide  an  influence  over  opinion  and 
literature.  It  is  said,  that  in  his  latter  years  hig 
criticism  has  been  too  vague,  his  praise  too  indis- 
criminate, to  be  trusted  ;  but  I  know  not  why  this 
should  excite  indignation,  though  it  may  produce 
mistrust ;  in  Bottigar's  conformation,  benevolence 
roust  always  have  been  prominent,  and  in  the  de- 
cline of  his  life — for  he  is  now  seventy-eight — ^this 
natural  courtesy  combining  with  a  good  deal  of 
vanity  and  imagination,  would  necessarily  produce 
the  result  of  extreme  mildness, — a  disposition  f( 

•  Vide  Shelley's  Epipsjchidion 


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LITERATURE,   AND   CHARACTER.  953 

lee,  or  try  to  see,  all  en  beau.  The  happier  for 
him,  and  the  pleasanter  for  others.  We  were 
standing  together  in  the  i-oom  with  the  Madonna, 
but  I  did  not  allude  to  it,  nor  attempt  to  express 
by  a  word  the  impression  it  had  made  on  me ;  but 
he  seemed  to  understand  my  silence;  he  after- 
wards told  me  that  it  is  ascertained  that  Rafiaelle 
employed  only  three  months  in  executing  thii* 
picture :  it  was  thrown  upon  his  canvas  in  a  glow 
of  inspiration,  and  is  painted  very  lightly  and 
thinly.  When  Pahneroli,  the  Italian  restorer,  was 
brought  here  at  an  expense  of  more  than  three 
thousand  ducats,  he  ventured  to  clean  and  retouch 
the  background  and  accessories,  but  dared  not 
touch  the  figures  of  the  Virgin  and  the  Child, 
which  retain  their  sombre  tint  This  has  perhaps 
destroyed  the  harmony  of  the  general  effect,  but 
if  the  man  mistrusted  himself  he  was  right:  in 
such  a  case,  however,  he  had  better  have  let  the 
background  alone.  In  taking  down  the  picture 
for  the  purpose  of  cleaning,  it  was  discovered  that 
a  part  of  the  original  canvas,  about  a  quarter  of  a 
yard,  was  turned  back  in  order  to  make  it  fit  the 
frame.  Every  one  must  have  observed,  that  in 
Miiller*s  engraving,  and  all  the  known  copies  of 
this  Madonna,  the  head  is  too  near  the  top  of  the 
picture,  so  as  to  mar  the  just  proportion.  This  is 
now  amended :  the  veil,  or  curtain,  which  appears 
to  have  been  just  drawn  aside  to  disclose  the  celes- 
tial vision,  does  not  now  reach  the  boundary  of  tht 


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Sd4  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

picture,  as  heretofore ;  the  original  effect  ia  restore^ 
and  it  is  infinitely  better. 

As  if  to  produce  a  surfeit  of  excellence,  the  fivt 
Corr^:gios  hang  together  in  the  same  room  with 
the  Raffaelle.*  They  are  the  Madonna  di  San 
Georgio;  the  Madonna  di  San  Francisco;  the 
Madonna  di  Santo  Sabastiano;  the  famous  Na* 
tivity,  called  La  Notte ;  and  the  small  Magdaleno 
reading,  of  which  there  exist  an  incalculable  num- 
ber of  copies  and  prints.  I  know  not  that  anj 
thing  can  be  added  to  what  has  been  said  a  hun* 
dred  times  oyer  of  these  wondrous  pieces  of  poetry. 
Their  excellence  and  value,  as  unequalled  produc- 
tions of  art,  may  not  perhaps  be  understood  by 
all, — ^the  poetical  charm,  the  something  more  than 
meets  the  eye,  is  not  perhaps  equally  felt  by  all, 
— but  the  sentiment  is  intelligible  to  every  mind, 
and  goes  at  once  to  every  heart ;  the  most  unedu- 
cated eye,  the  merest  tyro  in  art,  gazes  with  de- 
light on  the  Notte;  and  the  Magdalene  reading 
has  given  perhaps  more  pleasure  than  any  known 
picture, — it  is  so  quiet,  so  simple,  so  touching,  in 
its  heavenly  beauty  1  Those  who  may  not  per- 
fectly understand  what  artists  mean  when  they 
dwell    with    rapture    on    Correggio's    wonderfol 

*  Mr.  Rnsoel  is  quite  right  in  his  obserration  that  the  Co^ 
r«iggios  are  hung  too  near  together :  the  fiuit  is,  that  in  the  Dr«» 
den  gallery,  the  pictures  are  not  well  hung,  nor  well  arranged 
khere  is  too  little  light  in  the  inner  gallery,  and  too  much  in  thi 
rater  gallery.  Lastly,  the  numbers  are  so  eonfiised  that  I  fouul 
Ihe  catalogue  of  little  use.  A  new  arrangement  and  a  new  cat» 
ogue,  by  Profossor  MatthaY,  are  in  oontemplation. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTElk  855 

chiaro-flcuro,  should  look  close  into  thip  little  pic- 
taro,  which  hangs  at  a  convenient  height:  they 
will  perceive  that  they  can  look  through  the 
ihadows  into  the  substance, — as  it  might  be,  into 
the  flesh  and  blood ; — ^the  shadows  seem  acci- 
dental— as  if  between  the  eye  and  the  colours,  and 
not  incorporated  with  them ;  in  this  lies  the  inim- 
itable excellence  of  this  master. 

The  Magdalene  was  once  surrounded  by  a  rich 
frame  of  silver  gilt,  chased,  and  adorned  with 
gems,  turquoises,  and  pearls :  but  some  years  ago 
a  thief  found  means  to  enter  at  the  window,  and 
carried  off  the  picture  for  the  sake  of  the  frame. 
A  reward  of  two  hundred  ducats  and  a  pardon 
were  offered  for  the  picture  only,  and  in  a  fort- 
night afterwards  it  was  happily  restored  to  the 
giJlery  uninjured;  but  I  did  not  hear  that  the 
firame  and  jewels  were  ever  recovered. 

Of  Correggio's  larger  pictures,  I  think  the  Ma- 
donna di  San  Georgio  pleased  me  most  The 
YiT^n  is  seated  on  a  throne,  holding  the  sacred 
Infant,  who  extends  his  arms  and  smiles  out  upon 
the  world  he  has  come  to  save.  On  the  right 
stands  St  George,  his  foot  on  the  dragon's  head ; 
behind  him  St  Peter  Martyr;  on  the  left,  St 
Geminiano  and  St  John  the  Baptist  In  the 
front  of  the  picture  two  heavenly  boys  are  playing 
with  the  sword  and  helmet  of  St  George,  which 
he  has  apparently  cast  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
throne.  All  in  this  picture  is  grand  and  sublime, 
m  the  feeling,  the  forms,  the  color  ring,  the  ex:pr(!s 


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156  8KETCHB8  OF  ABT, 

■OD.  But  what,  says  a  wiseacre  of  a  chtic 
rubbing  up  his  school  chronology,  what  have  St 
Francis,  and  St  George,  and  St  John  the  Baptist, 
to  do  in  the  same  picture  with  the  Virgin  Mary  ? 
Did  not  St  George  live  nine  hundred  years  after 
St  John?  and  St  Francis  five  hundred  years 
after  St  Greorge  ?  and  so  on.  Yet  this  is  properiy 
no  anachronism — ^no  violation  of  the  proprieties 
of  action,  place,  or  time.  These  and  similar  pic- 
tures, as  the  St  Jerome  at  Panna,  and  Raffaelle's 
Madonna,  are  not  to  be  considered  as  historical 
paintings,  but  as  grand  pieces  of  lyrical  and  sacred 
poetry.  In  thb  particular  picture,  which  was  ac 
altarpiece  in  the  church  of  Our  Lady  at  Panna,  we 
have  in  St  George  the  representation  of  religions 
magnanimity;  in  St  John,  religious  enthusiasm; 
in  St  Greminiani,  religious  munificence;  in  St 
Peter,  Martyr,  religious  fortitude ;  and  these  are 
grouped  round  the  most  lovely  impersonation  of 
innocence,  chastity,  and  heavenly  love.  Such,  as 
it  appears  to  me,  is  the  true  intention  and  significa- 
tion of  this  and  similar  pictures. 

But  in  the  <'  Notte"  (the  Nativity)  the  ease  is 
different  It  is  properly  an  historical  picture ;  and 
if  Correggio  had  placed  St  George,  or  St  Francis, 
•r  the  Magdalene,  as  spectators,  we  might  then 
exclaim  at  the  absurdity  of  the  anachronism ;  but 
here  Correggio  has  converted  the  literal  repr& 
lentation  of  a  circumstance  in  sacred  history  into 
a  divine  piece  of  poetry,  when  he  gave  us  that 
unanatjon  of  supernatural  light,  streaming  (roi« 


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IITERATURB,   AMD  CHARAOTSIt.  357 

the  form  of  the  celestial  Child,  and  illuminating 
the  extatic  face  of  the  virgin  mother,  who  bends 
ayer  her  infant  undazzled ;  while  another  female 
draws  back,  veiling  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  as  if 
nnable  to  endure  the  radiance.  Far  off,  through 
the  gloom  of  night,  we  see  the  morning  just  break- 
ing along  the  eastern  horizon — emblem  of  the 
"  day-spring  from  on  high." 

This  is  precisely  one  of  those  pictures  of  which 
Qo  copy  or  engraving  could  convey  any  adequate 
idea;  the  sentiment  of  maternity  (in  which  Cor- 
r^gio  excelled)  is  so  exquisitely  tender,  and  the 
coloring  so  inconceivably  transparent  and  delicate. 

I  suppose  it  is  a  sort  of  treason  to  say  that  in  the 
Madonna  di  San  Francisco,  the  face  of  the  virgin 
is  tinctured  with  affectaticm ;  but  such  was  and  is 
my  impresnon. 

If  I  were  to  plan  a  new  Dresden  gallery,  the 
Madonna  del  Sisto  and  the  "  Notte "  should  each 
have  a  sanctuary  apart,  and  be  lighted  from  above ; 
At  present  they  are  ill-placed  for  effect 

When  I  could  move  from  the  Raffaelle  room,  I 
took  advantage  of  the  presence  and  attendance  of 
Professor  Matthai,  (who  is  himself  a  painter  of 
eminence  here,)  and  went  through  a  regular  course 
of  the  Italian  schools  of  painting,  beginning  with 
Giotto.  The  collection  is  extremely  rich  in  the 
early  Ferarese  and  Venetian  painters,  and  it  wai 
viost  interesting  thus  to  trace  the  gradual  improve- 
ment and  development  of  the  scnool  of  coloristi 
through  Sqvarcione,  Mantegna,  the  Bellini,  Gior> 


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958  SKETCHES  OF  AST, 

gione,  Paris  Bordone,  Palma,  and  Titian;  uatii 
richness  oecame  exuberance,  and  power  verged 
upon  excess  in  Paul  Veronese  and  Tintoretto. 

Certainly,  I  feel  no  inclination  to  turn  my  note- 
book into  a  catalogue ;  but  I  must  men1i(m  Titian'i 
Christo  della  Moneta: — such  a  head  I — so  pure 
from  any  trace  of  passion ! — so  refined,  so  intel- 
lectual, so  benevolent  1  The  only  head  of  Christ  I 
ever  entirely  approved* 

Here  they  have  Giorgione's  master-piece — the 
meeting  of  Rachel  and  Jacob;  and  the  three 
daughters  of  Palma,  half-lengths,  in  the  same  pic- 
ture. The  centre  one,  Violante,  is  a  most  lovely 
head. 

There  is  here  an  extraordinary  picture  by 
Titian,  representing  Lucrezia  Borgia,  presented 
by  her  husband  to  the  Madonna.  The  portraits 
are  the  size  of  life,  half-lengths.  I  looked  in  vain 
in  the  countenance  of  Lucrezia  for  some  trace, 
some  testimony  of  the  crimes  imputed  to  her ;  bat 
«he  is  a  fair,  golden-haired,  gentle-looking  creature, 
^th  a  feeble  and  vapid  expression.  The  head  of 
her  husband,  Alphonso,  is  fine  and  full  of  power. 
Phere  are,  I  suppose,  not  less  than  fourteen  or 
fifteen  pictures  by  Titian. 

The  Concina  family,  by  Paul  Veronese,  esteemed 
his  finest  production,  is  in  the  Dresden  gallery, 
with  ten  others  of  the  same  master.  Of  Guido, 
thore  are  ten  pictures,  particularly  that  extraordi- 
nary one,  called  Ninus  and  Semiramis,  life  size 
Of  the  Carracci,  at  least  eight  or  nine,  particularb 


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LITERATURE,  A^atD  CHARACTER.  859 

the  genius  of  Fame,  which  should  be  compared 
with  that  of  Guido.  There  are  numerous  pictures 
of  Albano  and  Ribera ;  but  very  few  specimens  of 
Salvator  Rosa  and  Domenichino. 

On  the  whole,  I  suppose  that  no  gallery,  except 
that  of  Florence,  can  compete  with  the  Dresden 
gallery  in  the  treasures  of  Italian  art  In  all, 
there  are  five  hundred  and  thirty-four  Italian 
pictures. 

I  pass  over  the  Flemish,  Dutch,  and  French 
pictures,  which  fill  the  outer  gallery :  these  exceed 
the  Italian  school  in  number,  and  many  of  them 
are  of  surpassing  merit  and  value,  but,  having  jutt 
come  from  Munich,  where  the  eye  and  fancy  are 
both  satiated  with  this  class  of  pictures,  I  gave  my 
attention  principally  to  the  Italian  masters. 

There  is  one  room  here  entirely  filled  with  the 
crayon  paintings  of  Bosalba,  including  a  few  by 
Liotard.  Among  them  is  a  very  interesting  head 
of  Metastasio,  painted  when  he  was  young.  He 
has  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  with  small  features, 
and  an  expression  of  mingled  sensibility  and  acute- 
ness :  no  power. 

Bosalba  Garriera,  perhaps  the  finest  crayon 
piunter  who  ever  existed,  was  a  Venetian,  bom  aX 
Chiozza  in  1675.  She  was  an  admirable  creature 
in  every  respect,  possessing  many  accomplishments, 
besides  the  beautiful  art  in  which  she  excelled. 
Several  anecdotes  are  preserved  which  prove  the 
tweetness  of  her  disposition,  and  tne  clear  simplicity 
>f  her  mind.     Spence,  who  knew  her  perponally, 


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ISO  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

ealls  her  "  the  most  modest  of  painters ; "  jet  dia 
used  to  say  playfully,  ^^  I  am  charmed  with  every 
thing  I  do,  for  eight  hours  after  it  is  done  1  **  This 
was  natural  while  the  excitement  of  oonceptum 
was  fresh  upon  the  mind.  No  one,  however,  could 
be  more  fastidious  and  difficult  about  their  owe 
works  than  Rosalba.  She  was  not  only  an  ob- 
server of  countenance  by  profession,  but  a  most 
acute  observer  of  character,  as  revealed  in  all  its 
external  indications.  She  said  of  Sir  Godfrey 
Kneller,  after  he  had  paid  her  a  visit,  "I  con- 
cluded he  could  not  be  religious,  for  he  has  no 
modesty.**  The  general  philosophical  truth  com- 
prised in  these  few  words  is  not  less  admirable 
than  the  acuteness  of  the  remark,  as  applied  to 
Kneller — ^a  professed  skeptic,  and  the  most  self- 
sufficient  coxcomb  of  his  time. 

Rosalba  was  invited  at  different  times  to  almost 
all  the  courts  of  Europe,  and  painted  most  of  the 
distinguished  persons  of  her  time  at  Vienna,  Dres- 
den, Berlin,  and  Paris ;  the  lady-like  refinements 
of  her  mind  and  manners,  which  also  marked  her 
style  of  painting,  recommended  her  not  less  than 
her  talents.  She  used,  after  her  return  to  Italy, 
to  say  her  prayers  in  Grerman,  *** because  the  Ian* 
guage  was  so  expressive.**  ♦ 

Rosalba  became  blind  before  her  death,  which 
occurred  in  1757.  Her  works  in  the  Dresden 
gallery  amoint  to  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty-^ 

Spenoe. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  361 

principally  portraits — ^but  there  are  also  some  ex> 
^isite  fancy  beads. 

Thinking  of  Rosalba,  reminds  me  that  there  are 
•ome  pretty  stories  told  of  women,  who  have  ex- 
celled as  professed  artists.  In  general  the  conscious 
power  of  maintaining  themselves,  habits  of  attention 
and  manual  industry,  the  application  of  our  femi- 
nine superfluity  of  sensiHlity  and  imagination  to  a 
tangible  result — have  produced  fine  characters. 
The  daughter  of  Tintoretto,  when  invited  to  the 
courts  of  Maximilian  and  Philip  II.  refused  to 
leave  her  father.  Violante  Siries  of  Florence  gave 
a  similar  proof  of  filial  afiection;  and  when  the 
grand  duke  commanded  her  to  paint  her  own 
portrait  for  the  Florentine  gallery,  where  it  now 
hangs,  she  introduced  the  portrait  of  her  father, 
because  he  had  been  her  first  instructor  in  art 
When  Henrietta  Walters,  the  famous  Dutch  minia- 
ture painter,  was  invited  by  Peter  the  Great  and 
Frederic,  to  their  respective  courts,  with  magnifi- 
cent promises  of  favor  and  patronage,  she  steadily 
refused;  and  when  Peter,  who  had  no  idea  of 
giving  way  to  obstacles,  particularly  in  the  female 
form,  pressed  upon  her  in  person  the  most  splendid 
offers,  and  demanded  the  reason  of  her  refusal,  she 
replied,  that  she  was  contented  with  her  lot,  and 
could  not  bear  the  idea  of  living  out  of  a  firee 
country. 

Maria  von  Osterwyck,  one  of  the  most  admirable) 
(k)wer  painters,  had  a  lover,  to  whom  she  was  a 
ittle  partial,  but  his  idleness  and  dissipation  dis* 


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M2  SKETCHES   OF  ABT, 

tressed  her.  At  length  she  promised  to  g've  him 
her  hand  on  condition  that  daring  one  year  he 
would  work  regularly  ten  hours  a  day,  observing 
that  it  was  only  what  she  had  done  herself  from  a 
very  early  age.  He  agreed;  and  took  a  house 
opposite  to  her  that  she  might  witness  his  industry ; 
but  habit  was  too  strong,  his  love  or  his  resolution 
failed,  and  he  broke  the  compact  She  refused  to 
be  his  wife;  and  no  entreaties  could  afterwards 
alter  her  determination  never  to  accept  the  man 
who  had  shown  so  little  strength  of  character,  and 
BO  little  real  love.  She  was  a  wise  woman,  and,  as 
the  event  showed,  not  a  heartless  one.  She  died 
Tinmarried,  though  surrounded  by  suitors. 

It  was  the  fate  of  Elizabeth  Sirani,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  women,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most 
exquisite  painters  of  her  time,  to  live  in  the  midst 
of  those  deadly  feuds  between  the  pupils  of  Guido 
and  those  of  Domenichino,  and  she  was  poisoned 
at  the  age  of  twenty-six.  She  left  behind  her  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pictures,  an  astonishing  number 
if  we  consider  the  age  at  which  the  world  was 
deprived  of  this  wonderful  creature,  for  they  are 
finbhed  with  the  utmost  care  in  every  part.  Ma- 
donnas and  Magdalenes  were  her  favorite  subjects. 
She  died  in  1526.  Her  best  pictures  are  at  Flor- 
ence. 

Sofonisba  Angusciola  had  two  sisters,  Lucia  and 
Suropa,  almost  as  gifted,  though  not  quite  so  cele- 
brated as  herself;  these  three  "virtuous  gentlei 
woraon,"  iw  Vasari  calle  them,  lived  together  is 


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LITBBATUBE,   AND  OHARAOTER.  8«S 

the  most-  delightful  sisteriy  union.  One  of  Sofo- 
nisba's  most  beautiful  pictures  represents  her  two 
listers  playing  at  chess,  attended  by  the  old  duenna, 
who  accompanied  them  every  where.  When  Sofo- 
nisba  was  Invited  to  the  court  of  Spain,  in  1560, 
she  took  her  sisters  with  her — in  short,  thev  were 
inseparable.  They  were  all  accomplished  women. 
"We  hear,"  said  the  pope,  in  a  complimentary 
letter  to  Sofonisba,  on  one  of  her  pictures,  "  thai 
this  your  great  talent  is  among  the  least  you 
possess;*'  which  letter  is  said  by  Yasari  to  be  a 
sufficient  proof  of  the  genius  of  Sofonisba — as  if 
the  holy  Father's  infallibility  extended  to  painting ! 
Luckily  we  have  proofs  more  undeniable  in  her 
own  most  lovely  works — ^glowing  with  life  lik( 
those  of  Titian ;  and  in  the  testimony  of  Vandyke, 
who  said  of  her  in  her  later  years,  that  *'he  had 
learned  more  frcnn  one  old  blind  woman  in  Italy 
than  from  all  the  masters  of  his  art** 

It  is  worth  remarking,  that  almost  all  the  women 
who  have  attained  celebrity  in  painting,  have  ex> 
eelled  in  portraiture.  The  characteristic  of  Rosalba 
.8  an  exceeding  elegance ;  of  Angelica  Eauffman 
exceeding  grace;  but  she  wants  nerve.  Lavinia 
Fontana  threw  a  look  of  sensibility  into  her  most 
masculine  heads — she  died  broken-hearted  for  the 
loss  of  an  only  son,  whose  portrait  b  her  master- 
piece.*   The  Sofonisba  had  most  dignity,  and  in 

*  Lanii  says,  that  many  of  the  works  of  LarinSa  Fontana 
might  easily  pass  for  thos»  of  Ouido  ;-^er  bef*.  works  arct  at  Bo 
«cna.    She  died  in  1614. 


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164  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

her  own  portrait  *  a  certidn  dignified  nrnpli^  It 
the  air  and  attitade  strikes  us  immediately.  Gen* 
tilescbi  has  most  power :  she  was  a  ^fted,  but  a 
profligate  woman.  All  those  whom  I  have  men- 
tioned were  women  of  undoubted  genius ;  for  they 
have  each  a  style  apart,  peculiar,  and  tinted  by 
their  individual  character :  but  all,  except  Genti- 
leschi,  were  feminine  painters.  They  succeeded 
best  in  feminine  portrsuts,  and  when  they  painted 
history  they  were  only  admirable  in  that  class  of 
subjects  which  came  within  the  province  of  their 
sex;  beyond  that  boundary  they  became  fade^ 
insipid,  or  exaggerated :  thus  Elizabeth  Sirani*s 
Annunciation  is  exquisite,  and  her  Crucifixion 
feeble ;  Angelica  Eaufiman's  Nymphs  and  Madon- 
nas are  lovely;  but  her  picture  of  the  warrior 
Herman,  returning  home  after  the  defeat  of  the 
Roman  legions,  is  cold  and  ineffective.  The  result 
of  these  reflections  is,  that  there  is  a  walk  of  art  in 
which  women  may  attain  perfection,  and  excel  the 
other  sex;  as  there  is  another  department  from 
which  they  are  excluded.  You  must  change  the 
physical  organization  of  the  race  of  women  before 
we  produce  a  Rubens  or  a  Michael  Angelo.  Then, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  fancy,  no  man  could  paint 
like  Louisa  Sharpe,  any  more  than  write  like  Mrs. 
Hemans.  Louisa  Sharpe,  and  her  sister,  are,  in 
painting,  just  what  Mrs.  Hemans  is  in  poetry ;  we 
lee  in  their  works  the  same  characteristics — ne 

•  At  Althorpe. 


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LITERATURE,  AND  CHARACTER.  865 

feebleness,  no  littleness  of  dedgn  or  manner, 
nothing  vapid,  triyial,  or  affected, — and  nothing 
masculine ;  all  is  supereminently,  essentially  femi- 
nine, in  subject,  style,  and  sentiment.  I  wish  to 
combat  in  every  way  that  ofVrepeated,  but  most 
false  compliment  unthinkingly  paid  to  women,  that 
genius  is  of  no  sex;  there  may  be  equality  of 
power,  but  in  its  quality  and  application  there  will 
and  must  be  difference  and  distinction.  If  men 
would  but  remember  this  truth,  they  would  cease 
to  treat  with  ridicule  and  jealousy  the  attainments 
and  aspirations  of  women,  knowing  that  there 
never  could  be  real  competition  or  rivalry.  If 
women  would  admit  this  truth,  they  would  not 
presume  out  of  their  sphere : — but  then  we  come 
to  the  necessity  for  some  key  to  the  knowledge  of 
ourselves  and  others — some  scale  for  the  just  esti- 
mation of  our  own  qualities  and  powers,  compared 
with  those  of  others — ^the  great  secret  of  self- 
regulation  and  happiness — ^the  beginning,  middle, 
and  end  of  all  education. 

But  to  return  from  this  tirade.  I  wish  my  vi^ 
grant  pen  were  less  discursive. 

In  the  works  of  art,  the  presence  of  a  power,  felt 
rather  than  perceived,  and  kept  subordmate  to  the 
sentiment  of  grace,  should  mark  the  female  mind 
and  hand.  This  is  what  I  love  in  Rosalba,  in  our 
own  Mrs.  Carpenter,  in  Madame  de  Freyberg, 
and  in  Eliza  and  Jjouisa  Sharpe:  in  the  latter 
there  is  a  high  tone  of  moral  as  well  as  poetical 
(eeling.  Thus  her  picture  of  the  young  girl  ccmin|{ 


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569  SKETCHES  OF  JkRT, 

Dot  of  cburch  afler  disturbing  tho  equanimity  of  • 
whde  congregation  by  her  fine  lady  airs  and  her 
lilk  attire,  is  a  charming  and  most  graceful  satire 
on  the  foibles  of  her  sex.  The  idea,  however,  it 
taken  from  the  Spectator.  But  Louisa  Sharpe  can 
also  create.  Of  another  lovely  picture, — ^that  <A 
the  young,  forsaken,  disconsolate,  repentant  mother, 
who  sits  drooping  over  her  child,  "  with  looks  bowed 
down  in  penetrative  shame,"  while  one  or  two  of 
the  rigidly-righteous  of  her  own  sex  turn  from  her 
with  a  scornful  and  upbraiding  air — I  believe  the 
subject  is  original ;  but  it  is  obviously  one  which 
never  could  have  occurred,  except  to  the  most 
consciously  pure  as  well  as  the  gentlest  and  kindest 
heart  in  the  world.  Never  was  a  more  beautiful, 
and  Christian  lesson  conveyed  by  woman  to  woman 
at  once  a  warning  to  our  weakness^  and  a  rebuke 
to  our  pride.* 

Apropos  of  female  artists :  I  met  here  with  a  lady 
of  noble  birth  and  high  rank,  the  Countess  Julie 
von  Egloifstein,  f  who,  in  spite  of  the  prejudices 
still  prevailing  in  Grermany,  has  devoted  herself  to 


*  The  Mifs  Sharpes  were  at  Dresden  while  I  wu  iheze,  and 
their  names  and  some  of  their  works  were  fresh  in  my  mind  and 
eye  when  I  wrote  the  ahore;  but  I  think  it  fliir  to  add,  that  I 
had  not  the  opportunity  I  could  hare  wished  of  cultiyating  tbeif 
acquaintance.  These  three  sisters,  aU  so  talented,  and  so  imwp- 
arable,— «1I  artists,  and  bound  together  in  affectionate  eom 
mnnion  of  hearts  and  interests,  reminded  me  of  tlie  Sotoniiii 
and  her  sisters. 

t  She  is  the  *  Julie  "  celebrated  in  some  of  Goethe's  minot 


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LITERATURE,  AND   CHARACTER.  S67 

painting  as  a  profession.  Her  vocation  for  tb^  art 
was  early  displayed,  but  combated  and  discouraged 
as  derogatory  to  her  rank  and  station ;  she  was  for 
many  years  demoiselle  d^honneur  to  the  grand 
Dnchess  Luise  of  Weimar.  Under  all  these  ci'*- 
cnmstances,  it  required  real  strength  of  mind  to 
take  the  step  she  has  taken ;  but  a  less  decided 
course  could  not  well  have  emancipated  her  from 
trammels,  the  force  of  which  can  hardly  be  esti- 
mated out  of  Grermany.  A  recent  journey  to  Italy, 
undertaken  on  account  of  her  health,  fixed  hei 
determination,  and  her  destiny  for  life. 

In  looking  over  her  drawings  and  pictures,  I  was 
particularly  struck  by  one  singularity,  which  yet, 
on  reflection,  appears  perfectly  comprehensible. 
This  high-bom  and  court-bred  woman  shows  a 
decided  predilection  for  the  picturesque  m  humble 
life,  and  seems  to  have  turned  to  simple  nature  in 
perfect  simplicity  of  heart.  Being  self-taught  and 
self-formed,  there  is  nothing  mannered  or  conven- 
tional in  her  style ;  and  I  do  hope  she  will  assert 
the  privilege  of  genius,  and,  looking  only  into 
nature  out  of  her  own  heart  and  soul,  form  and 
keep  a  style  to  herself.  I  remember  one  little 
picture,  painted  either  for  the  queen  of  England 
or  the  queen  of  Bavaria,  representing  a  young 
Neapolitan  peasant,  seated  at  her  cottage  door, 
contemplating  her  child,  cradled  at  her  feet,  while 
<he  fishing  bark  of  her  husband  is  sailing  away  in 
the  distance.  In  this  little  bit  of  natural  joetry 
there  wa^  no  seeking  ai^er  effect,  no  pretdness,  nc 


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868  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

pretension ;  but  a  quiet  genuine  simplicity  of  feel- 
ing, which  surprised  while  it  pleased  me.  When  1 
have  looked  at  the  Countess  Julie  in  her  paintmg- 
room,  surrounded  by  her  drawings,  models,  casts — 
all  the  powers  of  her  exuberant  enthusiastic  mind 
flowing  free  in  their  natural  direction,  I  have  felt 
at  once  pleasure,  and  admiration,  and  respect  It 
should  seem  that  the  energy  of  spirit  and  real 
magnaninlity  of  mind  which  could  trample  over 
social  prejudices,  not  the  less  strong  because  mani- 
festly absurd,  united  to  genius  and  perseverance, 
may,  if  life  be  granted,  safely  draw  upon  futuiilj 
both  for  success  and  for  fame. 

«  «  «  « 

I  consider  my  introduction  to  Montz  Betzsch  as 
one  of  the  most  memorable  and  agreeable  incidents 
of  my  short  sojourn  at  Dresden. 

This  extraordinary  genius,  who  is  almost  at 
popular  and  interesting  in  England  as  in  his  own 
country,  seems  to  have  received  from  Nature  a 
double  portion  of  the  inventive  faculty — that  rarest 
of  all  her  good  gifts,  even  to  those  who  are  hei 
especial  favorites.  As  his  published  works,  by  which 
he  is  principally  known  in  England,  (the  Outlines 
to  the  Faust,  to  Shakspeare,  to  Schiller's  Song  of 
the  Bell,  &c.)  are  illustrations  of  the  ideas  of  others, 
few  but  those  who  may  possess  some  of  his  original 
drawings  are  aware,  that  Retzsch  is  himself  a  poet 
of  the  first  order,  using  his  glorious  power  of 
graphic  delineation  to  throw  into  form  the  concep* 
tions,  thoughts,  aspirations,  of  his  own  glowinft 


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LITERATUBEy  AND  CHARACTER.  S<S$ 

imagination  and  fertile  fancy.  Retzsch  was  bom 
at  Di^sden  in  1779,  and  has  never,  I  believe,  been 
far  from  his  native  place.  From  childhood  he  was 
a  singular  being,  giving  early  indications  of  his 
imitative  power  by  drawing  or  carving  in  wood, 
resemblances  of  the  objects  which  struck  his  atten- 
tion, without  the  slightest  idea  in  himself  or  others 
of  becoming  eventually  an  artist ;  and  I  have  even 
heard  that,  when  he  was  quite  a  youth,  his  enthu- 
siastic mind,  laboring  with  a  power  which  he  felt 
rather  than  knew,  his  love  of  the  wilder  aspects  of 
nature,  and  impatience  of  the  restraints  of  artificial 
life,  had  nearly  induced  him  to  become  a  huntsman 
or  forester  (Jiiger)  in  the  royal  service.  However, 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  his  love  of  art  became  a  de* 
cided  vocation.  The  little  property  he  had  in- 
herited or  accumulated  was  dissipated  during  that 
war,  which  swept  like  a  whirlwind  over  all  Ger- 
many, overwhelming  prince  and  peasant,  artist, 
mechanic,  in  one  wide-spreading  desolation.  Since 
that  time  Retzsch  has  depended  on  his  talents 
alone — content  to  live  poor  in  a  poor  country.  He 
has,  by  the  exertion  of  his  talents,  achieved  for 
himself  a  small  independence,  and  contributed  ti> 
the  support  of  a  large  family  of  relations,  also 
ruined  by  the  casualties  of  war.  His  usual  resi- 
dence is  at  his  own  pretty  littie  farm  or  vineyard  a 
few  miles  from  Dresden.  When  in  the  town,  where 
his  duties  as  professor  of  the  Academy  frequently 
call  him,  he  lodges  in  a  small  house  in  the  Neu« 
itadt,  close  upon  the  banks  of  the  £lbe,  in  a  recuvid 


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570  UKKTCHE8   OF   ART, 

fend  beautiful  situation.     Thither  1  was  conductxiil 

by  our  mutual  friend,  N ,  whose  appreciation 

of  Retzsch's  talents,  and  knowledge  of  his  peculiar- 
ities, rendered  him  the  best  possible  intermediatof 
on  this  occasion. 

The  professor  received  us  in  a  room  which  ap- 
peared to  answer  many  purposes,  being  obviously 
a  sleeping  as  well  as  a  sitting-room,  but  perfectly 
neat.  I  saw  at  once  that  there  was  every  where  a 
woman's  superintending  eye  and  thoughtfid  care ; 
but  did  not  know  at  the  moment  that  he  was  mar- 
ried. He  received  us  with  open-hearted  frankness, 
at.  the  same  time  throwing  on  the  stranger  one  of 
those  quick  glances  which  seemed  to  look  through 
me  :  in  return,  I  contemplated  him  with  inexpress- 
ible interest.  His  figure  is  rather  larger,  and  more 
pordy  than  I  had  expected ;  but  I  admired  his  fino 
Titanic  head,  so  large,  and  so  sublime  in  its  ex* 
pression ;  his  light  blue  eye,  wild  and  wide,  which 
seemed  to  drink  in  meaning  and  flash  out  light ;  his 
hair  profuse,  grizzled,  and  flowing  in  masses  round 
his  head :  and  his  expanded  brow  full  of  poetr" 
and  powei.  In  his  deportment  he  is  a  mere  child 
of  nature,  simple,  careless,  saying  just  what  he 
feels  and  thinks  at  the  moment,  without  regard  to 
forms ;  yet  pleasing  from  the  benevolent  earnest^ 
ness  of  his  manner,  and  intuitively  polite  withoci 
being  polbhed. 

After  some  conversation,  he  took  us  into  hii 
painting  room.  As  a  colorist,  I  believe  his  style  ii 
2ritici7:ed,  and  open  to  criticism ;  it  is  at  least  sin' 


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LITERATURE,  AXD   CHARACTER.  871 

f^ar;  but  I  must  confesf  that  while  I  was  looking 
aver  his  things  I  was  e*igrossed  by  the  one  con- 
viction;— that  while  his  peculiar  merits,  and  the 
preference  of  one  manner  to  another  may  be  a 
matter  of  argument  or  t»8te,  it  is  certain,  and  in- 
disputable, that  no  one  paints  like  Retzsch,  and 
that,  in  the  original  powfr  and  fertility  of  con- 
ception,  in  the  quantity  of  mind  which  he  brings  to 
bear  upon  his  subject,  hf>  Is  in  his  own  style  un- 
equalled and  inimitable.  I  was  rather  surprised 
to  see  in  some  of  his  designs  and  pencil  drawings 
the  most  elaborate  delicacy  of  touch,  and  mos 
finished  execution  of  parts,  rorabined  with  a  fanc^ 
which  seems  to  run  wild  over  h?s  paper  or  his  car 
vas ;  but  only  seems — ^for  it  must  be  remarked,  th^  j 
with  all  this  luxuriance  of  imagination,  there  is  no 
exaggeration,  either  of  form  or  feeling;  he  is 
peculiar,  fantastic,  even  extravagant — ^but  nsver 
false  in  sentiment  or  expression.  The  reason  is, 
that  in  Retzsch's  character  the  moral  sentiments 
are  strongly  developed ;  where  they  are  deficient, 
let  the  artist  who  lums  at  the  highest  poetical  de- 
partment of  excellence  despair ;  for  no  possession 
of  creative  talent,  nor  professional  skill,  nor  con- 
ventional taste,  will  supply  that  main  deficiency. 

I  saw  in  Retzsch's  atelier  many  things  novel, 
beautiful,  and  interesting ;  but  will  note  only  a  few, 
which  have  dwelt  upon  my  memory,  as  being  char* 
Acteristic  of  the  man  as  well  as  the  artist 

There  was,  on  a  small  panel,  the  head  of  an 
utgel  smiling.    He  said  ne  was  often  pursued  b| 


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171  8KBTCHES  OF  AKT, 

dark  fancies,  haunted  by  melancholy  forebodiiigi, 
desponding  oyer  himself  and  his  art,  '*  and  he  re* 
■olyed  to  create  an  angel  for  himself,  which  should 
smile  upon  him  out  of  heayen."  So  he  psdnted 
this  most  loyely  head,  in  which  the  radiant  spirit 
of  joy  seems  to  beam  from  eyery  feature  at  once ; 
and  I  thought  while  I  looked  upon  it,  that  it  were 
enough  to  exorcise  a  whole  legion  of  blue  deyils. 
It  is  rarely  that  we  can  associate  the  mirthftil  with 
the  beautiful  and  the  sublime — eyen  I  could  haye 
deemed  it  next  to  impossible;  but  the  effulgent 
cheerfulness  of  this  diyine  face  corrected  that  idea, 
which,  after  all,  is  not  in  bright  loyely  nature,  but 
in  the  shadow  which  the  mighty  spirit  of  Human* 
ity  casts  from  his  wings,  as  he  hangs  brooding  oyei 
her  between  heayen  and  earth. 

Afterwards  he  placed  upon  his  easel  a  wondrous 
face,  which  made  me  shrink  back — not  with  terror, 
for  it  was  perfectly  beautiful — but  with  awe,  for  it 
was  unspeakably  fearful :  the  hair  streamed  back 
from  the  pale  brow — the  orbs  of  sight  appeared  at 
first  two  dark,  hollow,  un£eithomable  spaces,  like 
those  in  a  skull;  but  when  I  drew  nearer,  ami 
looked  attentiyely,  two  loyely  Hying  eyes  looked 
at  me  again  out  of  the  depth  of  shadow,  as  if  from 
the  bottom  of  an  abyss.  The  mouth  was  divinely 
sweet,  but  sad,  and  the  softest  repose  rested  ou 
eyery  feature.  This,  he  told  me,  was  the  Anoel 
OF  Death  :  it  was  the  original  conception  of  • 
head  for  the  large  picture  now  at  Vienna,  repre- 
senting the   Angel  of  Death  bearing  aloiX  twc 


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LITBRATUBB,  AND  CHABACTEB.  879 

ebililren  into  the  regions  of  the  blessed :  the  heayeni 
opening  above,  and  the  earth  and  stars  sinking 
beneath  his  feet 

The  next  thing  which  struck  me  was  a  small 
picture— -two  satyrs  butting  at  each  other,  while  a 
shepherd  carries  off  the  nymph  for  whom  they  are 
contending.  This  was  most  admirable  for  iti 
grotesque  power  and  spirit,  and,  moreover,  ex- 
tremely well  colored.  Another  in  the  same  style 
represented  a  sat3rr  sitting  on  a  wine-skin,  out  of 
which  he  drinks;  two  arch-looking  n3rmphs  are 
stealing  on  him  from  behind,  and  one  of  them 
pierces  the  wine-skin  with  her  hunting-spear. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  himself,  but  I  would  not 
laud  it — in  fact,  he  has  not  done  himself  justice. 
Only  a  colossal  bust,  in  the  same  style,  and  wrought 
with  the  same  feeling  as  Dannecker^s  bust  of  Schil- 
ler, could  convey  to  posterity  an  adequate  idea  of 
the  head  and  countenance'  of  Retzsch.  I  com- 
plimented him  on  the  effect  which  his  Hamlet  had 
produced  in  England ;  he  tdid  me,  that  it  had  been 
his  wish  to  illustrate  the  Mdsummer  Nighf  s  Dream, 
or ^ the  Tempest,  rather  than  Macbeth:  the  former 
he  will  still  undertake,  and,  in  truth,  if  any  one 
sncceedi  in  embodying  a  just  idea  of  a  Mranda,  a 
Caliban,  a  Titania,  and  liie  poetical  burlesque  of 
the  Athenian  clowns,  it  will  be  Retzsch,  whose 
l^iius  embraces  at  once  the  grotesque,  the  comio, 
the  wild,  the  wonderful,  the  fanciM,  the  elegant ! 

A  few  days  afterwards  we  accepted  Retzsch'i 
mvitation  to  visit  him  at  hi9  campagna^-f  or  whether 


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174  8KETG1I1.0  OF  AKT, 

tt  were  faiin-house,  villa,  or  vineyard,  or  all  together 
I  coald  not  well  decide.  The  drive  was  delicious 
The  road  wound  along  the  banks  of  the  magnificent 
Elbe,  the  gently-swelling  hills,  all  laid  out  in  vine- 
yards, rising  on  our  right ;  and  though  it  was  io 
November,  the  air  was  soft  as  summer.  Betzsch, 
who  had  perceived  our  approach  firom  his  window, 
came  out  to  meet  us — ^took  me  under  his  arm  as  if 
we  had  been  friends  of  twenty  years'  standing,  and 
leading  me  into  his  picturesque  domicile^  intro- 
duced me  to  his  wife — as  pretty  a  piece  of  domestic 
poetry  as  one  shall  see  in  a  8ummer*s  day.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  vine-dresser,  whom  Betzsch 
fell  in  love  with  while  she  was  yet  ahnost  a  chilc^, 
and  educated  for  his  wife — at  least  so  runs  the  tale. 
At  the  first  glance  I  detected  the  original  of  that 
countenance  which,  more  or  less  idealized,  runs 
through  all  his  representations  of  female  youth  and 
beauty :  here  was  the*  model,  both  in  feature  and 
expression ;  she  smiled  upon  us  a  most  cordial  wel- 
come, regaled  us  with  delicious  cofiee  and  cakei 
prepared  by  herself,  then  taking  up  her  knitting 
sat  down  beside  us ;  and  ^hile  I  turned  over  ad 
miringly  the  beautiful  designs  with  which  her  ha^ 
band  had  decorated  her  album,  the  looks  of  vMier»> 
tion  and  love  with  which  she  regarded  him,  and 
tlie  expression  of  kindly,  delighted  sympathy  with 
which  she  smiled  upon  me,  I  shall  not  eaffily  foi^t. 
As  for  the  album  itself,  queens  might  have  enviec 
her  sujh  homage :  and  what  would  not  a  dilettante 
X)llc\^tor  have  given  for  such  a  possession  I 


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LITERATURE,   AMD   CHARACTEll.  875 

1  )'<aiiember  two  or  three  of  th«*se  designs  \%hich 
feiiist  serve  to  give  an  idea  of  the  rest : — 1st.  The 
good  Gonius  descending  to  bless  his  wife. — 2a 
The  birthday  of  his  wife — ^a  lovely  female  infant  is 
asleep  under  a  vine,  which  is  wreathed  round  the  * 
tree  of  life ;  the  spirits  of  the  four  elements  are 
bringing  votive  gifts  with  which  they  endow  her. 
ftd.  The  Enigma  of  Human  Life.  The  Genius  of 
ilumanity  is  reclining  on  the  back  of  a  gigantic 
sphinx,  of  which  the  features  are  averted,  and 
partly  veiled  by  a  cloud;  he  holds  a  rose  half- 
withered  in  his  hand,  and  looks  up  with  a  divine 
expression  towards  two  butterflies  which  have 
escaped  from  the  chrysalis  state,  and  are  sporting 
above  his  head ;  at  his  feet  are  a  dead  bird  and 
reptile— emblematical  of  sin  and  death.  4th.  The 
Crenius  of  Art,  represented  as  a  young  Apollo,  turns, 
with  a  melancholy,  abstracted  £ur,  the  handle  of  a 
barrf^l-organ,  while  Vulgarity,  Ignorance,  and 
Folly,  listen  with  approbation ;  meantime  his  lyre 
and  his  palette  lie  neglected  at  his  feet,  togethei 
with  an  empty  purse  and  wallet :  the  mixture  of 
pathos,  poetry,  and  satire,  in  this  little  drawing,  can 
hardly  be  described  in  words.  6th.  Hope,  repre- 
bented  by  a  lovely  group  of  playful  children,  who 
are  peeping  under  a  hat  for  a  butterfly,  which  they 
fancy  they  have  caught,  but  which  has  escaped, 
And  is  hovering  above  their  reach.  6th.  Tempta- 
tion presented  to  youth  and  mnocence  by  an  evil 
ipiiit,  while  a  good  genius  warns  them  to  beware. 
In  this  drawing,  the  figures  of  the  boy  and  girli 


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S76  SKETCHES  OF  ART, 

but  more  particularly  of  the  latter,  appeared  ti 
me  of  the  most  <  onsummate  and  touching  beauty 
7th.  His  wife  walking  on  a  windy  day :  a  numbet 
of  little  sylphs  are  agitating  her  drapery,  lifting 
the  tresses  of  her  hair,  playing  with  her  sash ;  while 
another  party  have  flown  off  with  her  hat,  and  are 
bearing  it  away  in  triumph. 

After  spending  three  or  four  hours  delightAilly, 
we  drove  home  in  silence  by  the  gleaming,  mur- 
muring river,  and  beneath  the  light  of  the  silent 
stars.  On  a  subsequent  visit,  Retzsch  showed  me 
many  more  of  these  delicious  phantasie^  or  fancies, 
as  he  termed  them,— or  more  truly,  little  pieces  of 
moral  and  lyrical  poetry,  thrown  into  palpable 
form,  speaking  in  the  universal  language  of  the 
eye  to  the  universal  heart  of  man.  I  remember, 
in  particular,  one  of  striking  and  even  of  appall- 
ing  interest  The  Genius  of  Humanity  and  the 
Spirit  of  Evil  are  plajing  at  chess  for  the  souls  of 
men :  the  Genius  of  Humanity  has  lost  to  his  in- 
fernal adversary  some  of  his  principal  pieces,— 
love,  humility,  innocence,  and  lastly,  peace  of 
mind ; — ^but  he  still  retains  faith,  truth,  and  forti- 
tude; and  is  sitting  in  a  contemplative  attitude, 
considering  his  next  move;  his  adversary,  who 
opposes  him  with  pride,  avarice,  irreligion,  luxury, 
and  a  host  of  evil  passions,  looks  at  him  with  a 
Mephistophiles  expression,  anticipating  his  devilisV 
triumph.  The  pawns  on  the  one  side  are  prayen 
—on  the  other  doubts.  A  little  behind  stands  th* 
At»j?cl  of  consciecce  as  arbitrator.     In  this  mo«« 


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LITERATURB,   A2.D  CHARACTER.  S7T 

ixquisite  allegory,  so  beautifully,  so  clearly  cco- 
veyed  to  the  heart,  there  lui^ed  a  deeper  moral 
&an  in  many  a  sermon. 

There  was  another  beautiful  little  allegory  of 
Love  in  the  character  of  a  Picklock,  opening,  on 
trying  to  open,  a  variety  of  albums,  lettered,  the 
"  Human  Heart,  No.  1 ;  Human  Heart,  No.  2 ; " 
while  Philosophy  lights  him  with  her  lantern. 
There  were  besides  many  other  designs  of  equal 
poetry,  beauty,  and  moral  interest — I  think,  a 
whole  portfolio  full  of  diem. 

I  endeavored  to  persuade  Retzsch  that  he  could 
not  do  better  than  publish  some  of  these  exquisite 
FancieSf  and  when  I  left  him  he  entertained  the  idea 
of  doing  so  at  some  future  period.  To  adopt  his 
own  langui^e,  the  Genius  of  Art  could  not  present 
to  the  Genius  of  Humanity  a  more  delightful  and  a 
more  profitable  gift.* 

«  «  «  « 

The  following  list  of  Grerman  painters  compre* 
hends  those  only  whose  works  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  considering,  and  who  appeared  to  me  to  possess 
decided  merit  I  might  easily  have  extended  this 
catalogue  to  thrice  its  length,  had  I  included  all 
those  whose  names  were  given  to  me  as  being  dis^ 
tinguished  and  celebrated  among  their  own  coon^ 
trymen.  From  Munich  alone  I  brought  a  list  oi 
two  hundred  artists,  and  from  other  parts  of  Ger. 
many  nearly  as  many  m^re.    But  in  confining  my- 

*  fttnce  this  iras  wiitten,  in  November,  1888,  Retzsch  has  leu 
ntt  to  England  %  series  of  these  Fancies  f  ~r  pnblicstlon. 


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t78  SKETCHES  OF  ABT, 

belf  to  thcisc  whose  productions  I  saw,  I  adhere  to 
%  principle  which,  after  all,  seems  to  be  the  best- 
viz  :  never  to  speak  but  of  what  we  know ;  and 
then  only  of  the  individual  impression :  it  is  nece» 
lary  to  know  so  many  things  before  we  can  give, 
with  confidence,  an  opinion  about  any  one  thing ! 

While  the  literary  intercourse  between  England 
and  Grermany  increases  every  day,  and  a  mutual 
esteem  and  understanding  is  the  natural  conse- 
quence of  this  approximation  of  mind,  there  is  a 
singular  and  mutual  ignorance  in  all  matters  apper* 
taining  to  art,  and  consequently,  a  good  deal  of  in* 
justice  and  prejudice  on  both  sides.  The  Germans 
were  amazed  and  incredulous,  when  I  informed 
them  that  in  England  there  are  many  admirers  ol 
art,  to  whom  the  very  names  of  Schnorr,  Over- 
beck,  Bauch,  Peter  Hess,  Wach,  Wagenbauer,  and 
evpn  their  great  Cornelius,  are  unknown;  and  1 
met  with  very  clever,  well-informed  Germans,  who 
had,  by  some  chance,  heard  of  Sir  Thomas  Law- 
rence,  and  knew  «ome^tti^  of  Wilkie,  Turner,  and 
Martin,  from  the  engravings  after  their  works; 
who  thought  Sir  Joshua  Beynolds  and  his  engravei 
Reynolds  one  and  the  same  person ;  and  of  Cal« 
cott,  Landseer,  Etty,  and  Hilton,  and  others  of  ooi 
ihining  lights,  they  knew  nothing  at  all.  I  muai 
■ay,  however,  that  they  have  generaUy  a  more  juit 
idea  of  English  art  than  we  have  of  German  aii| 
and  their  veneration  for  Flaxman,  like  their  veik 
•ration  for  Shakspeare,  is  a  sort  of  enthusiasm  all 
•ver  Germany     Those  who  iiave  contemplated  th# 


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LITERATURE,  AXD   CHARACTER.  871 

ftctoal  state  of  art,  and  compared  the  prevalent 
tastes  and  feelings  in  both  countries,  will  allow  th«*. 
much  advantage  would  result  from  a  better  mutua) 
understanding.  We  En^sh  accuse  the  German 
artists  of  mannerism,  of  a  formal,  hard,  and  elab* 
orate  execution, — a  pedantic  style  of  composition 
and  sundry  other  sins.  The  Germans  accuse  u», 
in  return,  of  excessive  coarseness  and  carelessness, 
a  loose  sketchy  style  of  execution,  and  a  general 
inattention  to  truth  of  character.*  **  You  English 
have  no  school  of  art,**  was  often  said  to  me ;  I 
could  have  replied — ^if  it  had  not  been  a  solecism  in 
grammar — ^*'  You  Germans  have  too  much  school" 
The  "  esprit  de  secte,"  which  in  Germany  has 
broken  up  their  poetry,  literatifre,  and  philosophy 
into  schisms  and  schools,  descends  unhappily  to  art, 
and  every  professor,  to  use  the  Highland  expre^* 
sion,  has  his  tail. 

At  the  same  time,  we  cannot  deny  to  the  Ger^ 
mans  the  merit  of  great  earnestness  of  feeling,  and 
that  characteristic  integrity  of  purpose  which  they 
throw  into  every  thing  they  undertake  or  perform. 
Art  with  them,  is  oftener  held  in  honor,  and  pur- 
sued truly  for  its  own  sake,  than  among  us:  too 
many  of  our  English  artists  consider  their  loft^  and 
noble  vocation,  simply  as  the  means  to  an  end,  be 
Ihat  end  fame  or  gain.    Generally  speaking,  too, 

*  We  h»Te  among  m  a  young  Gennan  paintnr,  (Theodor  yon 
lolst,)  who,  nniting  the  exu1>erant  enthuMann  and  rieh  Imagi* 
natkm  of  his  country  with  a  jujit  appneiatlon  of  th«  alj*»  tt 
bgUih  art.  If  IHuOj-  to  aehiere  grtat  things. 


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180  8KBTCHB8  OF  ART, 

the  German  artists  are  men  of  superior  cultivatioii, 
po  that  when  the  creatiye  inspiration  falls  upon 
them,  the  material  on  which  to  work  is  already 
vtored  up :  *^  nothing  can  come  of  nothing,"  and 
the  sunbeams  descend  in  vain  on  the  richest  soil 
where  the  seed  has  not  been  sown. 

It  is  certain  that  we  have  not  in  England  any 
historical  painters  who  have  given  evidence  of  their 
genius  on  so  grand  a  scale  as  some  of  the  historical 
painters  of  Germany  have  recently  done.  We 
know  that  it  is  not  the  genius,  but  the  opportunity 
which  has  been  wanting,  but  we  cannot  ask  foreign  • 
ers  to  admit  this, — they  can  only  judge  from  results, 
and  they  must  either  suppose  us  to  be  without  emi- 
nent men  in  the  higher  walks  of  art,— or  they 
must  wonder,  with  their  magnificent  ideas  of  the 
incalculable  wealth  of  our  nobles,  the  prodigal  ex- 
penditure of  our  rulers,  and  the  grandeur  of  our 
public  institutions,  that  painting  has  not  oftener 
been  summoned  in  aid  of  her  eldest  sister  archi- 
tecture. On  the  other  hand,  their  school  of  por- 
traiture and  landscape  is  decidedly  inferior  to  ours. 
Not  only  have  they  no  landscape  painters  who  can 
compare  with  Calcott  and  Turner,  but  they  do  no* 
appear  to  have  imagined  the  kind  of  excellence 
achieved  by  these  wonderful  artists.  I  should  say, 
generally,  tiiat  their  most  beautiful  landscapes  want 
atmosphere.  I  used  to  feel  while  looking  at  them 
as  i^  I  were  in  the  exhausted  receiver  of  an  air 
pump.  Of  their  portruta  I  have  already  spoken  ; 
the  «ye  which  has  rested  in  delight  upon  one  ol 


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LITB&ATUBE,  ANP   CHABACTEB.  881 

Wilkie's  or  Phillips's  line  manly  portraitSf  (not  tc 
mention  Reynolds,  Gainsborough,  Romney,  and 
Lawrence,)  cannot  easily  be  reconciled  to  th« 
hard,  frittered  manner  of  some  of  the  most  ad- 
DQired  of  the  German  painters ;  it  is  a  difference 
of  tasta,  which  I  will  not  call  natural  but  national : 
— ^the  remains  of  the  old  gothic  school  which,  as 
the  study  of  Italian  art  becomes  more  diffused,  will 
be  modified  or  pass  away. 


fflSTORY.  . 

Peter  Cornelius,  bom  at  Dusseldorf  in  1 778,  was 
for  a  considerable  time  the  director  (president)  of 
the  academy  there,  and  is  now  the  director  of  the 
academy  of  art  at  Munich :  much  of  his  time,  how- 
ever, is  spent  in  Italy.  The  Germans  esteem  him 
their  best  historical  painter.  He  has  invention » 
expression,  and  power,  but  appears  to  me  rather 
deficient  in  the  feeling  of  beauty  and  tenderness. 
His  grand  works  are  the  fresco  painting  in  the 
Glyptothek  at  Munich,  already  described. 

Friederich  Overbeck,  bom  at  Lubeck  in  1789: 
be  excels  in  scriptural  subjects,  which  he  treati 
with  infinite  grandeur  and  simplicity  of  feeling 

Wilhelin  Wach,  bom  at  Berlin  in  1787:  first 
painter  to  the  king  of  Prussia  and  professor  in  the 
icademy  of  Berlin :  esteemed  one  of  the  best  pai'it 


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S82  BKBTCHB8  OF  ART, 

ers  and  meet  accomplished  men  in  Grermany.  Ko4 
haying  visited  Berlin,  where  his  finest  works  exif  t| 
I  have  as  yet  seen  but  one  picture  by  this  painter-^ 
the  head  of  an  angel,  at  the  palace  of  Peterstein, 
sublimely  conceived,  and  most  admirably  painted. 
In  the  style  of  color,  in  the  singular  combination  ot 
grand  feeling  and  delicate  execution,  this  picture 
reminded  me  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Professor  Julius  Schnorr  von  Carolsfeld,  bom  at 
Leipsig  in  1 794.  His  frescos  from  the  Kibelungen 
Lied  in  the  new  palace  at  Munich  have  been 
already  mentioned  at  length. 

Professor  Heinrich  Hesse :  the  frescos  in  the 
Royal  Chapel  at  Munich,  already  described. 

Wilhelm  Tischbein,  bom  at  Heyna  in  1751.  He 
b  director  of  the  academy  at  Naples,  and  highly 
celebrated.  He  must  not  be  confounded  with  his 
uncle,  a  mediocre  artist,  who  was  the  court  painter 
of  Hesse  Cassel,  and  whose  pictures  swarm  in  all 
the  palaces  there. 

Philip  Veit,  of  Frankfort — ^fresco  painter. 

Joseph  Schlotthauer,  professor  of  historical  and 
fr«sco  painting  at  Munich.  (I  believe  this  artist  is 
dead.    He  held  a  high  rank.) 

Clement  Zimmermann,  now  employed  in  the 
Pinakothek,  and  in  the  new  palace  at  Munich, 
where  he  takes  a  high  rank  as  painter,  and  is  not 
less  fiistinguished  by  his  general  information,  and 
his  frank  and  amiable  character. 

Mori^  Rctzsch  of  Dresden. 

Professor  Vogel,  of  Dresden,  principal  paintei 


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i^ITERATUBE,  AND  CHAKACl'ER.  $81 

to  the  king  of  Saxony.  He  piunts  in  freuco  and 
liietory,  but  excels  in  porti*aits. 

Steiler,  of  Munich,  court  painter  to  the  king  d 
Bavaria,  esteemed  one  of  the  best  portrait  painters 
in  Germany. 

Goetzenberger,  fresco  painter.  He  is  employed 
in  painting  the  University  Hall  at  Bonn. 

Eduard  Bendeman,  of  Berlin.  I  saw  at  the  ex- 
lubition  of  the  Kunstverein  at  Dusseldorf,  a  fine 
picture  by  this  painter—"  The  Hebrews  in  Exile.** 

"  By  the  waters  of  Babylon  we  sat  down  and  wept." 

The  coloring  I  thought  rather  hard,  but  the  con- 
ception and  drawing  were  in  a  grand  style. 

Wilhelm  Schadow,  director  of  the  academy  at 
Du8seldor£ 

Hetzsch  of  Stuttgardt 

The  brothers  Biepenhausen,  of  Gdttingen,  resi* 
dent  at  Rome.  They  are  celebrated  for  their  de* 
signs  of  the  pictures  of  Polygnotus,  as  described  by 
Pausanius. 

Koehler.  He  exhibited  at  the  Kunstverein  at 
Dusseldorf  a  picture  of  "  Rebecca  at  the  well,** 
very  well  executed. 

Ernst  Forster,  of  Altenburg,  employed  in  the 
palace  at  Munich.  This  clever  young  painter 
married  the  daughter  of  Jean  Paul  Ricbter. 

Gassen,  of  Coblentz ;  Hiltensberger,  of  Suabia ; 
Hermann,  of  Dresden  ;  Foltz,  of  Bingen ;  Kaul- 
Sach,  of  Munich ;  Eugene  Neurather,  of  Munich ; 
IVilhebu  Rdckel,  of  Schleissheim ;  Yon  S^'hwindi 


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184  SKETCHES   OF  ABT, 

(T  believe  of  Munich ;)  Wilhelm  LindenschmidL 
of  Mayence.  All  these  painters  are  at  present  ia 
the  service  of  the  king  of  Bavaria. 

Julius  Hubner  of  Breslaw — ^portraits ;  GreveOf 
of  Cologne — ^portraits. 

SMALL    SUBJECTS    AND    COITV^RSATION    PIECES, 

Peter  Hess,  of  Munich,  one  of  the  most  eminent 
painters  in  Germany.  In  his  choice  of  subjects  he 
reminded  me  sometimes  of  Eastlake,  and  sometimes 
of  Wilkie,  and  his  style  is  rather  in  Wilkie's  first 
manner.  Hb  pictures  are  full  of  spirit,  truth,  and 
character. 

Dominique  Quaglio,  of  Munich.  Interiors,  &o 
He  also  ranks  very  high :  he  reminds  me  of  Fraser. 

Major  General  von  Heydeck,  of  Munich,  an 
amateur  painter  of  merited  celebrity.  In  the  col- 
lection of  M  de  Klenze,  and  in  the  Leuchtenbei^ 
Gallery,  there  are  some  small  battle  pieces,  scenea 
in  Greece  and  Spain,  and  other  subjects  by  von 
Heydeck,  very  admirably  painted. 

F.  Muller,  of  Cassel.  At  the  exhibition  at  Dus- 
seldorf  I  saw  a  picture  by  this  artist,  »*  A  rustic 
bridal  procession  in  the  Campagna,"  painted  with 
a  freedom  and  lightness  of  pencil  not  common 
among  the  German  artists. 

PlUddeman,  of  Colberg. 

T.  B.  Sonderland,  of  Dusseldorf.  Fairs  and 
merrymakings. 

H.  Rustige.  The  same  subjects.  Both  are  good 
irtists. 


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LITER ATUKE,   AND   CHARACTER.  885 

H.  Kretzschmar,  of  Pomerania.  His  picture  of 
**  Little  Red  Bidinghood,**  (Rotbkappchen,)  at  the 
Kunstverein,  at  Dusseldorf,  had  great  merit 

Adolf  Schrotte.  Rustic  scenes  in  the  Dutch 
manner. 

LANDSCAPE. 

Dahl)  a  Norwegian  settled  at  Dresden,  esteemed 
one  of  the  best  landscape  painters  in  Germany. 
There  is  a  very  fine  searpiece  by  this  artist  in  the 
possession  of  the  Countess  von  Seebach  at  Dresden, 
with,  however,  all  the  characteristic  peciUiaritie$ 
of  the  German  school. 

T.  D.  Passavant,  of  Frankfort 

Friedrich,  of  Dresden,  one  of  the  most  poetical 
of  the  German  landscape  painters.  He  is  rather  a 
mannerist  in  color,  like  Turner,  but  in  the  oppo- 
site excess :  his  genius  revels  in  gloom,  as  that  of 
Turner  revels  in  light 

Professor  von  Dillis,  of  Munich. 

Max  Wagenbauer,  of  Munich.  He  b  called 
most  deservedly,  the  German  Paul  Potter. 

Jacob  Domer,  of  Munich.  A  charming  painter ; 
perhaps  a  little  too  minute  in  his  finishing. 

Catel,  of  Dusseldorf.  Scenes  on  the  Mediterra» 
nean.  This  painter  resides  chiefly  in  Italy;  but 
in  the  collection  of  M.  de  Klenze  I  saw  s(nne 
admirable  specimens  of  his  works. 

Rothman,  of  Heidelberg.  I  saw  some  pictures 
and  sketches  by  this  young  painter  full  of  geniui 
•nd  feeling. 

Fries,  of  Munich,   a  young  pain^^er  of  greal 


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3S6  SKETCHES   OF   ABT,   ETC 

|/romise.  He  put  an  end  to  his  own  life,  while  ] 
was  at  Munich,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  caused  bj 
fever,  and  was  very  generally  lamented. 

Wilhelm  Schirmer,  of  Juliers,  an  exceedingly 
fine  landscape  painter. 

Andreas  Achenbach,  of  Dusseldorf :  he  has  also 
great  merit 


There  are  several  female  artists  in  Grermany, 
of  more  or  less  celebrity.  The  Baroness  von 
Freyberg  (bom  Electrina  Stuntz)  holds  the  first 
rank  in  original  talent.  She  resides  near  Munich, 
but  no  longer  psuuts  professionally.  - 

The  Countess  Julie  von  Eglofistein  has  also  the 
'rare  gift  of  original  and  creative  genius. 

Luise  Sidlar,  of  Weimar;  Madlle.  de  Winkel 
and  Madame  de  Loqueyssie,  of  Dresden,  are  distin- 
guished in  their  art  The  two  latter  are  exquisite 
copyists. 

In  architecture,  Leo  von  E^enze  and  Professor 
Girtner,  of  Munich ;  and  Heideloff  of  Nuremberg, 
are  deservedly  celebrated  in  Germany. 

The  most  distinguished  sculptors  in  Germany 
are  Christian  Ranch,  and  Christian  Friedrich 
Tieck,  of  Berlin ;  Johan  Heinrich  von  Dannecker, 
of  Stuttgardt;  Sch  wan  thaler,  Eberhardt,  Bandel, 
Kirchmayer,  Mayer,  all  of  Munich ;  Reitchel,  d 
Dresden ;  and  Imhofi*,  of  Cologne.  Those  of  theu 
works  which  I  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  have 
been  mentioned  in  the  course  of  thoso  sketches. 


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HARDWIGKE. 

Wbo  that  has  exulted  over  the  heroic  reign  of 
•ur  gjrgeous  Elizabeth,  or  wept  over  the  fate  of 
Mary  Stuart,  but  will  remember  the  name  of  the 
only  woman  whose  high  and  haughty  spirit  outfaced 
the  lion  port  of  one  queen,  and  whose  audacity 
trampled  over  the  sorrows  of  the  other — 

''Brow-beating  her  fkir  form,  and  troubling  her  sweet 
pride  V  " 

But  this  is  anticipation.  If  it  be  so  laudable, 
according  to  the  excellent,  oft  quoted  advice  of 
the  giant  Moulineau,  to  begin  cU  the  beginning,* 
what  must  it  be  to  improve  upon  the  precept? 
for  so,  in  relating  the  fallen  and  fading  glories  of 
Haidwicke,  do  I  intend  to  exceed  even  **mon  ami 
le  Belier,"  in  historic  accuracy,  and  take  up  our 
tale  at  a  period  ere  Hardwicke  itself— the  Hard- 
iricke  that  now  stands — ^had  a  beginning. 

***BeUer!  monaml!  commence  xwr  le  conunenoemcntt"'- 
RmOm  de  HamiUon, 


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189  HARDWICKK. 

There  lived,  then,  in  the  days  of  queen  Bes§,  a 
woman  well  worthy  to  be  her  majesty's  namesake. 
—Elizabeth  Hardwicke,  more  commonly  called,  in 
her  own  country,  Bess  of  Hardwicke,  and  distin- 
guished  in  the  page  of  history  as  the  old  Countess 
of  Shrewsbury.  She  resembled  Queen  Elizabeth 
in  all  her  best  and  worst  qualities,  and,  putting 
royalty  out  of  the  scale,  would  certsunly  have  been 
more  than  a  match  for  that  sharp-witted  virago,  in 
fubtlety  of  intellect,  and  intrepidity  oi  temper  and 
manner. 

She  was  the  only  daughter  of  John  Hardwicke, 
of  Hardwicke,*  and  being  early  left  an  orphan 
and  an  heiress,  was  married  ere  she  was  fourteen 
to  a  certain  Master  Robert  Barley,  who  was  about 
her  own  age.  Death  dissolved  this  premature 
union  within  a  few  months,  but  her  husband's 
large  estates  had  been  settled  on  her  and  her 
heirs ;  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  dame  Elizabeth 
was  a  blooming  widow,  amply  dowered  with  fair 
and  fertile  lands,  and  free  to  bestow  her  hand 
again  where  she  listed. 

Suitors  abounded,  of  course :  but  Elizabeth,  it 
should  seem,  was  hard  to  please.  She  was  beauti- 
fill,  if  the  annals  of  her  family  say  true, — ^she  had 
wit,  and  spirit,  and,  above  all,  an  infinite  love  of 
Independence.  After  taking  the  management  of 
her  property  into  her  own  hands,  she  for  some 
time  reigned  and  revelled  (w/th  all  decorum  be  i 

•A  manor  situated  on  the  bordeM  of  Derbyshire,  bciirara 
Cheeterfield  and  Bl&nefield. 


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HARDWICKB.  389 

andersiood)  in  what  might  be  truly  termed,  a  state 
of  single  blessedness ;  but  at  length,  tired  of  being 
ord  and  lady  too— "master  o'er  her  vassals,"  if 
not  exactly  "  queen  o'er  herself" — she  thought  fit, 
having  reached  the  discreet  age  of  four-and-twenty, 
to  bestow  her  hand  on  Sir  William  Cavendish. 
He  was  a  man  of  substance  and  power,  already 
enriched  by  vast  grants  of  abbey  lands  in  the  time 
of  Henry  VIU.,*  all  which,  by  the  marriage 
contract,  were  settled  on  the  lady.  After  this 
marriage,  they  passed  some  years  in  retirement, 
having  the  wisdom  to  keep  clear  of  the  political 
storms  and  factions  which  intervened  between  the 
death  of  Henry  Vill.  and  the  accession  of  Mary, 
and  yet  the  sense  to  profit  by  them.  While  Cav- 
endish, taking  advantage  of  those  troublous  times, 
went  on  adding  manor  after  manor  to  his  vast 
possessions,  dame  Elizabeth  was  busy  providing 
heirs  to  inherit  them ;  she  became  the  mother  of 
six  hopeful  children,  who  were  destined  eventually 
to  found  two  illustrious  dukedoms,  and  mingle 
blood  with  the  oldest  nobility  of  England — nay, 
with  royalty  itself.  "  Moreover,"  says  the  family 
chronicle,  **the  said  dame  Elizabeth  persuaded 
her  husband,  out  of  the  great  love  he  had  for  her, 
to  sell  his  estates  in  the  south  and  purchase  lands 
in  ker  native  county  of  Derby,  wherewith  to  endow 
her  and  her  children,  and  at  her  farther  persuasion 

•  The  GaTendishfls  wera  originally  of  Suffolk.  Wheihor  thli 
William  OaTendish  ma  the  same  who  was  gentleman  usher  and 
leeretaiy  to  Cardinal  Wolsejr,  is,  I  heUeve,  a  disputed  point. 


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B90  HARDWICKB. 

be  begau  to  build  the  noble  seat  of  Chatswtvthj 
but  left  it  to  her  to  complete,  he  dying  about  the 
year  1559." 

Apparently  thb  second  experiment  in  matrix 
mony  pleased  the  lady  of  Hardwicke  better  than 
the  first,  for  she  was  not  long  a  widow.  We  are 
not  in  this  case  informed  how  long — ^her  biographer 
having  discreetly  left  it  to  our  imagination ;  and 
the  Peerages,  though  not  in  general  famed  for  dis- 
cretion on  such  points,  have  in  this  case  affected 
the  same  delicate  uncertainty.  However  this  may 
be,  she  gave  her  hand,  after  no  long  courtship,  to 
Sir  William  St.  Loo,  captain  of  Elizabeth's  guard, 
and  then  chief  butler  of  England — a  man  equally 
distinguished  for  his  fine  person  and  large  posses- 
sions, but  otherwise  not  superfluously  gifted  by 
nature.  So  well  did  the  lady  manage  Aim,  that 
with  equal  hardihood  and  rapacity,  she  contrived 
to  have  all  his  <*  fair  lordships  in  Gloucestershire 
and  elsewhere  **  settled  on  herself  and  her  children, 
to  the  manifest  injury  of  St.  Loo's  own  brothers, 
and  his  daughters  by  a  former  union :  and  he  dying 
not  long  after  without  any  issue  by  her,  she  made 
good  her  title  to  his  vast  estates,  added  them  to 
her  own,  and  they  became  the  inheritance  of  the 
Cavendishes. 

But  three  husbands,  six  children,  almost  bound- 
less opulence,  did  not  yet  satisfy  this  extraordinary 
woman — ^for  extraordinary  she  certainly  was,  not 
more  in  the  wit,  subtlety,  and  unflinching  steads 
neat  of  purpose  with  which  she  amassed  wealtk 


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HARDWICKE.  $91 

And  acnieved  power,  but  in  the  manner  in  which 
ihe  used  both.  She  ruled  her  husband,  her  family, 
her  yassals,  despotically,  needing  little  aid,  sufiei^ 
ing  no  interference,  asking  no  counseL  She  man- 
aged her  immense  estates,  and  the  local  power  and 
political  weight  which  her  enormous  possessions 
naturally  threw  into  her  hands,  with  singular  ca- 
pacity and  decision.  She  farmed  the  lands ;  she 
collected  her  rents;  she  built;  she  planted;  she 
bought  and  sold;  she  lent  out  money  on  usury; 
she  traded  in  timber,  coals,  lead :  in  short,  the  ob- 
ject she  had  apparently  proposed  to  herself,  the 
aggrandizement  of  her  children  by  all  and  any 
means,  she  pursued  with  a  wonderful  perseverance 
and  good  sense.  Power  so  consistently  wielded, 
purposes  so  indefatigably  followed  up,  and  means 
BO  successfully  adapted  to  an  end,  are,  in  a  female, 
very  striking.  A  slight  sprinkling  of  the  softer 
qualities  of  her  sex,  a  little  more  elevation  of  prin- 
ciple, would  have  rendered  her  as  respectable  and 
admirable  as  she  was  extraordinary ;  but  there  was 
in  this  woman's  mind  the  same  "  fond  de  vulgarity  ** 
which  we  see  in  the  character  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
and  which  no  height  of  rank,  or  power,  or  estate, 
could  do  away  with.  In  this  respect  the  lady  of 
Hardwicke  was  much  inferior  to  that  splendid  crea- 
ture, Anne  CHfford,  Countess  of  Dorset,  Pembroke, 
and  Cumberland,  another  masculine  spirit  in  the 
female  form,  who  had  the  same  propensity  for 
building  castles  and  mansions,  the  same  passion  for 
DOwer   and  independence,   but  with   more    trufi 


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92  HARDWiCKE. 

geneixmty  and  magnanimity,  and  a  touch  of  poetrj 
and  genuine  nobility  about  her  which  the  other 
wanted :  in  short,  it  was  all  the  difierenco  between 
the  amazon  and  the  heroine.  It  is  curious  enough 
that  the  Duke  of  Devonshire  should  be  the  present 
representative  of  both  these  remarkable  women. 

But  to  return :  Bess  of  Hardwicke  was  now  ap- 
proaching her  fortieth  year ;  she  had  achieved  all 
but  nobility — ^the  one  thing  yet  wanting  to  crowb 
her  swelling  fortunes.  About  the  year  1565  (1 
cannot  find  the  exact  date)  she  was  sought  in  mar- 
riage by  George  Talbot,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury. 
There  is  no  reason  to  doubt  what  is  asserted,  that 
she  had  captivated  the  earl  by  her  wit  and  her 
matronly  beauty.*  He  could  hardly  have  married 
her  from  motives  of  interest :  he  was  himself  the 
richest  and  greatest  subject  in  England;  a  fine 
chivalrous  character,  with  a  reputation  as  un- 
stained as  his  rank  was  splendid,  and  his  descent 
illustrious.  He  had  a  family  by  a  former  wife, 
(Grertmde  Manners,)  to  inherit  his  titles,  and  her 
estates  were  settled  on  her  children  by  Cavendish. 
It  should  seem,  therefore,  that  mutual  inclination 
alone  could  have  made  the  match  advantageous  to 
either  party ;  but  Bess  of  Hardwicke  was  still  Bess 
of  Hardwicke.  She  took  advantage  of  her  power 
over  her  husband  in  the  first  days  of  their  union 
"  She  induced  Shrewsbury  by  entreaties  or  threati 
to  sacrifice,  in  a  measure,  the  fortune,  interest,  and 

*  Bishop  Kennet'B  memoirs  of  the  fiunily  of  O.TendUb 


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HARDWICKk.  399 

ba|fpine88  of  himself  and  family  to  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  her  and  her  family.**  ♦  She  contrived  in 
the  first  place  to  have  a  large  jointure  settled  on 
herself;  and  she  arranged  a  double  union,  by 
which  the  wealth  and  interests  of  the  two  great 
families  should  be  amalgamated.  She  stipulated 
that  her  eldest  daughter,  Mary  Cavendish,  should 
marry  the  earl's  son,  Lord  Talbot;  and  that  hia 
youngest  daughter,  Grace  Talbot,  should  marry 
her  eldest  son,  Henry  Cavendish. 

The  French  have  a  proverb  worthy  of  their 
gallantry — "  Ce  que  femme  veut^  Dieu  veut :  **  but 
even  in  the  feminine  gender  we  are  sometimes  re- 
minded of  another  proverb  equally  significant — 
"  Uhamme  propose  et  Dieu  dispose,"  Now  was 
Bess  of  Hardwicke  queen  of  the  Peak ;  she  had 
built  her  erie  so  high,  it  seemed  to  dally  with  the 
winds  of  heaven ;  her  young  eaglets  were  worthy 
of  their  dam,  ready  plumed  to  fiy  at  fortune  ;  she 
had  placed  the  coronet  of  the  oldest  peerage  in 
England  on  her  own  brow,  she  had  secured  the 
reversion  of  it  to  her  daughter,  and  she  had  mar- 
ried a  man  whose  character  was  indeed  opposed  to 
her  own,  but  who,  from  his  chivalrous  and  confid- 
ing  nature  was  calculated  to  make  her  happy,  by 
leaving  her  mistress  of  herself. 

In  1568  Mary  Stuart,  fiying  into  England,  wai 
placed  in  the  custody  of  the  Earl  of  Shrewsbury, 
«iid  remained  under  his  care  for  sixteen  years,  a 

*  Lodged  Illa«tra*iong  of  British  History 


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194  UARDWICKE. 

long  period  of  restless  misery  to  the  unhappy  earl 
not  less  than  to  his  wretched  captive.  In  thif 
dangerous  and  odious  chaise  was  involved  the 
sacrifice  of  his  domestic  happiness,  his  peace  of 
mind,  his  health,  and  great  part  of  his  fortune. 
His  castle  was  converted  into  a  prison,  his  servanti 
into  guards,  his  porter  into  a  turnkey,  his  wife  into 
a  spy,  and  himself  into  a  jailer,  to  gratify  the  ever* 
waking  jealousy  of  Queen  Elizabeth."  *  But  the 
earl's  greatest  misfortune  was  the  estrangement, 
and  at  length  enmity,  of  his  violent,  high-spirited 
wife.  She  beheld  the  unhappy  Mary  with  a  hatred 
for  which  there  was  little  excuse,  but  many  in- 
telligible reasons :  she  saw  her,  not  as  a  captive 
committed  to  her  womanly  mercy,  but  as  an  in- 
truder on  her  rights.  Her  haughty  spirit  was  con- 
tinually irritated  by  the  presence  of  one  in  whom 
she  was  forced  to  acknowledge  a  superior,  even  in 
that  very  house  and  domain  where  she  herself  had 
been  used  to  reign  as  absolute  queen  and  mistress 
The  enormous  expenses  which  this  charge  entailed 
on  her  household  were  distracting  to  her  avarice ; 
and,  worse  than  all,  jealousy  of  the  youthful  charms 
and  winning  manners  of  the  Queen  of  Scotfl,  and 
of  the  constant  intercourse  between  her  and  hei 
husband,  seem  at  length  to  have  driven  her  half 
frantic,  and  degraded  her,  with  all  her  wit,  and 
lense,  and  spirit,  into  the  despicable  treacheroua 
lool  of  the  more  artful  and  despotic  Elizabeth,  whr 

»  Scott's  Uemoir  of  Sir  IL.lph  Sadlw. 


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HAItDWICKE.  895 

tuow  how  to  turn  the  angry  and  jealous  passions 
of  the  countess  to  her  own  purposes. 

It  was  not,  however,  all  at  once  that  mattem 
rose  to  such  a  height :  the  fire  smouldered  for  some 
time  ere  it  burst  forth.  There  is  a  letter  preser'/ed 
among  the  Shrewsbury  Correspondence*  which 
the  countess  addressed  to  her  husband  from  Chats- 
worth,  at  a  time  when  the  earl  was  keeping  guard 
over  Mary  at  Sheffield  castle.  It  is  a  most  curious 
specimen  of  character.  It  treats  chiefly  of  house- 
hold matters,  of  the  price  and  goodness  of  malt 
and  hops,  iron  and  timber,  and  reproaches  him  foi 
not  sending  her  money  which  was  due  to  her, 
adding,  "  I  see  out  of  sight  out  of  mind  with  you ;  *' 
she  sarcastically  inquires  ^*how  his  charge  and 
love  doth ; "  she  sends  him  **  some  letyss  (lettuces) 
for  that  he  loves  themf*  (this  common  salad  herb 
was  then  a  rare  delicacy;)  and  she  concludes 
affectionately,  "  God  send  my  juill  helthe."  The 
incipient  jealousy  betrayed  in  this  letter  soon  after 
broke  forth  openly  with  a  degree  of  violence 
towards  her  husband,  and  malignity  towards  his 
priscmer,  which  can  hardly  be  believed.  There  is 
distinct  evidence  that  Shrewsbury  was  not  only  a 
trustworthy,  but  a  rigorous  jailer ;  that  he  detested 
the  office  forced  upon  him ;  that  he  often  begged 
in  the  most  abject  terms  to  be  released  from  it ; 
and  that,  harassed  on  every  side  by  the  torment- 
bg  jealousy  of  his  wife,  the  unrelenting  severity 
and  mistrust  oi  Elizabeth,  and  the  complaints  of 
•  Lodge'!  "  niiutratloDft." 


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)96  HABDWIGEE. 

Mary,  he  was  seized  with  several  fits  of  illness,  and 
once  by  a  mental  attack,  rr  "  phrenesie."  as  Oeci] 
terms  it,  brought  on  by  the  agitation  of  his  mind  * 
yet  the  idea  of  resigning  his  office,  except  at  th« 
pleasure  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  never  seems  to  have 
entered  his  imagination. 

On  one  occasion  Lady  Shrewsbury  went  so  fai 
as  to  accuse  her  husband  openly  of  intriguing  with 
his  prisoner,  in  every  sense  of  the  word ;  and  sh<3 
at  the  same  time  abused  Mary  in  terms  which  John 
Knox  himself  could  not  have  exceeded.  Mary, 
deeply  incensed,  complained  of  this  outrage :  the 
earl  also  appealed  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  the 
countess  and  her  daughter,  Lady  Talbot,  were 
obliged  to  declare  upon  oath,  that  this  accusation 
was  false,  scandalous,  and  malicious,  and  that  they 
were  not  the  authors  of  itl  This  curious  affidavit 
of  the  mother  and  daughter  is  preserved  in  the 
Record  Office. 

In  a  letter  to  Lord  Leicester,  Shrewsbury  calls 
his  wife  "his  wicked  and  malicious  wife,''  and 
accuses  her  and  her  **imps,*'  as  he  irreverently 
styles  the  whole  brood  of  Cavendishes,  of  conspir- 
ing to  sow  dissensions  between  him  and  his  eldest 
don.  These  disputes  being  carried  to  Elizabeth, 
she  set  herself  with  heartless  policy  to  foment 
them  in  ever}'  possible  way.  She  deemed  that  her 
safety  consisted  in  employing  one  part  of  llie  earP 
family  as  spies  on  the  other.  In  some  signal  quai^ 
rel  about  llie  property  round  Chatsworth,  she  ccm» 
:nanded  the  earl  to  submit  to  his  wife's  pleasure 


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HAHDWICKB.  897 

ftnd  though  no  "  tame  snake  **  towards  hi»  imperi- 
ous lady,  as  St  Loo  and  Cavendish  had  been 
before  him,  he  bowed  at  once  to  the  mandate  of 
his  unfeeling  sovereign — such  was  the  despotism 
and  such  the  loyalty  of  those  days.  His  reply, 
however,  speaks  the  bitterness  of  his  heart.  "  Sith 
that  her  majesty  hath  set  down  this  hard  sentence 
against  me  to  my  perpetual  infamy  and  dishonour, 
that  I  should  be  ruled  and  overrunne  by  my  wife, 
BO  bad  and  wicked  a  woman ;  yet  her  majesty  shall 
fiee  that  I  will  obey  her  majesty's  commandment, 
though  no  curse  or  plague  on  the  earth  could  be 
more  grievous  to  me.**  ♦  ♦  "It  is  too  much," 
he  adds,  "  to  be  made  my  wife's  pensioner.**  Poor 
Lord  Shrewsbury !     Can  one  help  pitying  him  ? 

Not  the  least  curious  part  of  this  family  history 
b  the  double  dealing  of  the  imperious  countess. 
While  employed  as  a  spy  on  Mary,  whom  she  de- 
tested, she,  from  the  natural  fearlessness  and  frank- 
ness of  her  temper,  not  unfrequently  betrayed 
Elizabeth,  whom  she  also  detested.  While  in 
attendance  on  Mary,  she  often  gratified  her  own 
satirical  humour,  and  amused  her  prisoner  by  giv- 
ing her  a  coarse  and  bitter  portraiture  of  Elizabeth, 
her  court,  her  favourites,  her  miserable  temper,  her 
▼anity,  and  her  personal  defects.  Some  report  of 
these  conversations  soon  reached  the  queen,  (who 
1%  very  significantly  drawn  in  one  of  her  portraitu 
b  a  dress  embroidered  over  with  eyes  and  ears,) 
dad  she  required  from  Mary  an  account  of  what* 
•ver  Lady  Shrewsbury  had  said  to  her  prejudice 


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S98  HARDWICKE. 

Mary,  hadng  equally  the  rival  who  oppressed  her 
uid  the  domestic  harpy  who  daily  persecuted  her, 
was  nothing  loath  to  indulge  her  feminine  spite 
agaunst  the  two,  and  sent  Elizabeth  such  a  circum- 
stantial list  of  the  most  gross  and  hateful  imputa- 
dons,  (all  the  time  politely  assuring  her  good  sister 
that  she  did  not  believe  a  word  of  them,)  that  the 
rage  and  mortification  of  the  queen  must  have  ex- 
ceeded all  bounds.*  She  kept  the  letter  secret ; 
but  Lady  Shrewsbury  never  was  suffered  to  appear 
at  court  after  the  death  of  Mary  had  rendered  her 
fiervices  superfluous. 

Through  all  these  scenes  the  Lady  of  Hardwicke 
still  pursued  her  settled  purpose.  Her  husband 
complmned  that  he  was  "  never  quiet  to  satisfy  her 
greedie  appetite  for  money  for  purchases  to  set  up 
her  children."  Her  ambition  was  equally  insatiate, 
and  generally  successful:  but  in  one  memorable 
instance  she  overshot  her  mark.  She  contrived 
(unknown  to  her  lord)  to  marry  her  favourite 
daughter,  Elizabeth  Cavendish,  to  Lord  Lennox, 
the  younger  brother  of  the  murdered  Damley,  and 
consequently  standing  in  the  same  degree  of  rela- 
tionship to  the  crown.  Queen  Elizabeth  in  the 
extremity  of  her  rage  and  consternation,  ordered 
both  the  dowager  Lady  Lennox  and  Lady  Shrews- 
bury to  the  Tower,  where  the  latter  remained  for 
some  months ;  we  may  suppose,  to  the  great  relief 

*  This  celebrated  letter  la  yet  preeerved,  and  well  known  U 
historians  and  antiquarians.  It  Is  sufficient  to  say  ihat  seen* 
»ny  part  of  it  would  hear  transDriMng. 


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HARDWICKB.  $M 

af  her  husband.  He  used,  however,  all  his  interesi 
to  excuse  her  delinquency,  aud  at  length  ptx)cured 
her  liberation.  But  this  was  not  all.  Elizabeth 
Cavendish,  the  young  Lady  Lennox,  while  yet  in 
all  her  bridal  blo<Mn,  died  in  the  arms  of  her 
mother,  who  appears  to  have  suffered  that  searing, 
lasting  grief  which  stem  hearts  sometimes  fceL 
The  only  issue  of  this  marriage  was  an  infant 
daughter,  ttat  unhappy  Arabella  Stuart,  who  was 
one  of  the  most  memorable  victims  of  jealous 
tyranny  which  our  history  has  recorded.  Her 
very  existence,  from  her  near  relationship  to  the 
throne,  was  a  crime  in  the  Q|res  of  Elizabeth  and 
James  I.  There  is  no  evidence  that  Lady  Shrews- 
bury indulged  in  any  ambitious  schemes  for  thin 
favourite  granddaughter,  "  her  dear  jewel,  Arbell," 
as  she  terms  her ;  *  but  she  did  not  hesitate  to  en- 
force her  claims  to  royal  blood  by  requiring  600/. 
a  year  from  the  treasury  for  her  board  and  educa- 
tion as  became  the  queen's  kinswoman.  Elizabeth 
allowed  her  200/.  a  year,  and  this  pittance  Lady 
Shrewsbury  accepted.  Her  rent-roll  was  at  this 
time  60,000/.  a  year,  equal  to  at  least  200,000/.  at 
the  present  day. 

ITie  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  died  in  1690,  at  enmity 
to  the  last  moment  with  his  wife  and  son  ;  and  the 
Lady  of  Hardwicke  having  survived  four  husbands, 
and  seeing  all  her  children  settled  and  prosperous, 
itill  absolute  mistress  over  her  family,  resided  diu% 

Fm  twooTlMr  lettwfin  Sir  Hemy  BIUi*B OoUeetlon. 


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lOO  HARDWICKE. 

ing  the  last  seventeen  years  of  her  life  in  great 
Btate  and  plenty  at  Hardwicke,  her  birthplace. 
Here  she  superintended  the  education  of  Arabella 
Stuart,  who,  as  she  grew  up  to  womanhood,  waa 
kept  by  her  grandmother  in  a  state  of  seclusion, 
amounting  almost  to  imprisonment,  lest  the  jeal^ 
ousy  of  Elizabeth  should  rob  her  of  her  treasure.* 

Next  to  the  love  of  money  and  power,  the  chief 
passion  of  this  magnificent  old  beldam,  was  build 
ing.  It  is  a  family  tradition,  that  some  prophet 
had  foretold  that  she  should  never  die  as  long  as 
she  was  building,  and  she  died  at  last,  in  1607,  duT' 
ing  a  hard  frost,  when  her  labourers  were  obliges? 
to  suspend  their  work.  She  built  Chatsworth,  Old 
cotes,  and  Hardwicke;  and  Fuller  adds  in  hif 
quaint  style  that  she  left  "two  sacred  (beside? 
civil)  monuments  of  her  memory ;  one  that  I  hope 
will  not  be  taken  away  (her  splendid  tomb,  erected 
by  herself,t)  and  one  that  I  am  sure  cannot  be 
taken  away,  being  registered  in  the  court  of 
heaven,  viz :  her  stately  almshouses  for  twelve 
poor  people  at  Derby." 

Of  Chatsworth,  the  hereditary  palace  of  the 

*  See  some  letters  in  EUis^s  Collection,  vol.  ii.  seriei  1,  wfaieli 
phow  with  what  constant  jealousy  Lady  Shrewsbury  and  her 
llutrge  were  watched  by  the  court. 

t  In  All  Hallows,  in  Derby.  After  leaTing  Hardwicke,  I  went, 
oi  eourse,  to  pay  my  respects  to  it.  It  is  a  vast  and  goggeom 
shrine  of  many  coloured  marbles,  covered  with  painting,  gOd* 
tng,  emblazonments,  and  inscriptions,  within  which  the  la^ 
!ies  at  ftUl  length  in  a  golden  ruff,  and  a  most  sumptuous  1k» 
!hingale. 


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HARDWICKB.  401 

Dukes  of  Devohsliire)  all  its  luxurious  grandeur, 
all  its  treasures  of  art,  it  is  not  here  '*  my  hint  to 
speak."  It  has  been  entirely  rebuilt  since  thA 
days  of  its  founder.  Oldcotes  was  once  a  magnifi- 
cent place.  There  is  a  tradition  at  Hardwicko 
that  old  Bess,  being  provoked  by  a  splendid  man- 
sion which  the  Sutton  s  had  lately  erected  within 
view  of  her  windows,  declared  she  would  build  a 
finer  dwelling  for  the  owlets,  (hence  Owlcots  or 
Oldcotes.)  She  kept  her  word,  more  truly  per- 
haps than  she  intended,  for  Oldcotes  has  since  be- 
come literally  a  dwelling  for  the  owls ;  the  chief 
part  of  it  is  in  ruins,  and  the  rest  converted  into  a 
farm-house.  Her  younger  daughter,  Frances  Cav- 
endish, married  Sir  Henry  Pierrepoint,  of  Holme- 
Pierrepoint,  and  one  of  the  granddaughters  mar- 
ried another  Pierrepoint — ^through  one  of  these 
'marriages,  but  I  know  not  which,  Oldcotes  haa 
descended  to  the  present  Earl  Man  vers. 

The  mansion  of  Hardwicke  was  commenced 
about  the  year  1592,  and  finished  in  1597.  It 
Btands  about  a  stone's  throw  from  the  old  house 
in  which  the  old  countess  was  bom,  and  which  she 
left  standing,  as  if,  says  her  biographer,  she  in- 
tended to  construct  her  bed  of  state  close  by  her 
cradle.  This  fine  old  ruin  remains,  gray,  shat* 
tered,  and  open  to  all  the  winds  of  heaven,  almost 
overgrown  with  ivy,  and  threatening  to  tumble 
about  the  ears  of  the  bats  and  owls  which  are  its 
sole  inhabitants.  One  majestic  room  remains  en- 
tire.   It  b  called  the  "  Gianfs  Chamber,"  from 


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402  HAttDWICKlfi. 

two  colossal  figures  in  Roman  armour  \\hicli  stand 
over  the  huge  chimney-piece.  This  room  hafl 
long  been  considered  by  architects  as  a  perfec 
specimen  of  grand  and  beautiful  proportion,  and 
has  been  copied  at  Chatsworth  and  at  BlenheinL* 
It  must  have  been  in  this  old  hallf  and  not  in 
the  present  edifice,  that  Mary  Stuart  resided  dui^ 
ing  her  short  stay  at  Hardwicke.  I  am  sorry  to 
disturb  the  fanciful  or  sentimental  tourists  and 
sight-seers ;  but  so  it  is,  or  rather,  so  it  must  have 
been.  Yet  it  is  net  surprising  that  the  memory  of 
Mary  Stuart  should  now  form  the  principal  charm 
and  interest  of  Hardwicke,  and  that  she  should  be 
in  a  manner  the  tutelary  genius  of  the  place. 
Chatsworth  has  been  burned  and  rebuilt.  Tut- 
bury,  Sheffield  castle,  Wingfield,  Fotheringay,  and 
the  old  house  of  Hardwicke,  in  short,  every  place 
which  Mary  inhabited  during  her  captivity,  all  lie 
in  ruins,  as  if  struck  with  a  doleful  curse.  But 
Hardwicke  Hall  exists  just  as  it  stood  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth.  The  present  Duke  of  Devonshire, 
with  excellent  taste  and  feeling,  keeps  up  the  old 
costume  within  and  without  The  bed  and  furni- 
ture which  had  been  used  by  Mary,  the  cushions 
of  her  oratory,  the  tapestry  wrought  by  her  own 
hands,  have  been  removed  hither,  and  are  carefully 
preserved.  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  authen- 
ticity of  these  relics,  and  there  is  enough  surely  to 

*  As  the  meafrarements  are  interesting  from  this  fkefe,  I  tod 
sare  to  note  them  exactly,  as  follows : — bngth  56  ft.  0  inehea 
breadth  dO  fb.  6  inches;  height  24  ft.  6  inches. 


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HARDWICKB.  403 

consecrate  the  whole  to  our  imaginatioa.  More- 
over, we  have  but  to  go  to  the  window  and  see  th« 
very  spot,  the  very  walls  which  once  enclosed  her, 
Ihe  ver^ casements  from  which  she  probably  gazed 
with  a  sigh  over  the  far  hills ;  and  indulge,  without 
one  intrusive  doubt,  in  all  the  romantic  and  fasci- 
nating, and  mysterious,  and  sorrowful  associations, 
which  hang  round  the  memory  of  Mary  Stuart 

With  what  different 'eyes  may  people  view  the 
tame  things!  "We  receive  but  what  we  give," 
says  the  poet;  and  all  the  light,  and  glory,  and 
beauty,  with  which  certain  objects  are  in  a  manner 
tujffused  to  the  eye  of  fancy,  must  issue  from  our 
own  souls,  and  be  reflected  back  to  us,  else  'tis  aD 
in  vain. 

•*  We  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win, 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within  1 " 

When  Gray,  the  poet,  visited  Hardwicke,  he  fell 
at  once  into  a  very  pbet-like  rapture,  and  did  not 
itop  to  criticize  pictures,  and  question  authorities. 
He  says  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Dr.  Wharton,  "  of 
all  the  places  I  have  seen  in  my  return  from  you, 
Hardwicke  pleased  me  most.  One  would  think 
that  Mary  queen  of  Scotts  was  but  just  walked 
down  into  the  park  with  her  guard  for  half  an 
hour :  her  gallery,  her  room  of  audience,  her  ante- 
chamber, with  the  very  canopies,  chair  of  state, 
footstool,  lit  de  repos,  oratory,  carpets,  hangings, 
just  as  she  left  them,  a  little  tattered  indeed,  but 
Ibe  more  venerable,"  Sic.  &c. 


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t04  HARDWICKB. 

Now  let  118  hear  Horace  Walpole,  antiquarian, 
virtuoso,  dilettante,  filosofastro — ^but,  in  truth,  no 
poet  He  is,  however,  in  general  so  good-natured, 
lo  amusing,  and  so  tasteful,  that  I  cannot  conceive 
what  put  him  into  such  a  Smelfungus  humor  when 
lie  visited  Hardwicke,  with  a  Cavendish  too  at  his 
elbow  as  his  cicerone  I 

He  says,  **  the  duke  sent  Lord  John  with  me  to 
Hardwicke,  where  I  was  again  disappointed ;  but  I 
will  not  take  relations  from  others;  they  either 
don't  see  for  themselves,  or  can't  sec  for  me.  How 
I  had  been  promised  that  I  should  be  charmed 
with  Hardwicke,  and  told  that  the  Devonshires 
ought  to  have  established  themselves  there !  Nev- 
er was  I  less  charmed  in  my  life.  The  house  is  not 
gothic,  but  of  that  hetweenity  that  intervened  when 
Grothic  declined,  and  Palladian  was  creeping  in; 
rather,  this  is  totally  naked  of  either.  It  has  vast 
chambers — ay,  vast,  such  as  the  nobility  of  that 
time  delighted  in,  and  did  not  know  how  to  furnish, 
rhe  great  apartment  is  exactiy  what  it  was  when 
the  Queen  of  Scotts  was  kept  there.*  Her  coun- 
cil-chamber (the  council-chamber  of  a  poor  woman 
who  had  only  two  secretaries,  a  gentieman  usher, 
an  apothecary,  a  confessor,  and  three  maids)  is  so 
outrageously  spacious  that  you  would  take  it  for 
King  David's,  who  thought,  contrary  to  all  modem 
experience,  that  in  the  multitude  of  counsellor! 
there  is  wisdom.    At  the  upper  end  is  the  State, 

*  Hnraoe  Walpole,  as  an  antiquarian,  shoe  d  hate  known  tha 
If  &77  was  neyer  kept  there. 


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HARDWICKE.  405 

rith  a  long  table,  covered  with  a  sumptaous  cloth, 
imbroidered  and  embossed  with  gold — at  least 
what  was  gold ;  so  are  all  the  tables.  Bound  th« 
top  of  the  chamber  runs  a  monstrous  frieze,  ten  or 
twelve  feet  deep,  representing  a  stag-hunt  in  mis- 
wable  plastered  relief.* 

**  The  next  is  her  dressing-room,  hung  with  patch 
work  on  black  velvet ;  then  her  state  bed-chamber 
The  bed  has  been  rich  beyond  description,  and 
now  hangs  in  costly  golden  tatters ;  the  hangings, 
part  of  which  they  say  her  majesty  worked,  are 
composed  of  figures  as  large  as  life,  sewed  and 
embroidered  on  black  velvet,  white  satin,  &c.,  and 
represent  the  virtues  that  were  necessary  to  her, 
or  that  she  was  found  to  have — ^as  patience,  tem- 
perance,! &c.  The  fire-screens  are  particular; — 
pieces  of  yellow  velvet,  fringed  with  gold,  hung  on 
a  cross-bar  of  wood,  which  is  fixed  on  the  top  of  a 

*  It  had  formerlj  been  richly  painted,  and  must  then  have  had 
an  eflfect  superior  to  tapestiy;  the  colors  are  still  visible  here  and 
there. 

t  Mary's  own  account  of  her  occupations  displays  the  natural 
elegance  of  her  mind.  **  I  asked  her  grace,  since  the  weather 
did  cut  off  all  exercises  abroad,  how  she  passed  her  time  within  ? 
Blie  sayd  that  all  day  she  wrought  with  her  needle,  and  that  the 
diversitie  of  the  colours  made  the  work  appear  less  tedious,  and 
Oiat  she  continued  at  it  till  pain  made  her  to  ^ve  o^er :  and  with 
that  laid  hor  hand  on  her  left  side,  and  complayned  of  an  old 
grief  newly  increased  there.  Upon  this  occasion  she,  the  Scot- 
tish queen,  with  the  agreeable  and  lively  wit  natural  to  her, 
mtered  into  a  pretty  disputable  comparison  between  carving, 
painting,  and  working  with  the  needle,  affirming  painting,  ia 
IMT  opininn,  for  the  most  oommendabl*  qnaaty,'— Letter  if 
Siehoku  WkUe  to  CeeU. 


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406  ilABDWICKS. 

nngle  stick  diat  rises  from  the  foot*  The  onlj 
furniture  wliich  has  any  appearance  of  taste  ans 
the  table  ana  cabinets,  which  are  of  oak,  richly 
carved." 

(I  must  observe  en  passant,  that  I  wonder  Horace 
did  not  go  mad  about  the  chairs,  which  are  exactly 
in  the  Stiawberry  Hill  taste,  only  infinitely  finer, 
crimson  velvet,  with  backs  six  feet  high,  and  sump- 
tuously carved.) 

"  There  is  a  private  chamber  within,  where  she 
lay :  her  arms  and  style  over  the  door.  The  arras 
hangs  over  all  the  doors.  The  gallery  is  sixty  yards 
in  length,  covered  with  bad  tapestry  and  wretched 
pictures  of  Mary  herself,  Elizabeth  in  a  gown  of 
sea-monsters.  Lord  Darnley,  James  the  Fifth  and 
his  queen,  (curious,)  and  a  whole  history  of  kings 
of  England  not  worth  sixpence  a-piece."  f 

**  There  is  a  fine  bank  of  old  oaks  in  the  park 
over  a  lake :  nothing  else  pleased  me  there." 

Nothing  else !  Monsieur  Traveller  V— certes,  this 
is  one  way  of  seeing  things  I  Yet,  perhaps,  if  I 
had  only  visited  Hardwicke  as  a  casual  object  of 
curiosity — ^had  merely  walked  over  the  place— I 

*  I  was  as  much  delighted  by  these  singular  fire-screens  M 
Horace  himself  could  have  been ;  they  are  about  seven  feet  high. 
The  yellow  velvet  suspended  from  the  bar  is  embossed  with  blac^ 
veWet.  and  intermingled  with  embroidery  of  various  c€ion  and 
gold— something  like  a  Persian  carpet— but  most  daszling  and 
(orgeous  ii  the  eflBect.  I  believe  there  is  nothing  like  them  an^ 
where. 

t  Now  replaced  by  the  flunily  portraits  brought  from  Chati 
forth. 


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HARDWICKE.  407 

lad  left  it,  Lke  Gray,  with  some  vague  impressioL 
of  pleasure,  or  like  Walpole,  with  some  flippant 
criticisms,  according  to  the  mood  of  the  moment ; 
or,  at  the  most,  I  had  quitted  it  as  we  generally 
leave  show-places,  with  some  confused  recollectionp 
of  state-rooms,  and  blue-rooms,  and  yellow-rooms, 
and  storied  tapestries,  and  nameless,  or  mis-named 
pictures,  floating  through  the  muddled  brain ;  but 
it  was  far  otherwise :  I  ws^s  ten  days  at  Hardwicke 
—ten  delightful  days — time  enough  to  get  it  by 
heart;  ay,  and  what  is  more,  ten  nights;  and  I 
am  convinced  that  to  feel  all  the  interest  of  such 
a  place  one  should  sleep  in  it  There  is  much,  too, 
in  first  impressions,  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  we  approached  Hardwicke  were  sufficiently 
striking.  It  was  on  a  gusty,  dark  autumnal  even 
ing ;  and  as  our  carriage  wound  slowly  up  the  hill, 
we  could  but  just  discern  an  isolated  building, 
standing  above  us  on  the  edge  of  the  eminence,  a 
black  mass  against  the  darkening  sky.  No  light 
was  to  be  seen,  and  when  we  drove  clattering  under 
the  old  gateway,  and  up  the  paved  court,  the  hol- 
low echoes  broke  a  silence  which  was  almost  awful. 
Then  we  were  ushered  into  a  hall  so  spacious  and 
lofty  that  I  could  not  at  the  moment  discern  its 
bounds ;  but  I  had  glimpses  of  huge  escutcheons, 
and  antlers  of  deer,  and  great  carved  human  arms 
projecting  from  the  walls,  intended  to  sustain  lamps 
or  torches,  but  looking  as  If  they  were  stretched 
out  to  clutch  one.  Thence  up  a  stone  stsdrcase, 
rast,  and  grand,  and  gloomy — leading  we  knew  no« 


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408  HABDWICKB. 

where,  and  hung  with  pictures  of  we  knew  not 
what — and  conducted  into  a  chamber  fitted  up  as  a 
dining-room,  in  which  the  remnants  of  antiqufl 
grandeur,  the  rich  carved  oak  wainscoting,  the 
tapestry  above  it,  the  embroidered  chsdrs,  the  co 
lossal  armorial  bearings  above  the  chimney  and  the 
huge  recessed  windows,  formed  a  curious  contrast 
with  the  comfortable  modem  sofas  and  easy  chairs, 
the  blazing  fire,  and  table  hospitably  spread  in  ex- 
pectation of  our  arrival.  Then  I  was  sent  to  repos« 
in  a  room  hung  with  rich  faded  tapestry.  On  onj 
side  of  my  bed  I  had  king  David  dancing  before 
the  ark,  and  on  the  other,  the  judgment  of  Solo- 
mon. The  executioner  in  the  latter  piece,  a  grisly 
giant,  seven  or  eight  feet  high,  seemed  to  me,  as 
the  arras  stirred  with  the  wind,  to  wave  his  sword, 
and  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  eat  up  the  poor 
child,  which  he  flourished  by  one  leg ;  and  for  some 
time  I  lay  awake,  unable  to  take  my  eyes  from  the 
figure.  At  length  fatigue  overcame  this  unpleasant 
fascination,  and  I  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  I  began  to  ramble  about,  and 
so  day  after  day,  till  every  stately  chamber,  every 
haunted  nook,  every  secret  door,  curtained  with 
heavy  arras,  and  every  winding  stair,  became 
familiar  to  me.  What  a  passion  our  ancestors 
must  have  had  for  space  and  light  I  and  what  as 
ignorance  of  comfort !  Here  are  no  ottomans  at 
eider  down,  no  spring  cushions,  no  "  boudoirb 
eti'oits,  oA  Ton  ne  boude  point,"  no  "demijonr 
Ic  rendezvous;**  but  what  vast  chambers'  what 


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HARDWICKE.  409 

mterminable  galleries!  what  huge  windows  poui^ 
ing  in  floods  of  sunshine  I  what  great  carved 
oak-chests,  such  as  lachimo  hid  himself  in !  now 
stufied  iiill  of  rich  tattered  hangings,  tarnished 
gold  fringes,  and  remnants  of  embroidered  quilts ! 
what  acres — not  yards — of  tapestries,  once  of  "sky- 
tinctured  woof,**  now  faded  and  moth-eaten !  what 
massy  chiurs  and  inmiovable  tables !  what  heaps  of 
portraits,  the  men  looking  so  grim  and  magnificent, 
and  the  women  so  formal  and  faded!  Before  1 
left  the  place  I  had  them  all  by  heart ;  there  was 
not  one  among  them  who  would  not  have  bowed  or 
curtsied  to  me  out  of  their  frames. 

But  there  were  three  rooms  in  which  I  especially 
delighted,  and  passed  most  of  my  time.  The  first 
was  the  council-chamber  described  by  Walpole :  it 
is  sixty-five  feet  in  length,  by  thirt}'-three  in  width, 
and  twenty-six  feet  high.  Rich  tapestry,  repre- 
senting the  story  of  Ulysses,  runs  round  the  room 
to  the  height  of  fifteen  or  sixteen  ffeet,  and  above 
it  the  stag-hunt  in  ugly  relief.  On  one  side  of  this 
room  tl  ere  is  a  spacious  recess,  at  least  eighteen  or 
twenty  feet  square ;  and  across  this,  from  side  to 
side,  to  divide  it  from  the  body  of  the  room,  was 
suspended  a  magnificent  piece  of  tapestry,  (real 
Gobelin's,)  of  the  time  of  Louis  Quatorze,  still  fresh 
and  even  vivid  in  tint,  which  from  its  weis^ht  huujn 
in  immense  wavy  folds ;  above  it  we  could  just  dis- 
cern the  canopy  of  a  lofly  state-bed,  with  nodding 
.•>?trich  flumes,  which  had  been  placed  there  out  ol 
ke  way.    The  efiect  of  the  whole,  as  I  have  seen 


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AlO  HA1(I>WICKE. 

it,  when  the  red  western  light  streamed  througli 
tiie  enormous  windows,  was,  in  its  shadowy  beauty 
and  depth  of  color,  that  of  a  realized  "  Rembrandt " 
—if,  indeed,  even  Rembrandt  ever  pmnted  any 
thing  at  once  so  elegant,  so  fanciful,  so  gorgeous, 
and  so  gloomy. 

From  this  chamber,  by  a  folding-door,  beautifully 
inlaid  with  ebony,  but  opening  with  a  common 
latch,  we  pass  into  the  library,  as  it  is  called.  Here 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire  generally  sits  when  he 
vifflts  Hardwicke,  perhaps  on  account  of  the  glorious 
prospect  from  the  windows.  It  contains  a  grand 
piano,  a  sofa,  and  a  range  of  book-shelves,  on  which 
I  found  some  curious  old  books.  Here  I  used  to 
sit  and  read  the  voluminous  works  of  that  dear, 
half-mad,  absurd,  but  clever  and  good-natured 
Duchess  of  Newcastle,*  and  yawn  and  laugh  alter- 
nately; or  pore  over  Guillim  on  Heraldry; — ^fit 
studies  for  the  place ! 

In  this  room  are  some  good  pictures,  particularly 
the  portrait  of  Lady  Anne  Boyle,  daughter  of  the 
first  Earl  of  Burlington,  the  Lady  Sandwich  of 
Charles  the  Second's  time.  This  is,  without  excep- 
tion, the  finest  specimen  of  Sir  Peter  Lely  I  ever 
saw — so  unlike  llie  usual  style  of  his  half-dressed, 
leering  women — so  full  of  pensive  grace  and  sim- 
plicity— ^the  hands  and  arms  so  exquisitely  drawn, 
and  the  coloring  so  rich  and  so  tender,  that  I  waf 
It  once  surprised  and  enchanted.    There  is  also  • 

Gwf  tDdish,  w*ft  01  the  flxBt  Duke  of  NewoMtl* 


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HARD  WICKE.  41 1 

remaikably  fine  picture  of  a  youth  with  a  nionkej 
on  his  shoulder,  said  to  be  Jeffrey  Hudson,  (Queen 
Henrietta's  celebrated  dwarf,)  and  painted  by  Van- 
dyke.   I  doubt  both. 

Over  the  chimney  of  this  room  there  is  a  piece 
of  sculptured  bass-relief,  in  Derbyshire  marble, 
representing  Mount  Parnassus,  with  Apollo  and 
the  Muses ;  in  one  comer  the  arms  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, and  in  the  other  her  cypher,  £.  R.,  and  the 
royal  crown.  I  could  neither  learn  the  meaning 
of  this  nor  the  name  of  the  artist  Could  it  have 
been  a  ^ft  from  Queen  Elizabeth  ?  There  is  (I 
think  in  the  next  room)  another  piece  of  sculpture 
representing  the  Marriage  of  Tobias;  and  I  re- 
member a  third,  representing  a  group  of  Charity. 
The  workmanship  of  all  these  is  surprisingly  good 
for  the  time,  and  some  of  the  figures  very  graceful. 
I  am  surprised  that  they  escaped  the  notice  of 
Horace  Walpole,  in  his  remarks  on  the  decorations 
of  Hardwicke.*  Richard  Stephens,  a  Flemish 
sculptor  and  painter,  and  Yalerio  Yicentino,  an 
Italian  carver  in  precious  stones,  were  both  en> 
ployed  by  the  munificent  Cavendishes  of  that  time ; 
and  these  pieces  of  sculpture  were  probably  the 
work  of  one  of  these  artists. 

When  tired  of  turning  over  the  old  books,  a  dooi 
ooncealed  behind  the  arras  admitted  me  at  once 
into  the  great  gallery — ^my  favorite  haunt  and  daily 
promenade.  It  is  near  one  hundred  and  eighty 
lidet  in  length,  lighted  along  one  side  by  a  range  of 

*  Aneedotet  of  Painting.    B«ign0  of  Ilb&beth  and  Juntt  f 


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112  HARDWICKE. 

itupendous  windows,  which  project  outwards  finon 
■o  many  angular  recesses.  In  the  centre  pier  is  a 
throne,  or  couch  of  state,  on  a  raised  platform, 
under  a  canopy  of  crimson  and  gold,  surmounted 
by  plumes  of  ostrich  feathers.  The  walls  are  partly 
tapestried,  and  covered  with  some  hundreds  of 
family  pictures ;  none  indeed .  of  any  superlative 
merit — none  that  emulate  within  a  thousand 
degrees  the  matchless  Vandykes  and  glorious  Ti- 
tians  of  Devonshire  House ;  but  among  many  that 
are  positively  bad,  and  more  that  are  lamentably 
mediocre  as  works  of  art,  there  are  several  of  great 
interest  At  each  end  of  this  gallery  is  a  door, 
and,  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  place,  every 
night,  at -the  witching  hour  of  twelve,  Queen  Eliza- 
beth enters  at  one  door,  and  Mary  of  Scotland  at 
the  other;  they  advance  to  the  centre,  curtsy 
profoundly,  then  sit  down  together  under  the 
canopy  and  converse  amicably, — ^till  the  crowing 
of  the  cock  breaks  up  the  conference,  and  sends 
the  two  majesties  back  to  their  respective  hiding- 
nlaces. 

Somebody  who  was  asked  if  he  had  ever  seen  a 
ghost  ?  replied,  gravely,  "  No ;  but  I  was  once  very 
near  seeing  one  I "  In  the  same  manner  I  was  on<v 
very  near  being  a  witness  to  one  of  these  ghostly 
confabs. 

Late  one  evening,  havmg  left  my  sketch-book  in 
the  gallery,  I  went  to  seek  it  I  made  my  way  up 
the  great  sttme  staircase  with  considerable  intrepid 
Hy,  passed  through  one  end  of  the  council-chambei 


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HARDWICKB.  41t 

iritbout  casting  a  glance  through  the  palpable  ob-' 
icure,  the  feeble  ray  of  my  wax4ight  just  spreading 
about  a  yard  around  me,  and  lifting  aside  the 
tapestry  door,  stepped  into  the  gallery.  Just  as  the 
heavy  arras  fell  behind  me,  with  a  dull  echoing 
Bocnd,  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  came  rushing  by,  and 
extinguished  my  taper.  Angels  and  ministers  of 
grace  defend  us ! — not  that  I  felt  afraid — O  no  I 
but  just  a  little  what  the  Scotch  call  **  eerie."  A 
thrill,  not  altogether  unpleasant,  came  over  me: 
the  visionary  turn  of  mind  which  once  united  me 
in  fancy  "  with  the  world  unseen,"  had  long  been 
sobered  and  reasoned  away.  I  heard  no  '^  viewless 
paces  of  the  dead,"  nor  *^  airy  skirts  unseen  that 
rustled  by;"  but  what  I  did  see  and  hear  was 
enough.  The  wind  whispering  and  moaning  along 
the  tapestried  walls,  and  every  now  and  then  rat- 
tling twenty  or  thirty  windows  at  once,  with  such  a 
crash ! — ^and  the  pictures  around  just  sufficiently 
perceptible  in  the  faint  light  to  make  me  fancy 
them  staring  at  me.  Then  immediately  behind  me 
was  the  very  recess,  or  rather  abyss,  where  Queen 
Elizabeth  was  at  that  moment  settling  her  farthin- 
gale, to  sally  out  upon  me ;  and  before  me,  but  lost 
in  blackest  gloom,  the  spectral  door,  where  Mary — 
not  that  I  should  have  minded  encountering  poor 
Mary,  provided  always  that  she  had  worn  her  own 
^autiful  head  where  heaven  placed  it,  and  not 
earried  it,  as  Bertrand  de  Bom  carried  his  **  a  guisa 
ii  laiitema."  *    As  to  what  followed,  it  is  a  secrt^t. 

•  DftQte.    Infcrno.  Qanto  28. 


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414  HABDWICKB. 

Suffice  tt  that  I  found  myself  safe  hy  the  firokle  la 
my  bedroom,  without  anj  Teiy  distinct  iec<dlectioB 
of  bow  I  got  there. 

Of  all  the  scenes  in  which  to  moralize  and  medi* 
tate,  a  picture  gallery  is  to  me  the  most  impresdTe. 
With  the  most  intense  feeling  oi  the  beaoty  of 
painting,  I  cannot  help  thinking  with  Dr.  Johnson, 
that  as  ^  as  regards  portndts,  their  chief  excellence 
and  Taloe  consist  in  the  likeness  and  the  anthentio- 
ity,*  and  not  in  the  merit  c^the  execution.  When 
we  can  associate  a  story  or  a  sentiment  with  eveiy 
face  and  foim,  they  almost  live  to  ns — they  do 
in  a  manner  speak  to  ns.  Tliere  is  speculation 
in  those  fixed  eyes — there  is  eloquence  in  those 
mute  lips — and,  O!  what  tales  they  tell!  One 
of  the  first  pictures  which  caught  my  attention 
as  I  entered  the  gallery  was  a  small  head  of  Ara- 
bella Stuart,  when  an  infiuit.  The  painting  U 
pom  enough:  it  is  a  little  round  rosy  face  in  a 
child's  cap,  and  she  holds  an  embroidered  doll  in 
her  hand.  Who  could  lock  on  this  picture,  and 
not  glance  forward  through  succeeding  years,  and 
see  the  pretty  pla3rful  infiemt  transformed  into  the 
impassioned  woman,  writing  to  her  husband — "•  In 
sickness,  and  in  despair,  wheresoever  thou  art,  or 
howsoever  I  be,  it  sufficeth  me  always  that  ihoo  art 
mine  I "    Arabella  Stuart  was  not  clever ;  but  not 

•  life  of  Johnson,  VOL  fi.  p.  144.  Bo8««n  uked,  ««  An  j«« 
at  ttwt  o|rfnion  u  to  tho  portnlts  of  anaestan  ono  baa  uuf 
«Mii?  "  JoHXSOH.  "  It  then  beoonwt  of  still  man  coDsmiieofli 
that  th^  shoiUd  be  Uke." 


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HARDWICKE  413 

fieloisu,  nor  Corinne,  nor  Madle.  De  I'EspinasM 
ever  penned  such  a  dear  little  morsel  of  touching 
sloquence — so  full  of  all  a  woman's  tenderness  I 
Her  stem  grandmother,  the  lady  and  foundress  of 
Hardwicke,  hangs  near.  There  are  three  pictures 
of  her :  all  the  faces  have  an  expression  of  sense 
and  acuteness,  but  none  of  them  the  beauty  which 
is  attributed  to  her.  There  are  also  two  of  her 
husbands,  Cavendish  and  Shrewsbury.  The  former 
a  grave,  intelligent  head ;  the  latter  very  striking 
from  the  lofty  furrowed  brow,  the  ample  beard,  and 
regular  but  careworn  features.  A  little  farther  on 
we  find  his  son  Gilbert,  seventh  earl  of  Shrews- 
bury, and  Mary  Cavendish,  wife  of  the  latter  and 
daughter  of  Bess  of  Hardwicke.  She  resembled 
her  mother  in  features  as  in  character.  The  ex- 
pression is  determined,  intelligent,  and  rather  cun- 
ning. Of  her  haughty  and  almost  fierce  temper,  a 
curious  instance  is  recorded.  She  had  quarrelled 
with  her  neighbors,  the  Stanhopes,  and  not  being 
able  to  defy  them  with  sword  and  buckler,  she  sent 
one  of  her  gentlemen,  properly  attended,  with  a 
message  to  Sir  Thomas  Stanhope,  to  be  delivered 
in  presence  of  witnesses,  in  these  words — "Mj> 
lady  hath  commanded  me  to  say  thus  much  to  you : 
that  though  you  be  more  wretched,  vile,  and  miser- 
able than  any  creature  living,  and  for  your  wicked* 
ness  become  more  ugly  in  shape  tlian  the  vile§l 
toad  in  the  world ;  and  one  to  whom  none  of  any 
reputation  would  vouchsafe  to  send  any  message 
vet  she  hath  thought  good  to  send  thus  much  tc 


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416  HAKDWICKS. 

you,  that  she  be  contented  you  should  live,  (and 
doth  noways  wish  your  death,)  but  to  this  end: 
that  all  th)  plagues  and  miseries  that  may  befall 
any  man,  may  light  on  such  a  caitifi*  as  you  are," 
&c- ;  (and  then  a  few  anathemas,  yet  more  ener- 
getic, not  fit  to  be  transcribed  by  "  pen  polite,"  but 
ending  with  hell-Jire,)  "  With  many  other  op- 
probrious and  hateful  words  which  could  not  be 
remembered,  because  the  bearer  would  deliver  it 
but  once,  as  he  said  he  was  commanded ;  but  said, 
if  he  had  failed  in  any  thing,  it  was  in  speaking  it 
more  mildly,  and  not  in  terms  of  such  disdain  as 
he  was  commanded."  We  are  not  told  whether 
the  gallantry  of  Stanhope  suffered  him  to  throw 
the  herald  out  of  the  window,  who  brought  him 
this  gentle  missive.  As  for  the  termagant  countess, 
his  adversary,  she  was  afterwards  imprisoned  in  the 
Tower  for  upwards  of  two  years,  on  account  of 
Lady  Arabella  Stuarfs  stolen  match  with  Lord 
Seymour.  She  ought  assuredly  to  have  "  brought 
forth  men-children  only;"  but  she  left  no  soil. 
Her  three  daughters  married  the  earls  of  Fembroko, 
of  Arundel,  and  of  Kent 

The  portraits  of  James  V.  of  Scotland  and  hig 
Queen,  Mary  of  Guise,  are  extremely  curious. 
There  is  something  ideal  and  elegant  about  the 
head  of  James  V. — ^the  look  we  might  expect  to 
Gad  in  a  man  who  died  from  wounded  feeling. 
His  more  unhappy  daughter,  poor  Mary,  hangs 
near — a  full  length  in  a  mourning  habit,  with  a 
white  cap,  (of  her  own  peculiar  fashion,)  and  a 


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HARDTV1CKB.  4IT 

reil  of  white  gauze.  This,  I  beUevo,  is  the  cele- 
brated picture  so  often  copied  and  engi^aved.  It 
is  dated  1578,  the  thirty-sixth  of  her  age,  and  the 
tenth  of  her  captivity.  The  figure  is  elegant,  and 
the  face  pensive  and  sweet*  Beside  her,  in  strong 
contrast,  hangs  Elizabeth,  in  a  most  preposterous 
farthingale,  and  a  superabundance  of  all  her  usual 
absurdities  and  enormities  of  dress.  The  petticoat 
it  embroidered  over  with  snakes,  crocodiles,  and 
all  manner  of  creeping  things.  We  feel  almost 
inclined  to  ask  whether  the  artist  could  possibly 
have  intended  them  as  emblems,  like  the  eyes  and 
ears  in  her  picture  at  Hatfield ;  but  it  may  have 
been  one  of  the  three  thousand  gowns,  in  which 
Spenser's  Gloriana,' Raleigh's  Venus,  loved  to  array 
her  old  wrinkled,  crooked  carcase.  Katherine  of 
Arragon  is  here — a  small  head  in  a  hood :  the  face 
not  only  harsh,  as  in  all  her  pictures,  but  vulgar,  a 
characteristic  I  never  saw  in  any  other.  There  is 
that  peculiar  expression  round  the  mouth,  which 
might  be  called  either  decision  or  obstinacy.  And 
here  too  is  the  famous  Lucy  Harrington,  Countess 
of  Bedford,  the  friend  and  patroness  of  Ben  Jonson, 
looking  sentimental  in  a  widow's  dress,  with  a  white 

•This  pletnra  and  the  next  «re  nld  to  be  by  Richard  Stevena, 
f<f  irtiom  there  is  some  account  in  Walpole,  (Anecdotes  of  Paint- 
ing.) Mary  also  sat  to  Hllliard  and  to  Zucchero.  The  lOTely 
picture  by  Zucchero  is  at  Ohiswick.  There  is  another  small 
liead  of  her  at  Hardwieke,  said  to  have  been  painted  in  Franee, 
In  a  cap  and  leather.  The  turn  <^  the  head  is  airy  and  graosAiL 
As  to  the  features,  they  hate  been  so  marred  by  some  soi-dUamt 
rsf  torer,  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  they  may  hare  been  originally 


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418  HARDWICKE. 

pocket  handkerchief  There  is  chaiacter  enongli 
in  the  countenance  to  make  us  turn  with  pleasun 
to  Ben  Jonson's  exquisite  eulogium  on  her. 

"  J  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet, 

Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  pritfe  .• 
I  meant  each  softest  virtue  there  should  meet, 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her;  that  should  with  even  powers 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  sheers  controul 

Of  destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours! " 

Farther  on  is  another  more  celebrated  woman, 
Christian  Bruce,  the  second  Countess  of  Devon- 
shire, so  distinguished  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  I. 
and  Charles  11.  She  had  all  the  good  qualities  of 
Bess  of  Hardwicke :  her  sense,  her  firmness,  her 
talents  for  business,  her  magnificent  and  inde- 
pendent spirit,  and  none  of  her  faults.  She  was 
as  feminine  as  she  was  generous  and  high-minded ; 
fond  of  literature,  and  a  patroness  of  poets  and 
learned  men: — altogether  a  noble  creature.  She 
was  the  mother  of  that  lovely  Lady  Bich,  "the 
wise,  the  fair,  the  virtuous,  and  the  young,"* 
whose  picture  by  Vandyke  is  at  Devonshire-house, 
and  there  are  two  pictures  at  Hardwicke  of  hei 
handsome,  gallant,  and  accomplished  son,  Charles 
Cavendish,  who  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Gains- 
borough. Many  fair  eyes  almost  wept  themselvei 
blind  for  his  loss,  and  his  mother  never  recovered 
the  "  sore  heart-break  of  his  death." 
*  Waller's  lines  on  Lady  BidM 


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HARDWICKB.  419 

There  are  several  pictures  of  her  grandson,  the 
first  Duke  of  Devonshire — ^the  patriot,  the  states- 
man, the  munificent  patron  of  letters,  the  poet,  the 
man  of  gallantry,  and,  to  crown  all,  the  handsomest 
man  of  his  day.  He  was  one  of  the  leaders  in  the 
revolution  of  1688 — for  be  it  remembered  that  the 
Cavendishes,  from  generation  to  generation,  have 
ennobled  their  nobility  by  their  love  of  liberty,  as 
well  as  their  love  of  literature  and  the  arts.  One 
picture  of  this  duke  on  horseback,  en  grand  costume 
h  la  Louis  QuatorzCy  is  so  embroidered  and  be- 
wigged,  so  plumed,  and  booted,  and  spurred,  that 
he  is  scarcely  to  be  discerned  through  his  accoutre  • 
ments.  A  cavalier  of  those  days  in  full  dress  must 
have  been  a  ponderous  concern;  but  then  the 
ladies  were  as  formidably  vast  and  aspiring.  The 
petticoats  at  this  time  were  so  discursive,  and  the 
head-dresses  so  ambitious,  that  I  think  it  must  have 
been  to  save  in  canvas  what  they  expended  in 
satin  or  brocade,  that  so  many  of  the  pretty  women 
of  that  day  were  painted  en  herghre. 

Apropos  to  the  first  Duke  of  Devonshire :  I  can- 
not help  remarking  the  resemblance  of  the  present 
duke  to  his  illustrious  ancestor,  as  well  as  to  several 
other  portraits,  and  particularly  to  a  very  distant 
relative — ^the  first  Countess  of  Burlington,  who 
was,  I  believe,  the  greatrgrandmother  of  his  grace's 
grandmother ; — ^in  both  these  instances  the  likeness 
IS  so  striking  as  to  be  recogn  ced  at  once,  and  not 
irithout  a  smiling  exclamation  of  surprise. 

Another  interesting  picture  is  that  of  Rachael 


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120  HABDWICKK. 

Russell,  llie  second  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  daughtet 
of  that  heroine  and  saint,  Lady  Russell :  the  face 
is  very  beautiful,  and  the  air  elegant  and  high-bred 
—with  rather  a  pouting  expression  in  the  full  red 
lips. 

Here  is  also  the  third  duchess,  Miss  Hoskins,  a 
great  city  heiress.  The  painter,  I  suspect,  has 
flattered  her,  for  she  had  not  in  her  day  the  repur 
tadon  of  beauty.  When  I  looked  at  this  picture, 
80  full  of  delicate,  and  youthful,  and  smiling  love> 
liness,  I  could  not  help  recurring  to  a  passage  in 
Horace  Walpole's  letters,  in  which  he  alludes  to 
this  sylph-like  being,  as  the  ^  ancient  grace,"  and 
congratulates  himself  on  finding  her  in  good-humor. 

But  of  all  the  female  portraits,  the  one  whicl: 
struck  me  most  was  that  of  Lady  Charlotte  Boyle, 
the  young  Marchioness  of  Hartington,  in  a  mas- 
querade habit  of  purple  satin,  embroidered  with 
silver;  a  fanciful  little  cap  and  feathers,  thrown 
on  one  side,  and  the  dark  hair  escaping  in  luxu- 
riant  tresses ;  she  holds  a  mask  in  her  hand,  which 
she  has  just  taken  off,  and  looks  round  upon  us 
in  all  the  consciousness  of  happy  and  high-bom 
loveliness.  She  was  the  daughter  and  heiress  of 
Richard  Boyle,  the  last  Earl  of  Burlington  and 
Cork,  and  Baroness  Clifford  in  her  own  right. 
The  merits  of  the  Cavendishes  were  their  own,  but 
their  nches  and  power,  in  several  instances,  were 
brought  into  the  family  by  a  softer  influence 
Through  her,  I  believe,  the  vast  estates  of  th« 
Boyles  and  Cliffords  in  Ireland  and  the  north  o/ 


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HARDWICKE.  421 

Fugland,  including  Cluswick  and  Bolton  Abbey> 
have  descended  to  her  grandson,  the  present  duke.* 
There  are  several  pictures  of  her  here— one  play- 
ing on  the  harpsichord,  and  another,  small  and 
very  elegant,  in  which  she  b  mounted  on  a  spirited 
horse.  There  are  two  heads  of  her  in  crayons,  by 
her  mother.  Lady  Burlington,t  ill-executed,  but 
said  to  be  like  her.  And  another  picture,  repre- 
senting her  and  her  beautiful  but  ill-fated  sister, 
Lady  Dorothy,  who  was  married  very  young  to 
Lord  Euston,  and  died  six  months  afterwards,  in 
consequence  of  the  brutal  treatment  of  her  hus- 
band.J  All  the  pictures  of  Lady  Hartington  have 
the  same  marked  character  of  pride,  intellect, 
vivacity,  and  loveliness.  But  short  was  her  gay 
and  splendid  career !     She  died  of  a  decline  in  the 

^^Trflliam,  sixth  Duke  of  DeTonshire. 

t  *^  Lady  Dorothy  Sayile,  daughter  of  the  Marquis  of  Haliflui : 
tbB  had  no  less  attachment  to  the  arts  than  her  husband;  she 
drew  in  crayons,  and  succeeded  admirably  in  likenesses,  but 
working  with  too  much  rapidity,  did  not  do  Justice  to  hex 
genius;  she  had  an  uncommon  talent  too  for  caricature."^ 
Anecdotes  of  Painting. 

t  He  was  a  monster ;  and  no  wife  of  the  coarsest  plebeian  profli- 
gate could  haye  suffered  more  than  did  this  loyely,  amiable  being, 
9t  the  highest  blood  and  greatest  fortune  in  England.  **  She 
was,"  says  the  affecting  inscription  on  her  picture  at  Chiswiek, 
**  the  comfort  and  Joy  of  her  parents,  the  delight  of  all  who  knew 
her  angelic  temper,  and  the  admiration  of  all  who  saw  her  beauty. 
Bhe  was  married  October  10, 1741,  and  delirered  by  death  ttom 
Biisery,  May  2, 17^." 

But  how  did  it  happen  that  from  a  condition  like  tbit^  tbm 
vas  no  release  but  by  death  f— See  Horace  VTalpole^s  CorraeP*u(l 
MA  to  Sir  Horace  Mann,  vol.  i.  p.  828. 


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C22  HARDWICKB. 

nxth  year  of  her  marriage,  at  the  age  of  foiuvand^ 
twenty. 

Here  is  also  her  father,  Lord  Burlington,  cele- 
brated by  Pope,  (who  has  de<^cated  to  him  the 
lecond  of  his  epistles  ^'  on  the  use  of  riches,")  and 
ityled  by  Walpole,  "the  Apollo  of  the  Arts,* 
which  he  not  only  patronized,  but  studied  and 
cultivated;  his  enthusiasm  for  architecture  was 
such,  that  he  not  only  designed  and  executed 
buildings  for  himself,  (the  villa  at  Chiswick,  for 
example,)  but  contributed  great  sums  to  public 
#rorks ;  and  at  his  own  expense  published  an  edi- 
tion of  the  designs  of  Falladio  and  of  Inigo  Jones. 
In  one  picture  of  Lord  Burlington  there  is  a  head 
of  his  idol,  Inigo  Jones,  in  the  background.  There 
is  also  a  good  picture  of  Robert  Boyle,  the  philoso- 
pher, a  spare,  acute,  contemplative,  interesting  face, 
in  which  there  is  as  much  sensibility  as  thought. 
He  is  said  to  have  died  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  hLi 
favorite  sister  Lady  Ranelagh ;  and  when  we  recol- 
lect who  and  what  she  was — ^the  sole  fnend  of  his 
solitary  heart — ^the  partner  of  his  studies,  and  with 
qualities  which  rendered  her  the  object  of  Milton's 
enthusiastic  admiration,  and  almost  tender  regard, 
we  scarce  think  less  of  her  brother's  philosophy, 
that  it  afforded  him  no  consolation  for  the  loss  of 
iuch  a  ffister. 

On  the  other  side  hangs  another  philosopher 
Thomas  Hobbes,  of  Malmsbury,  whose  bold  speo 
Illations  in  politics  and  metaphysics,  and  the  odium 
Ihey  drew  on  him,  rendered  his  whole  life  one  coi> 


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HARDWICKB.  4SS 

duuvjd  warfare  with  established  pi*ejudi(es  and 
opinions.  He  was  tutor  in  the  family  of  the  first 
Earl  of  Devonshire,  in  1607 — remained  constantly 
Attached  to  the  house  of  Cavendish — and  never 
lost  their  countenance  and  patronage  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  calumnies  heaped  upon  him.  He  died 
ftt  Hardwicke  under  the  protection  of  the  first 
Duke  of  Do,vonshire,  in  1678.  This  curious  por- 
trait represents  him  at  the  age  of  ninety-two.  The 
picture  is  not  good  as  a  picture,  but  striking  from 
the  evident  truth  of  the  expression — ^uniting  the 
last  lingering  gleam  of  thought  with  the  withered, 
wrinkled,  and  almost  ghastly  decrepitude  of  ex- 
treme age.  It  has,  I  believe,  been  engraved  by 
HoUar. 

I  looked  round  for  Henry  Cavendish,  the  great 
chemist  and  natural  philosopher — another  bright 
ornament  of  a  family  every  way  ennobled — ^but 
there  is  no  portrait  of  him  at  Hardwicke.  I  was 
also  disappointed  not  to  find  the  *'  limned  effigy," 
as  she  would  call  it,  of  my  dear  Margaret  of  New* 
castle. 

There  are  plenty  of  kings  and  queens,  truly  not 
worth  "  sixpence  a-piece,"  as  Walpole  observes ; 
but  there  is  one  picture  I  must  not  forget — ^that  of 
ihe  brave  and  accomplished  £arl  of  Derby,  who 
was  beheaded  at  Bolton-le-Moor,  the  husband  of 
the  heroic  "  Lady  of  Lathom,"  who  figures  in 
Feveril  of  the  Peak.  The  head  has  a  grand  mel- 
ancholy expression,  and  I  should  suppose  it  to  be 
«  copy  from  Vandyke. 


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124  HAJRDWIGKR. 

Besides  these,  were  many  others  calculated  to 
awaken  in  the  thoughtful  mind  both  sweet  and 
bitter  fancies.  How  often  have  I  walked  up  and 
down  this  noble  gallery  lost  in  "commiserating 
reveries  "  on  the  vicissitudes  of  departed  grandeur  I 
^-on  the  nothingness  of  all  that  life  could  give ! — 
on  the  fate  of  youthful  beauties  who  lived  to  be 
broken-hearted,  grow  old,  and  die  I— -on  heroes  that 
once  walked  the  earth  in  the  blaze  of  their  fame, 
now  gone  down  to  dust,  and  an  endless  darkness! 
—on  bright  faces,  "petries  de  lis  et  de  roses," 
once  time-wrinkled  1— on  noble  forms  since  man- 
ned in  the  battle-field ! — on  high-bom  heads  that 
fell  beneath  the  axe  of  the  executioner! — O  ye 
starred  and  ribboned!  ye  jewelled  and  em- 
broidered I  ye  wise,  rich,  great,  noble,  brave,  and 
beautiful,  of  all  your  loves  and  smiles,  your  gracee 
and  excellencies,  your  deeds  and  honors— does  thea^ 
B  **  painted  board  circumscribe  all  ?  " 


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ALTHORPB 

A  FBAOMBMT. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  as  I  have  seen  in  Italy  ti 
tihe  month  of  December,  but  which,  in  our  chill  cli* 
mate,  seemed  so  unseasonably,  so  ominously  beauti- 
ful,  that  it  was  like  the  hectic  loveliness  brighten- 
ing the  eyes  and  flushing  the  cheek  of  consumption, 
—that  I  found  myself  in  the  domains  of  Althorpe. 
Autumn,  dying  in  the  lap  of  Winter,  looked  out 
with  one  bright  parting  smile ; — ^the  soft  air  breathed 
of  Summer ;  the  withered  leaves,  heaped  on  the 
path,  told  a  different  tale.  The  slant,  pale  sun 
shone  out  with  all  heaven  to  himself;  not  a  cloud 
was  there,  not  a  breeze  to  stir  the  leafless  woods — 
those  venerable  woods,  which  Evelyn  loved  and 
commemorated :  *  the  fine  majestic  old  oaks, 
Mattered  over  the  park,  tossed  their  huge  bare 


*  I  was  mneh  stmck  with  tiie  Inieriptloii  on  a  gtone  tabWi, 
tn  ft  fine  old  wood  near  the  house :  *'  This  wood  was  planted  hy 
to  ^lliam  Spencer,  Knighte  of  the  Bathe,  in  the  year  of  onf 
uord  1624 :  "—on  the  other  side,  "  Up  and  bee  doing,  and  Qod  will 
t/osper  "    1^  is  mentioned  in  Eveljn^s  "  Sylva." 


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426  AL  THORPE. 

arms  against  the  blue  sky ;  a  tbin  hoarfrost,  did- 
•Giving  as  the  sun  rose  higher,  left  the  lawns  and 
hills  sparkling  and  glancing  in  its  ray ;  now  and 
then  a  hare  raced  across  the  open  glade^ 

^  And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 

Raises  a  mist,  which  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Rons  with  her  all  the  way,  whererer  she  doth  mn.** 

Nothing  disturbed  the  serene  stillness  except  a 
pheasant  whirring  from  a  neighboring  thicket,  of 
at  intervals  the  belling  of  the  deer — a  sound  so 
peculiar,  and  so  fitted  to  the  scene,  that  I  syia^ 
pathized  in  the  taste  of  one  of  the  noble  pi> 
genitors  of  the  Spencers,  who  had  built  a  huntin[^ 
lodge  in  a  sequestered  spot,  that  he  might  heai 
«*  the  hafte  bell." 

This  was  a  day,  an  hour,  a  scene,  with  all  iti 
associations,  its  quietness  and  beauty,  <*  felt  in  thf 
blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart**  All  worldli* 
cares  and  pains  were  laid  asleep ;  while  memory 
fancy,  and  feeling  waked.  Althorpe  does  nof 
frown  upon  us  in  the  gloom  of  remote  antiquity  j 
it  has  not  the  warlike  glories  of  some  of  the  ba- 
ronial residences  of  our  old  nobility ;  it  is  not  built 
like  a  watch-tower  on  a  hill,  to  lord  it  over  feudal 
vassals;  it  is  not  bristled  with  battlements  and 
turrets.  It  stands  in  a  valley,  with  the  gradual 
bills  undulating  round  it,  clothed  with  rich  woods. 
It  has  altogether  a  look  of  compactness  and  com- 
fort, without  pretension,  which,  with  the  pastora' 


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ALTHOR^B.  427 

beauty  of  the  landscape,  and  low  situation,  recall 
the  ancient  vocation  of  the  family,  whose,  grandeur 
was  first  founded,  like  that  of  the  patriarchs  of  old, 
on  the  multitude  of  their  flocks  and  herds.*  It 
was  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  that  Althorpe 
became  the  principal  seat  of  the  Spencers,  and  no 
place  of  the  same  date  can  boast  so  many  delight- 
All,  romantic,  and  historical  associations.  There  is 
Spenser  the  poet,  **  high-priest  of  all  the  Muses' 
mysteries,"  who  modestly  claimed,  as  an  honor, 
his  relationship  to  those  Spencers  who>now,  with  a 
just  pride,  boast  of  Amw,  and  deem  his  Faery  Queen 
"the  brightest  jewel  in  their  coronet;"  and  the 
beautiful  Alice  Spencer,  countess  of  Derby,  who 
was  celebrated  in  early  youth  by  her  poet-cousin, 
and  for  whom  Milton,'' in  her  old  age,  wrote  his 
"  Arcades."  At  Althorpe,  in  1603,  the  queen  and 
son  of  James  the  First  were,  on  their  arrival  in 
England,  nobly  entertained  with  a  masque,  written 
for  the  occasion  by  Ben  Jonson,  in  which  the  young 
ladies  and  nobles  of  the  country  enacted  nymphs 
and  fairies,  satyrs  and  hunters,  and  danced  to  the 
sound  of  "  excellent  soft  music,"  their  scenery  the 
natural  woods,  their  stage  the  green  lawn,  their 
canopy  the  summer  sky.  What  poetical  picturesque 
hospitality  I  In  these  days  it  would  have  been  a 
dinner,  with  French  cooks  and  confectioners  ex- 
press from  London  to  dress  it.  Here  lived  Waller^i 


*  See  the  aeoounts  of  Sir  John  Speacer,  In  Oollin»*a  Peecafe, 
tad  prefixed  *o  Dibdin's  **  iEdes  Althorptan»." 


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128  ALTHOBPB. 

famous  Sacharissa,  the  first  Lady  Sunderland — m 
beautiful  and  good,  so  interesting  in  hers^,  bIm 
needed  not  his  wit  nor  his, poetry  to  enshrine  her. 
Here  she  parted  from  her  young  husband,*  when 
he  left  her  to  join  the  king  in  the  field ;  and  here, 
a  few  months  after,  she  received  the  news  of  hii 
death  in  the  battle  of  Newbury,  and  saw  her  happi« 
ness  wrecked  at  the  age  of  three-and-twenty.  Here 
plotted  her  distinguished  son,  that  Proteus  of  pol- 
itics, the  second  Lord  Sunderland.  Charles  the 
First  was  playing  at  bowls  on  the  green  at  Al- 
thorpe,  when  Colonel  Joyce's  detachment  surprised 
him,  and  carried  him  ofi*  to  imprisonment  and  tc 
death.  Here  the  excellent  and  accomplished 
Evelyn  used  to  meditate  in  the  **  noble  gallerie,*^ 
and  in  the  **  ample  gardens,"  of  which  he  has  left  us 
an  admiring  and  admirable  description,  which  would 
be  as  suitable  to-day  as  it  was  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  great  pro- 
prietor, deservedly  far  more  honored  in  this  genera- 
tion than  was  his  apostate  time-serving  ancestor, 
the  Lord  Sunderland  of  Evelyn's  day.f  When  the 
Spencers  were  divided,  the  eldest  branch  of  the 
family  becoming  Dukes  of  Marlborough,  and  the 
youngest  Earls  Spencer — ^if  the  former  inherited 
glory,  Blenheim,  and  poverty — to  the  latter  have 
belonged  more  true  and  more  substantial  distinc- 

*  Henry,  first  Earl  of  Sunderland. 

t  This  Lord  Sunderland  not  only  changed  his  party  and  hk 
tplnions,  'but  his  religion,  with  OTery  breath  that  hiev  from  tht 
fonrt. 


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ALTHOBPB.  421 

HODS :  for  the  last  three  generations  the  Spencen 
have  been  remarked  for  talents,  for  benevolence,* 
for  constancy,  for  love  of  literature,  and  patronage 
of  the  fine  arts. 

The  house  retains  the  form  described  by  Evelyn 
— ^that  of  a  half  H :  a  slight  irregularity  is  caused 
by  the  new  gothic  room,  built  by  the  present  earl, 
to-  contain  part  of  his  magnificent  library,  which, 
like  the  statue  in  the  Castle  of  Otranto,  had  grown 
"  too  big  for  what  contained  iV  We  entered  by 
a  central  door  the  large  and  lofty  hall,  or  vestibule, 
hung  round  with  pictures  of  fox-chases  and  those 
who  figured  in  them,  famous  hunters,  quadruped 
and  biped,  all  as  large  as  life,  spread  over  as  much 
canvas  as  would  make  a  mainsail  for  a  man-of-war. 
These  huge  perpetrations  are  of  the  time  of  Jack 
Spencer,  a  noted  Nimrod  in  his  day ;  and  are  very 
fine,  as  we  were  told,  but  they  did  not  interest  me. 
I  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  superb  staircase, 
hung  round  with  pictures  above  and  below,  and 
not  the  less  interesting  as  having  been  erected  by 
Sacharissa  herself  during  the  few  years  she  was 
mistress  of  Althorpe.  A  face  looked  at  us  from 
over  an  opposite  door,  which  there  was  no  resist- 
ing. Does  the  reader  remember  Horace  Walpole's 
pleasant  description  of  a  party  of  mers  posting 
through  the  apartments  of  a  show-place  ?  "  They 
jome ;  ask  what  such  a  room  is  called  ? — write  it 
down;  admire  a  lobster  or  cabbage  in  a  Dutch 
market  piece;  dispute  whether  the  last  room  was 
green  or  purple;  and  then  hurry  to  the  inn,  for 


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ISO  ALTHOUPK. 

fear  the  fish  should  be  over-di  eased."  *  We  wen 
QOt  soch  a  party;  but  with  imaginations  readj 
primed  to  take  fire,  and  memories  enriched  with 
all  the  associations  the  place  could  suggest,  to  us 
every  portrait  was  a  history.  The  orthodox  style 
of  seeing  the  house  is  to  turn  to  the  left,  and  view 
the  ground-fioor  apartments  first;  but  the  fiice  I 
have  mentioned  seemed  to  beckon  me  straight- 
forward, and  I  could  not  choose  but  obey  the  invi> 
tation :  it  was  that  of  Lady  Bridgewater,  the  love- 
liest of  the  four  lovely  daughters  of  the  Duke  ci 
Marlborough :  she  had  the  misfortune  to  be  painted 
by  Jervas,  and  the  good  fortune  to  be  celebrated  by 
Pope  as  the  **  tender  sister,  daughter,  friend,  and 
wife ;  •*  and  again — 


**  Thence  Beauty,  waking,  all  her  forms  suppli 
An  angers  sweetness — or  Bridgewater*s  eyes." 

Jervas  was  supposed  to  have  been  presumptuously 
and  desperately  in  love  with  this  beautiful  woman, 
who  died  at  the  age  of  five-and-twenty :  hence 
Pope  has  taken  the  liberty — by  a  poetical  licence, 
no  doubt — to  call  her,  in  his  Epistle  to  Jervas, 
"  thy  Bridgewater."  Two  of  her  fair  sisters,  the 
Duchess  of  Montagu  and  Lady  Godolphin,  hung 
noar  her ;  and  above,  her  fairer  sister,  Lady  Sun- 
derland. Ascending  the  magnificent  staircase,  a 
hundred  faces  look  down  upon  us,  in  a  hundred 
different  varieties  of  expression,  in  a  hundred 
diflfBrent  costumes.    Here  are  Queen   Anne  an^ 

*  Horaot  Walpole's  Gomspondenoe,  toI.  Ti.  p.  227. 


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ilLTHORPE.  481 

Sarah  DucLess  of  Marlborough  placed  amicably 
iide  by  side,  as  in  the  days  of  their  romantic  friend- 
ship,  when  they  conversed  and  corresponded  ai 
Mrs.  Morley  and  Mrs.  Freeman :  the  beauty,  the 
intellect,  the  spirit,  are  all  on  the  side  of  the  im- 
perious duchess ;  the  poor  queen  looks  like  what  she 
was,  a  good-natured  fool.  On  the  left  is  the  cun- 
ning abigail,  who  supplanted  the  duchess  in  the 
fovor  of  Queen  Anne — ^Mrs.  Masham.  Proceed- 
ing along  the  gallery,  we  are  met  by  the  portrait  of 
that  angel-devil,  Lady  Shrewsbury,*  whose  exqui- 
site beauty  fascinates  at  once  and  shocks  the  eye 
like  the  gorgeous  colors  of  an  adder.  I  believe  the 
story  of  her  holding  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's 
horse  while  he  shot  her  husband  in  a  duel,  has  been 
disputed ;  but  her  attempt  to  assassinate  Killegrew, 
while  she  sat  by  in  her  carriage,!  is  too  true.  So 
far  had  her  depravities  unsexed  her  I 

"  Lorsqne  la  vertn,  avec  peine  abjnr^e, 

Nous  fait  voir  une  femme  k  ses  fureurs  livr^e, 
S*  irritant  par  Teffort  que  ce  pas  a  cout^. 
Son  ftme  avec  plus  d^art  a  plus  de  cmant^.** 

6he  was  even  less  famous  for  the  number  of  her 
lovers,  than  the  catastrophes  of  which  she  was  the 
eause. 

**  Had  ever  nymph  such  reason  to  be  glad? 
Two  in  a  duel  fell,  and  one  ran  mad." 

I^ot  two,  but  half  a  dozen  fell  in  duels ;  and  if  hei 
lovers  "  ran  mad,"  it  was  m  despite,  not  in  despui 

•  Aim«  BradexMl.  t  See  Pepyi'i  Jmarj 


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132  ALTHOBPB. 

Lad>  Shrewsbury  is  past  jesting  or  satire;  ana 
afler  a  first  involuntary  pause  of  admiration  before 
her  matchless  beauty,  we  turn  away  with  horror. 
For  the  rest  of  the  portraits  on  this  vast  staircase, 
it  would  take  a  volume  to  give  a  catalogue  raisonnde 
of  them  We  pass,  then,  into  a  corridor  hung  with 
two  large  and  very  mediocre  landscapes,  represent- 
ing Tivoli  and  Temi.  Any  attempt,  even  the  best, 
to  paint  a  cataract  must  be  abortive.  How  render 
to  the  fancy  the  two  grandest  of  its  features — sound 
and  motion  ?  the  thunder  and  the  tumult  of  the 
headlong  waters  ?  We  will  pass  on  to  the  gallery, 
and  lose  ourselves  in  its  enchantments. 

Where  shall  we  begin? — Any  where.  Throw 
Away  the  catalogue  :  all  are  old  acquaintances. 
We  are  tempted  to  speak  to  them,  and  they  look 
as  if  they  could  curtsy  to  us.  The  very  walk 
breathe  around  us.  What  Vandykes — what  Lelys 
^what  Sir  Joshuas !  what  a  congregation  of  all 
that  is  beauteous  and  noble ! — what  Spencers,  Syd- 
neys,  Dlgbys,  Russells,  Cavendishes,  and  Churchillsl 
— O  what  a  scene  to  moralize,  to  philosophize,  to 
sentimentalize  in  I — what  histories  in  those  eyes, 
that  look,  yet  see  not  1 — what  sermons  on  those  lips, 
that  all  but  speak ;  I  would  rather  reflect  in  a  pic- 
ture-gallery, than  ele^ze  in  a  churchyard.  The 
"poca  polvere  che  nulla  sente,"  can  only  teU  ua 
170  must  die ;  these,  with  a  more  useful  and  deep* 
felt  morality,  tell  us  how  to  live. 

Yet  I  cannot  say  I  felt  thus  pensive  and  serioui 
the  first  time  I  looked  round  the  gallery  at  A 


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4LTH0RPE.  49S 

tLo/pe.  Curiosity,  excitement,  intei^st,  admiration 
—a  crowd  of  quick  successive  images  and  recollec- 
tions fleeting  across  the  memory — left  me  no  time 
to  think.  I  remember  being  startled,  the  moment 
I  entered,  by  a  most  extraordinary  picture, — ^the 
second  Prince  of  Orange,  and  hb  preceptor  Katts, 
b}'  Flinck.  The  eyes  of  the  latter  are  reaUy 
shockingly  alive  ;  they  stare  out  of  the  canvas,  and 
glitter  and  fascinate  like  those  of  a  serpent.  If  1 
had  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  I  should  have  crossed 
myself,  as  I  looked  at  them,  to  shield  me  from  their 
evil  and  supernatural  expression.*  The  picture  of 
the  two  Sforzas,  Maximilian  and  his  brother  Fran« 
cis,  by  Albert  Durer,  is  quite  a  curiosity ;  and  so  is 
another,  .by  Holbein,  near  it,  containing  the  por- 
traits of  Henry  the  Eighth,  his  daughter  Mary,  and 
his  jester.  Will  Somers, — all  full  of  individuality 
and  truth.  The  expression  in  Mary's  face,  at  once 
saturnine,  discontented,  and  vulgar,  is  especially  fuU 
of  character.  These  last  three  pictures  are  curious 
and  valuable  as  specimens  of  art ;  but  they  are  not 
pleasing.  We  turn  to  the  matchless  Vandykes,  at 
once  admirable  as  paintings,  and  yet  more  interest- 
ing as  portraits.  A  full-length  of  his  master  and 
friend,  Kubens,  dressed  in  black,  is  magnificent; 
the  attitude  particularly  graceftd.  Near  the  centre 
of  the  gallery  is  the  charming  AiU-length  of  Queen 

*  I  was  told  that  a  female  serrant  of  the  &mUy  was  so  terrUM 
by  this  picture  that  she  could  never  be  prevailed  on  to  past 
through  the  door  near  which  it  hanfi^,  but  male  a  eircoif  ^4 
mreacal  rooms  to  avdd  it. 


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434  ALTUORPE. 

Henrietta  Maria,  a  well-known  and  celebrated  pic 
ture.  She  is  dressed  in  white  satin,  and  standi 
near  a  table  on  which  is  a  vase  of  white  roses,  and 
more  in  the  shade,  her  regal  crown.  Nothing  can 
be  in  fin^^r  taste  than  the  contrast  between  the  rich« 
various,  but  subdued  colors  of  the  carpet  and  back- 
ground, and  the  delicate,  and  harmonious,  and  bril- 
liant tints  which  throw  out  the  figure.  None  of  the 
pictures  I  had  hitherto  seen  of  Henrietta,  either  in 
the  king's  private  collection,  or  at  Windsor,  do 
justice  to  the  sparkling  grace  of  her  figure,  oi 
the  vivacity  and  beauty  of  her  eyes,  so  celebrated 
by  all  the  contemporary  poets.  Waller,  for  in 
stance : — 

**  Could  Nature  then  no  private  woman  graced 
Whom  we  might  dare  to  love,  with  such  a  face, 
Such  a  complexion,  and  so  radiant  eyes. 
Such  lovely  motion,  and  such  sharp  replies?  ** 

Davenant  styles  her,  very  beautifully,  **  The  ric^ 
eyed  darling  of  a  monarch's  breast"  Lord  Hok 
land,  in  the  description  he  sent  from  Paris,  dwelU 
on  the  charm  of  her  eyes,  her  smile,  and  her  grace- 
ful figure,  though  he  admits  her  to  be  rather  petite , 
and  if  the  poet  and  the  courtier  be  distrusted,  wt' 
have  the  authority  of  the  puritanic  Sir  Symond 
d'Ewes,  who  allows  the  influence  of  her  "  excellenl 
mad  sparkling  black  eyes."  Henrietta  could  be 
very  seductive,  and  had  all  the  French  grace  ch 
manner ;  but,  as  is  well  known,  she  could  play  the 
rirago,  '*  and  cast  such  i  scowl,  as  frightened  al. 


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ALTHORPB.  185 

Uie  Iqfds  and  ladies  in  waiting."  Too  much  iinpoi^ 
tance  is  attached  to  her  character  and  her  influence 
over  her  husband,  in  the  histories  of  that  time. 
She  was  a  fascinating,  but  a  superficial  and  volatile 
Frenchwoman.  With  all  her  feminine  love  of 
iway,  she  had  not  sufficient  energy  to  govern  ;  and 
with  all  her  disposition  to  intrigue,  she  never  had 
discretion  enough  to  keep  her  own  or  the  king's 
Becrets.  When  she  rushed  through  a  storm  of  bul- 
lets to  save  a  favorite  lap-dog ;  or  when,  amid  tha 
shrieks  and  entreaties  of  her  terrified  attendants, 
she  conunanded  the  captain  of  her  vessel  to  ^^blow 
up  the  ship  rather  than  strike  to  the  Parliamenta- 
rian,"— ^it  was  more  the  spirit  and  wilfulness  of  a 
woman,  who,  with  all  her  faults,  had  the  blood  of 
Henri  Quatre  in  her  veins,  than  the  mental  energy 
and  resolute  fortitude  of  a  heroine.  Near  her 
hangs  her  daughter,  who  inherited  her  grace,  her 
beauty,  her  petulance, — ^the  unhappy  Henrietta 
d*Orleans,*  fair,  radiant,  and  lively,  with  a  profu- 
rion  of  beautiful  hsur ;  it  is  impossible  to  look  from 
the  mother  to  the  daughter,  without  remembering 
the  scene  in  Retz's  memoirs,  when  the  queen  said 
(o  him,  in  excuse  for  her  daughter's  absence,  **  My 
poor  Henrietta  is  obliged  to  lie  in  bed,  for  I  have 
DO  wood  to  make  a  fire  for  her — et  la  pauvre  en- 
fent  ^tait  transie  de  froid." 

Another  picture  by  Vandyke  hangs  at  the  tqp 
•f  thd  room,  one  of  the  t^andest  and  most  spirited 

*  She  is  snppoeed  to  hate  been  poisoned  by  her  husbaad,  al 
fi#  instSgation  oi  the  Chevalier  de  Lorraiae. 


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«36  ALTHORPlu 

of  his  productions.  It  represents  William,  the 
first  Duke  of  Bedford,  the  father  of  Lord  Wluiam 
Russell,  when  young,  and  his  brother-in-law,  the 
famous  (and  infamous)  Digby,  Earl  of  BristoL 
How  admirably  Vandyke  has  caught  the  charac- 
ters of  the  two  men ! — ^the  fine  commanding  form 
of  the  duke  as  he  steps  forward,  the  frank,  open 
countenance,  expressive  of  all  that  is  good  and 
noble,  speak  him  what  he  was — not  less  than  that 
of  Digby,  which,  though  eminently  handsome,  has 
not  one  elevated  or  amiable  trait  in  the  counte- 
nance; the  drapery,  background,  and  more  espeo 
tally  the  hands,  are  magnificently  painted.  On 
one  side  of  this  superb  picture,  hangs  the  present 
Earl  Spencer  when  a  youth ;  and  on  the  other,  his 
Bister,  Georgiana  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  at  the 
age  of  eighteen,  looking  all  life  and  high-bom  love- 
liness, and  reminding  one  of  Coleridge's  beautifb] 
lines  to  her : — 

"  Light  as  a  dream  your  d&ys  their  circlets  ran 
From  all  that  teaches  brotherhood  to  man. 
Far,  far  removed!  from  want,  from  grief,  from  feart 
Obedient  music  lulled  your  infant  ear; 
Obedient  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests, 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art, 

Detained  your  eye  from  nature.    Stately  vests, 
That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine, 
Rich  viands  and  the  pleasurable  wine. 
Were  yours  uneam'd  by  toil." 

^nd  he  thus  beautifully  alludes  tr  her  matem% 


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AXTHORPE.  48  i 

character;  for  this  accomplished  woman  set  th€ 
Bxample  to  the  highest  ranks,  of  nursing  her  own 
children : — 

**  Yon  were  a  mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  babes  that  loved  you.    You,  with  laughfaig  oye^ 
Each  twilight  thought,  each  nasceut  feelhig  read, 
Which  you  yourself  created." 

Alas,  that  such  a  beginning  should  have  such  an 
tnd! 

Both  these  are  whole-lengths,  by  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds :  the  middle  tints  are  a  little  flown,  else 
they  were  perfect;  they  suffer  by  being  hung  near 
the  glowing  yet  mellowed  tints  of  Vandyke. 

We  have  here  a  whole  bevy  of  the  heroines  ot 
De  Grammont,  delightful  to  those  who  have  what 
Walpole  used  to  call  the  "  De  Grammont  madness  '^ 
upon  them.  Here  is  that  beautiful,  audacious  ter- 
magant, Castlemaine,  very  like  her  picture  at 
Windsor,  and  with  the  same  characteristic  bit  of 
storm  gleaming  in  the  background. — Lady  Den- 
ham,*  the  wife  of  the  poet.  Sir  John  Denham,  and 
niece  of  that  Lord  Bristol  who  figures  in  Vandyke*^ 
picture  above  mentioned — a  lovely  creature,  and  a 
sweet  picture. — Louise  de  Querougulle,  Duchess 
i)f  Portsmouth,  who  so  long  ruled  the  heart  and 
touncils  of  Charles  the  Second,  in  Lely's  finest 
gtyle ;  the  face  has  a  look  of  olooming  innocence, 
loon  exchanged  for  coarseness  and  arrogance.—' 

*  Dinbeth  Brooke,  poisoned  at  the  af(e  of  twenty 


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IS8  ALTHORPB. 

The  indolent,  alluring  Middleton,  looking  fitjob 
under  her  sleepy  eyelids,  "trop  coquette  pout 
rebuter  personne." — **La  Belle  Hamilton,"  th« 
lovely  prize  of  the  volatile  De  Grammont;  very 
like  her  portrwt  at  Windsor,  with  the  same  finely 
formed  bust  and  compressed  ruby  lips,  but  with  an 
expression  more  vivacious  and  saucy,  and  less 
elevated. — Two  portraits  of  Nell  Gwyn,  with  the 
fair  brown  hair  and  small  bright  eyes  they  ought 
to  have;  au  reste,  with  such  prim,  sanctified 
mouths,  and  dressed  with  such  elaborate  decencv, 
that  instead  of  reminding  us  of  the  "  parole  sciolte 
d'ogni  freno,  risi,  vezzi,  giuochi " — they  are  more 
like  Beck  Marshall,  the  puritan's  daughter,  on  her 
good  behavior.* 

Here  is  that  extraordinary  woman  Hortense 
Mancini,  Duchess  of  Mazarin,  the  fame  of  who»5 
beauty  and  gallantries  filled  all  Europe,  and  once 
the  intended  wife  of  Charles  the  Second,  though 
she  afterwards  intrigued  in  vjun  for  the  less  (or 
more)  eligible  post  of  maitresse  en  litre.  What  an 
extraordinary,  wild,  perverted,  good-for-nothing, 
vet  interesting  set  of  women,  were  those  four 
Mancini  sisters  I  all  victims,  more  or  less,  to  the 
pride,  policy,  or  avarice,  of  their  cardinal  uncle ; 
all  gifted  by  nature  with  the  fervid  Italian  blood 
and  the  plotting  Italian  brain ;  all  really  aventu- 
ri/res,  while  they  figured  as  duchesses  and  prin- 
cesses.   They  wore  their  coronets  and  ermine  ai 

*See  the  scene  between  Beck  Marshall  and  Nell  Gwyn,  I* 
IVpjt." 


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JILTHORPE.  4M 

it«)lling  players  wear  their  robes  of  stale — with  a 
•ort  of  picturesque  awkwardness — and  they  proved 
rather  too  scanty  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins. 

This  head  of  Kortense  Mancini,  as  Cleopatra 
dissolving  the  pearl,  is  the  most  spirited,  but  the 
least  beautiful  portndt  I  have  seen  of  her.  An 
appropriate  pendant  on  the  opposite  side  is  hei 
lover,  philosopher,  and' eulogist,  the  witty  St.  Evre- 
mond — Grammonf  s  "  Caton  de  Normandie ; "  but 
instead  of  looking  like  a  good-natured  epicurean,  a 
man  "  who  thought  as  he  liked,  and  liked  what  he 
thought,"*  his  nose  is  here  wrinkled  up  into  an 
expression  of  the  most  supercilious  scorn,  adding 
to  his  native  ugliness.!  Both  these  are  by  Kneller. 
Farther  on,  is  another  of  Charles's  beauties,  whose 
sagesse  has  never  been  disputed — Elizabeth  Wri- 
othesley.  Countess  of  Northumberland,  the  sister 
of  that  half  saint,  half  heroine,  and  cUl  woman — 
Lady  Russell. 

There  is  also  a  lovely  picture  of  that  magnificent 
brunette,  Miss  Bagot  **  EUe  avait,**  says  Hamilton, 
•*  ce  teint  rembruni  qui  plait  tant  quand  il  plait* 
She  married  Berkeley  Lord  Falmouth,  a  man  who, 
though  unprincipled,  seems  to  have  loved  her ;  at 
least,  was  not  long  enough  her  husband  to  foi^get 
to  be  her  lover :  he  was  killed,  shortly  after  hb 


•Walpole. 

tThe  gay,  gallant  St.  Erremond,  besides  being  natanlly 
ftgly,  had  a  wen  between  liis  eyebrons.  There  is  a  fine  piotnve 
■fhim  and  Hortonse  as  Tertomnus  and  Pomona,  in  tlie  Stalfori 
wUecy. 


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140  ALTHORPE. 

marriage,  in  the  battle  of  SoutLwold-bay.  This  it 
assuredly  one  of  the  most  splendid  pictures  Lely 
ever  painted ;  and  it  is,  besides,  full  of  character 
and  interest.  She  holds  a  cannon-ball  in  her  lap, 
(only  an  airy  emblematical  cannon-ball;  for  she 
poises  it  like  a  feather,)  and  the  countenance  is 
touched  with  a  sweet  expression  of  melancholy : 
hence  it  is  plain  that  she  sat  for  it  soon  after  the 
death  of  her  first  husband,  and  before  her  marriage 
with  the  witty  Earl  of  Dorset. — Near  her  hangs 
another  fair  piece  of  witchcraft,  "  La  Belle  Jen- 
nings," \vho  in  her  day  played  with  hearts  as  if 
they  had  been  billiard  balls;  and  no  wonder, 
considering  what  things  she  had  to  deal  with:* 
there  was  a  great  difference  between  her  vivacity 
and  that  of  her  vivacious  sister,  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough. — Old  Sarah  hangs  near  her.  One 
would  think  that  Kneller,  in  spite,  had  watched 
the  moment  to  take  a  characteristic  likeness,  and 
catch,  not  the  Cynthia,  but  the  Fury  of  the  minute ; 
as,  for  instance,  when  she  cut  off  her  luxuriant 
tresses,  so  worshipped  by  her  husband,  and  flung 
them  in  his  face ;  for  so  she  tosses  back  hei 
disdainful  head,  and  curls  her  lip  like  an  insolent, 
pouting,  spoiled,  grown-up  baby.  The  life  of  thit 
woman  is  as  fine  a  lesson  on  the  emptiness  of  aU 
worldly  advantages,  boundless  wealth,  power,  fame, 

*  Tbe  pictures  of  Miss  Jenningi  are  very  rare.  This  one  M 
iltikorpe  was  copied  for  H.  Walpole,  and  I  haTe  heard  of  anoilMi 
Ic  If  eland.  Miss  Jennings  was  afterwards  Ihiehees  of  Tyreon 
lel 


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ALTHORPA.  441 

•eanty,  wit,  as  ever  w.w  set  forth  by  moralist  or 
ii^e. 

•By  spirit  robb*d  of  power— by  warmth,  of  friends— > 
By  wealth,  of  followers !  without  one  distress, 
Sick  of  herself  through  rery  selfishness.*''* 

^  nd  yet  I  suspect  that  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough 
has  never  met  with  justice.  History  knows  her 
only  as  Marlborough's  wife,  an  intriguing  dame 
d'honneur,  and  a  cast-off  favorite.  Vituperated 
by  Swift,  satirized  by  Pope,  ridiculed  by  Walpole 
— what  angel  could  have  stood  such  bedaubing, 
and  from  such  pens  ? 

"  0  she  has  fallen  into  a  pit  of  iniw .  ** 

But  glorious  talents  she  had,  fstrength  of  mind, 
generosity,  the  power  to  feel  and  inspire  the 
rtrongest  attachment, — and  all  these  qualities  were 
degraded,  or  rendered  useless,  by  temper  1  Her 
•  Rvarice  was  not  the  love  of  money  for  its  own  sake, 
but  the  love  of  power ;  and  her  bitter  contempt  for 
**  knaves  and  fools  "  may  be  excused,  if  not  justified. 
Imagine  such  a  woman  as  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borongn  out-faced,  out-plotted  by  that  crowned 
3ypher,  that  sceptred  common-place,  queen  Anne  \ 
\t  should  seem  that  the  constant  habit  of  being 
(breed  to  serve,  outwardly,  where  she  really  ruled. 

*Pope.  One  hates  him  (br  taking  a  thousand  pounds  to 
moprees  this  character  of  Atossa,  and  pnhlishing  It  after  all; 
M(  who  for  a  thousand  pounds  would  have  lost  it? 


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143  AL  THORPE. 

^the  consciousness  of  her  own  brilliant  and  pow' 
erfiil  faculties  brought  into  immediate  hourly  com* 
parison  with  the  confined  trifling  understanding  of 
her  mistress,  a  disdain  of  her  own  forced  hypocrisy, 
and  a  perception  of  the  heartless  baseness  of  th« 
courtiers  around  her,  disgusting  to  a  mind  naturally 
ligh-toned,  produced  at  length  that  extreme  of 
Dittemess  and  insolence  which  made  her  so  often 
"  an  embodied  storm."  She  was  always  a  terma- 
gant— ^but  of  a  very  different  description  from  the 
vulgar  Castlemaine. 

Though  the  picture  of  Colonel  Russell,  by  Dob- 
son,  is  really  fine  as  a  portrait,  the  recollection  of 
the  scene  between  him  and  Miss  Hamilton  * — ^his 
love  of  dancing,  to  prove  he  was  not  old  and  asth- 
matical, — and  his  attachment  to  his  ^^chapeau 
pointu"  make  it  iqapossible  to  look  at  him  without 
a  smile — but  a  good-humored  smile,  such  as  his 
lovely  mistress  gave  him  when  she  rejected  him 
with  so  much  politeness. — Arabella  Churchill,  the 
sister  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and 
mistress  of  the  Duke  of  York,  has  been  better 
treated  by  the  painter  than  by  Hamilton ;  instead 
of  "  La  grande  creature,  pale  et  decham^e,"  she 
appears  here  a  very  lovely  woman.  But  enough 
cf  these  equivocal  ladies.  No — before  we  leave 
them,  there  are  yet  two  to  be  noticed,  more  equiv- 
ocal, more  interesting,  and  more  extraordinary 
Ihan  all  the  rest  put  together — ^Bianca  di  Capello 

*  See  his  deeburatlon  of  loTe— "  Je  suis  frire  du  Comte  de  Be4 
htd;  je  fxnnmande  le  T^^ent  des  gardes,*'  &o. 


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ALTHORPE.  44A 

who,  from  a  washerwoman,  became  Grand  DucheM 
of  Florence,  with  less  beauty  than  I  should  hav^ 
expected,  but  as  much  covntenance ;  and  the 
beautiful,  but  appalling  picture  of  Venitia  Digby, 
painted  after  she  was  dead,  by  Vandyke :  she  was 
found  one  morning  sitting  up  in  her  bed,  leaning 
her  head  on  her  hand,  and  lifeless ;  and  thus  she 
10  painted.  Notwithstanding  the  ease  and  grace  of 
the  attitude,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  features,  there 
is  no  mistaking  this  for  slumber :  a  heavier  hand 
has  pressed  upon  those  eyelids,  which  will  never 
more  open  to  the  light :  there  is  a  leaden  lifeleit- 
ness  about  them,  too  shockingly  true  and  real — 

"  It  thrills  us  with  mortality, 
And  curdles  to  the  gazer*s  heart.'* 

Her  picture  at  Windsor  is  the  most  perfectly  beauti' 
fill  and  impressive  female  portrait  I  ever  saw.  How 
have  I  longed,  when  gazing  at  it,  to  conjure  her  out 
of  her  frame,  and  bid  her  reveal  the  secret  of  her 
mysterious  life  and  death ! — ^Nearly  opposite  to  the 
dead  Venitia,  in  strange  contrast,  hangs  her  hus- 
band, who  loved  her  to  madness,  or  was  mad  before 
he  married  her,  in  the  very  prime  of  life  and  youth. 
This  picture,  by  Cornelius  Jansen,  is  as  fine  as  any 
thing  of  Vandyke's :  the  character  expresses  more 
of  intellectual  power  and  physical  strength,  than 
of  that  elegance  of  face  and  form  we  should  have 
looked  for  in  such  a  fanciful  being  as  Sir  Eenelm 
fMgby :   he  looks  more  like  one  .of  the  Athletsi 


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M4  ALTHOBPB. 

Aan  a  poot,  a  metaphyncian,  and  a  **  squire  of 
dames." 

There  are  three  pictures  of  Waller^s  fiuned 
Bacharissa,  the  first  Ladj  Snnderland :  one  in  a  hat, 
at  the  age  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  gay  and  blooming ; 
the  second,  far  more  interesting,  was  painted  about 
the  time  of  her  marriage  with  the  young  Earl  of 
Sunderland,  or  shortly  after — ^very  sweet  and  lady- 
like. I  should  say  that  the  high-breeding  of  the 
foce  and  air  was  more  conspicuous  than  the  beauty , 
the  neck  and  hands  exquisite.  Both  these  are 
Vandyke's.  A  third  picture  represents  her  about 
the  time  of  her  second  marriage :  the  expression 
wholly  changed— cold,  sad,  faded,  but  pretty  still : 
one  might  fancy  her  contemplating,  with  a  sick 
heart,  the  portrait  of  Lord  Sunderland,  the  lover 
and  husband  of  her  early  youth,  who  hangs  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  gallery,  in  complete  armour :  he 
fell  in  the  same  battle  with  Lord  Falkland,  at  the 
age  of  three-and-twenty.  The  brother  of  Sacha- 
rissa,  the  famous  Algernon  Sidney,  is  suspended 
near  her ;  a  fine  head,  full  of  contemplation  and 
power. 

Among  the  most  interesting  pictures  in  the  gal- 
lery is  an  undoubted  original  of  Lady  Jane  Grey, 
After  seeing  so  many  hideous,  hard,  prim-looking 
pictures  and  prints  of  this  gentle-spirited  heroine, 
ifc  is  consoling  to  trust  in  the  genuineness  of  a  face 
which  has  all  the  sweetness  and  dignity  we  look 
for,  and  ought  to  find.  Then,  by  way  of  contrast 
we  havo  that  Inost  curious  picture  of  Diana  d 


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ALTHOBPS.  44  ft 

Poiders,  cmce  in  the  Crawfurd  collection :  it  ib  a 
small  half-length;  the  features  fair  and  regular; 
the  hair  is  elaboratelj  dressed  with  a  profusion  of 
jewels;  but  there  is  no  drapery  whatever — ^** force 
pierreries  et  trte  pen  de  linge,"  as  Madame  de 
Sevign^  described  the  two  Mancini.  *  Bound  the 
head  is  the  legend  fr<»n  the  42d  Psalm — ^^  Comme 
le  cerf  braie  apr^  le  d^cours  des  eaues,  ainsi  brait 
mon  ame  apr^  tm,  O  Dieu,"  which  is  certainly  an 
extraordinary  application.  In  the  days  of  Diana 
tjf  Poitiers,  the  beautiful  mistress  of  Henry  the 
Second  of  France,  it  was  the  court  fashion  to  sing 
the  Psalms  of  David  to  dance  and  song  tunes  ;t 
and  the  courtiers  and  beauties  had  each  their 
fistvorite  psalm,  which  served  as  a  kind  of  devise : 
this  may  explain  the  very  singular  inscription  op 
this  very  singular  picture.  Here  are  also  the  por- 
traits of  Otway  and  Cowley,  and  of  Montaigne ; 
the  last  from  the  Crawfurd  collection. 

I  had  nearly  omitted  to  mention  a  magnificent 
whole-length  of  the  Due  de  Guise — who  was  stabbed 
in  the  closet  of  Henry  the  Third — whose  life  con- 
tjuns  materials  for  ten  romances  and  a  dozen  epics, 
and  whose  death  has  furnished  subjects  for  as  many 
tragedies.  And  not  far  from  him  that  not  less  dar- 
ing, and  more  successful  chief,  Oliver  Cromwell . 
4  page  is  tying  on  his  sash.     There  is  a  vulgar 


*  Th«  PriBoem  Colonna  and  the  DnchwM  de  Manrin. 
\  fJkmeiit  Marot  had  composed  a  Tersion  ^f  the  Piahni,  th«i 
«7  popular.    See  Bayle,  and  the  Curiositiet  cf  li'eiatun 


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146  ALTHOBPS. 

power  and  boldness  about  this  head,  in  fine  con- 
trast with  the  high-born,  fearless,  chivalrous-looking 
Gmse. 

In  the  library  is  the  splendid  picture  of  Sofonisba 
Angusciola,  by  herself:  she  is  touching  the  harp- 
sichord, for  like  many  others  of  her  craft,  she  ex- 
celled in  music  Angelica  Eauffinan  had  neaily 
been  an  operansinger.  The  instances  of  great  paint- 
ers being  also  excellent  musicians  are  numerous; 
Salvator  Bosa  could  have  led  an  orchestra,  and 
Vemet  could  not  exist  without  Pergolesi's  plana 
But  I  cannot  recollect  an  instance  of  a  great  mu- 
sician by  profession,  who  has  also  been  a  painter : 
the  range  of  faculties  is  generally  more  confined. 

Rembrandt's  large  picture  of  his  mother,  which 
is,  I  think,  the  most  magnificent  specimen  of  this 
master  now  in  England,  hangs  over  the  chinmey  in 
the  same  room  with  the  Sofonisba. 

The  last  picture  I  can  distinctly  remember  is  a 
portrait  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  all  his  per- 
fections combined  in  their  perfection.  It  is  that  of 
a  beautiful  Frenchwoman,  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
last  Lady  Spencer — ^with  as  much  intellect,  senti- 
ment, and  depth  of  feeling  as  would  have  furnished 
out  twenty  ordinary  heads;  all  harmony  in  the 
eoloring,  all  grace  in  the  drawing. 

Here  then  was  food  for  the  eye  and  for  the  mem- 
iry — for  sweet  and  bitter  fancy — for  the  amateur, 
and  for  the  connoisseur — for  antiquary,  historian, 
isainter,  and  poet  Well  might  Horace  Walpole 
lay  that  the  gallery  at  Althorpe  was  "  endeared  tt 


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ALTHOBFB.  447 

die  pensive  spectator.**  He  tells  us  in  his  letters, 
that  when  here,  (about  seventy  years  since,)  he 
surprised  the  housekeeper  by  **his  intimate  ac- 
quaintance with  all  the  faces  in  the  gallery."  I  was 
amused  at  the  thought  that  we  caused  a  sunilar  sur- 
prise in  our  day.  I  hope  his  female  cicerone  was 
as  civil  and  intelligent  as  ours ;  as  worthy  to  be  the 
keeper  of  the  pictorial  treasures  of  Althorpe. 
When  we  lingered  and  hngered,  spell-bound,  and 
apologized  for  making  such  unconscionable  de- 
mands on  her  patience,  she  replied,  "  that  she  was 
flattered ;  that  she  felt  affronted  when  any  visitor 
hurried  through  the  apartments."  Old  Horace 
would  have  been  delighted  with  her ;  and  not  less 
with  the  biblical  enthusiasm  of  a  village  glazier, 
whom  we  found  dusting  the  books  in  the  library, 
and  who  had  such  a  sublime  reverence  for  old  edi- 
tions, unique  copies,  illuminated  MSS.,  and  rare 
bindugs,  that  it  was  quite  edifying. 


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MRS.  SIDDONa 

{Cm  fbllowinff  little  sketeh  wu  written  a  few  dajs  alter  the 
Anth  of  Un.  Siddona,  and  was  called  forth  bj  certain  pam- 
graphs  which  appeared  in  the  dally  papum.  A  misap^reheniloii 
of  the  real  character  c^this  remariutble  woman,  which  I  know  it 
exist  in  the  minds  of  many  who  admired  and  reneiated  her  tal* 
ents,  has  iudnced  me  to  enlarge  the  first  reiy  slight  sketch,  into 
a  more  finistwd  but  still  inadequate  portrait.  I  hare  spared  no 
pains  to  Terify  ttie  truth  of  my  own  conception  by  testtmony  of 
CTery  kind  that  was  attainable.  I  have  penned  eTery  word  as  if 
I  had  been  in  that  great  final  court  where  the  thoughts  of  aU 
hearts  are  manifested;  and  those  who  best  knew  the  indiyidual 
I  have  attempted  to  delineate  bear  witness  to  the  fidelity  of  the 
portrait,  as  flur  as  it  goes.  I  must  be  permitted  to  add,  that  in 
this  and  the  succeeding  sketch  I  hare  not  only  been  inspired  b; 
the  wish  to  do  Justice  to  IndiTidual  yirtue  and  talent,— I  wished 
to  impress  and  illustrate  that  important  truth,  that  a  gifted 
woman  may  pursue  a  public  vocation,  yet  preserve  the  purity  and 
maintidn  the  dignity  of  her  sex— that  there  is  no  pr^udice  which 
will  not  shrink  away  before  moral  energy,  and  no  profession 
which  may  not  be  made  compatible  with  the  respect  due  to  us  as 
women,  the  cultivation  of  every  feminine  virtue,  and  the  prac- 
tice of  every  private  duty.  I  ndght  here  multiply  examples  and 
txoeptions,  and  discuss  causes  and  results;  but  it  is  a  oonsidera 
Hon  I  reserve  fbr  another  opportunity.] 

"  Implora  pace  !  " — She,  who  upon  earth  ruled 
be  souls  and  senses  of  men,  as  die  moon  rules  tht 


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MRS.  8IDDOXS.  44U 

iurge  of  waters ;  the  acknowledged  and  liege  em- 
press of  all  the  realms  of  illusion ;  the  crowned 
queen ;  the  throned  muse  •  the  sceptred  shadow 
of  departed  genius,  majesty,  and  beauty, — suppli- 
cates— Peace  ! 

What  unhallowed  work  has  been  going  forward 
in  some  of  the  daily  papers  since  this  illustrious 
creature  has  been  laid  in  her  quiet  unostentatious 
grave!  ay,  even  before  her  poor  remains  were 
cold  I  What  pains  have  been  taken  to  cater  tri- 
fling scandal  for  the  blind,  heartless,  gossip-lovinj; 
vulgar!  and  to  throw  round  the  memory  of  a 
woman,  whose  private  life  was  as  irreproachable 
as  her  public  career  was  glorious,  some  ridiculous 
or  unamiable  association  which  should  tend  to  un- 
sphere  her  from  her  throne  in  our  imagination,  and 
degrade  from  her  towering  pride  of  place,  the  her- 
oine of  Shakspeare,  and  the  Muse  of  Tragedy  I 

That  stupid  malignity  which  revels  in  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  fame — which  rejoices  when,  by  some 
approximation  of  the  mean  and  ludicrous  with  the 
beautiful  and  sublime,  it  can  for  a  moment  bring 
down  the  rainbow-like  glory  in  which  the  fancy 
invests  genius,  to  the  drab-colored  level  of  medi- 
ocrity— is  always  hateful  and  contemptible;  but 
in  the  present  case  it  is  something  worse ;  it  has  a 
peculiar  degree  of  cowardly  injustice.  If  some  ele- 
gant biographer  inform  us  that  the  same  hand 
which  painted  the  infant  Hercules,  or  Ugolino,  or 
Mm.  Sheridan,  half  seraph  and  half  saint — could 
'Clutch  a  irmnea  with  satisfaction,  or  drive  a  bar- 


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450  MRS.   SIDDONS. 

gain  witJi  a  footman  ;  if  some  discreet  friend,  from 
the  mere  love  of  truth,  no  doubt,  reveal  to  us  the 
puerile,  lamentable  frailties  of  that  bright  spirit 
which  poured  itself  forth  in  torrents  of  song  and 
passion :  what  then  ?  'tis  pitiful,  certainly,  won 
drous  pitiful ;  but  there  is  no  great  harm  done, — 
no  irremediable  injury  inflicted;  for  there  stand 
their  works :  the  poet's  immortal  page,  the  painter's 
breathing  canvas  witness  for  them.  "  Death  hath 
had  no  power  yet  upon  their  beauty  "—over  them 
scandal  cannot  draw  her  cold  slimy  finger ;-— on 
them  calumny  cannot  breathe  her  mildew;  nor 
envy  wither  them  with  a  blast  from  hell.  There 
they  stand  forever  to  confute  injustice,  to  rectify 
error,  to  defy  malice ;  to  silence,  and  long  outlive 
the  sneer,  the  lie,  the  jest,  the  reproach.  But  she 
— who  was  of  painters  the  model,  the  wonder,  the 
despair ; — ^she,  who  realized  in  her  own  presence 
and  person  the  poet's  divinest  dreams  and  noblest 
creations; — she,  who  has  enriched  our  language 
with  a  new  epithet,  and  made  the  word  Siddonian 
synonymous  with  all  we  can  imagine  of  feminine 
grace  and  grandeur :  she  has  left  nothing  behind 
her,  but  the  memory  of  a  great  name  :  she  has  be- 
queathed it  to  our  reverence,  our  gratitude,  our 
charity,  and  our  sympathy ;  and  if  It  is  not  to  be 
sacred,  I  know  not  what  is — or  ever  will  be. 

Mrs.  Siddons,  as  an  artist,  presented  a  singular 
example  of  the  union  of  all  the  faculties,  mental 
and  physical,  which  constitute  excellence  in  he? 
kH,  directed  to  the  end  for  which  they  seemed  ere 


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MBS.   SIDBONS.  451 

Ujd,  In  any  other  situation  or  profession,  some 
one  or  other  of  her  splendid  gifts  would  have  been 
misplaced  or  dormant.  It  was  her  especial  good 
fortune,  and  not  less  that  of  the  time  in  which  she 
lived,  that  this  wonderful  combination  of  mental 
powers  and  external  graces,  was  fully  and  com- 
pletely developed  by  the  circumstances  in  which 
ihe  was  placed.*  "  With  the  most  commanding 
beauty  of  face  and  form,  and  varied  grace  of  ac- 
tion ;  with  the  most  noble  combination  of  features, 
and  extensive  capability  of  expression  in  each  of 
them ;  with  an  unequalled  genius  for  her  art,  the 
utmost  patience  in  study,  and  the  strongest  ardour 
of  feeling;' there  was  not  a  passion  which  she  could 
not  delineate ;  not  the  nicest  shade,  not  the  most 
delicate  modification  of  passion,  which  she  could 
not  seize  with  philosophical  accuracy,  and  render 
with  such  immediate  force  of  nature  and  truth,  as 
well  as  precision,  that  what  was  the  result  of  pro* 
found  study  and  unwearied  practice,  appeared  like 
sudden  inspiration.  There  was  not  a  height  of 
grandeur  to  which  she  could  not  soar,  nor  a  dark- 
ness of  misery  to  which  she  could  not  descend ; 
not  a  chord  of  feeling,  from  the  sternest  to  the 
most  delicate,  which  she  could  not  cause  to  vibrate 
at  her  will.  She  had  reached  that  point  of  perfec- 
tion in  art,  where  it  ceases  to  be  art,  and  becomes 
1  second  nature.    She  had  studied  most  profoundly 

*  Some  c/t  the  sentences  which  fcUow  (marked  by  inirerted  com. 
■im)  are  taken  from  a  portrait  oi  Mrs.  Siddons,  dated  1812,  and 
«ttribated  to  8ir  Walter  Scott. 


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152  MBS.   SIDDONB. 

Ihe  powers  and  capabilities  of  language ;  so  that 
the  most  critical  sagacity  could  not  have  suggested 
a  delicacy  of  emphasis,  by  which  the  meaning  of 
che  author  might  be  more  distinctly  conveyed,  or  a 
«hade  of  intonation  by  which  the  sentiment  could 
be  more  fully  or  more  faithfully  expressed.  While 
other  performers  of  the  past  or  present  time  haT« 
made  approaches  to  excellence,  or  attained  it  now 
and  then,  Mrs.  Siddons  alone  was  pronounced 
foultless ;  and,  in  hevy  the  last  generation  witnessed 
what  we  shall  not  see  in  ours ; — no,  nor  our  chil- 
dren after  us; — ^that  amazing  union  of  splendid 
intellectual  powers,  with  unequalled  charms  of  per- 
son, which,  in  the  tragic  department  of  her  art, 
realized  the  idea  of  perfection." 

Such  was  the  magnificent  portrait  drawn  of  Mrs. 
Siddons  twenty  years  ago ;  and  it  will  be  admitted 
by  those  who  remember  her,  and  must  be  believed 
by  those  who  do  not,  that  in  this  case,  eulogy  could 
not  wander  into  exaggeration,  nor  enthusiasm  be 
exalted  beyond  the  bounds  of  truth. 

I  have  heard  people  most  unreasonably  surprised 
dv  displeased,  because  this  exceeding  dignity  of  de- 
meanor was  not  confined  to  the  stage,  but  was 
carried  into  private  life.  Had  it  been  merely  con- 
ventional,— a  thing  put  on  and  put  off, — it  might 
have  been  so ;  but  the  grandeur  of  her  mind,  and 
the  light  of  her  glorious  beauty,  were  not  as  a  dia- 
dem and  robe  for  state  occasions  only ;  hers  was  not 
only  dignity  of  manner  and  person,  it  was  mora 
ind  innate,  and,  I  mav  add,  hereditary.     Mrs.  Sid 


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MRS.   8IDDONS.  459 

lonE,  w'th  all  her  graces  of  form  and  feature,  her 
Hagnificence  of  deportment,  her  deep-toned,  meas- 
ured Toice,  and  impressive  enunciation,  was  in 
reality  a  softened  reflection  of  her  more  stem, 
stately,  majestic  mother,  whose  genuine  loftiness  oi 
ipirit  and  of  bearing,  whose  rare  beauty,  and  im- 
perious despotism  of  character,  have  oflen  been 
described  to  me  as  absolutely  awful, — even  her 
children  trembled  in  her  presence. 

"  All  the  Kembles,"  said  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
"  have  historical  faces ; "  and  for  several  genera- 
tions their  minds  seem  to  have  been  cast  in  a  poet- 
ical mould.  It  has,  however,  been  disputed, 
whether  Mrs.  Siddons  possessed  genius.  Whether 
genms  be  exclusively  defined  as  the  creative  and 
inventive  faculty  of  the  soul,  or  taken,  in  its  usual 
acceptation,  as  "  a  mind  of  large  general  faculties, 
accidentally  determined  to  some  particular  direc- 
tion," I  think  she  did  possess  it  in  both  senses. 
The  grand  characteristic  of  her  mind  was  power, 
but  it  was  power  of  a  very  peculiar  kind :  it 
was  slowly  roused — slowly  developed — not  easily 
moved ;  her  perceptions  were  not  rapid,  nor  her 
sensations  quick  ;  she  required  time  for  every 
thing, — ^time  to  think,  time  to  comprehend,  time  to 
ipeak.  There  was  nothing  superficial  about  her; 
no  vivacity  of  manner ;  to  petty  gossip  she  would 
not  descend,  and  evil-speaking  she  abhorred:; 
ihe  cared  not  to  shine  in  general  conversation. 
Like  some  majestic  "  Argosie,"  bearing  freight  of 
precious  metal,  she  was  a-ground  and  cumbroni 


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154  MRS.   8IDD0NS. 

»nd  motionless  among  the  shallows  of  common  life 
b'lt  set  her  upon  the  deep  waters  of  poetry  anc 
passion — ^there  was  her  element — there  was  hei 
reign.  Ask  her  an  opinion,  she  could  not  give  ii 
jrou  till  she  had  looked  on  the  subject,  and  consid 
ered  it  on  every  side, — then  you  might  trust  to  it 
without  appeal.  Her  powers,  though  not  eaaly 
put  in  motion,  were  directed  by  an  incredible 
energy ;  her  mind,  when  called  to  action,  seemed 
to  rear  itself  up  like  a  great  wave  of  the  sea,  and 
roll  forwards  with  an  irresistible  force.  This  pro- 
digious intellectual  power  was  one  of  her  chief 
characteristics.  Another  was  truth,  which  in  the 
human  mind  is  generally  allied  with  power.  It  is, 
I  think,  a  mistaken  idea,  that  habits  of  impersona- 
tion on  the  stage  tend  to  impair  the  sincerity  or 
the  individuality  of  a  character.  If  any  injury  is 
done  in  this  way,  it  is  by  the  continual  and  strong 
excitement  of  the  vanity,  the  dependence  on  ap- 
plause, which  in  time  may  certainly  corrode  away 
the  integrity  of  the  manner,  if  not  of  the  mind.  It 
is  difficult  for  an  admired  actress  not  to  be  vain, 
and  difficult  for  a  very  vain  person  to  be  quite  un- 
affected, on  or  off  the  stage ;  it  is,  however,  certain 
that  some  of  the  truest,  most  natural  persons  I  evei 
met  with  in  my  life,  were  actresses.  In  the  char- 
tcter  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  truth,  and  a  reverence  for 
truth,  were  commensurate  with  her  vast  power: 
Heaven  is  not  farther  removed  from  earth  than  sh^ 
was  from  falsehood.  Allied  to  this  conscientioui 
♦urn  was  her  love  of  order.    She  was  extremeW 


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MBS.   SIBDOKS.  45C 

punctual  iu  all  her  arrangements ;  methodical  and 
exact  in  every  thing  she  did ;  circumstantial  and 
Ibccarate  in  all  she  said.  In  little  and  in  great 
things,  in  the  very  texture  and  constitution  of  her 
mind,  she  was  integrity  itself :  "  It  was,"  (said  one 
of  her  most  intimate  friends,)  **  a  mind  far  above 
the  average  standard,  not  only  in  ability,  but  in 
moral  and  religious  qualities;  that  these  should 
have  exhausted  themselves  in  the  world  of  fiction, 
maybe  regretted  in  reference  to  her  individaal 
happiness,  but  she  certainly  exercised,  during  her 
reign^  a  most  powerful  moral  influence : — she  ex- 
cited the  nobler  feelings  and  higher  faculties  of 
every  mind  which  came  in  contact  with  her  own. 
I  speak  with  the  deepest  sense  of  personal  obliga- 
tion :  it  was  at  a  very  early  age  that  she  repeated 
to  me,  in  a  manner  and  tone  which  left  an  indeli- 
ble impression, 

*  Sincerity, 
Thou  first  of  virtues !  let  no  mortal  leave 
Thy  onward  path,*  &o. 

and  I  never  knew  her  to  omit  an  opportunity  of 
making  her  fine  genius  minister  to  piety  and  virtue." 
Now  what  are  the  bravos  of  a  whole  theatre, 

♦*  When  all  the  thundsr  of  the  pit  ascends/* 

compared  to  such  praise  as  this  ? 

"Her  mind"  (agsdn  I  am  enabled  to  give  the 
rery  words  of  one  who  knew  her  well)  "  was  a 
i^eifect  mirror  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful ;  like 


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156  MRS.    SIDDONtS. 

R  lake  that  leflected  only  the  he^grens  above,  ot 
the  summits  of  the  mountains  around;  nothing 
below  a  certain  level  could  appear  in  it  The 
ideal  was  her  vital  air.  She  breathed  with  diffi- 
culty in  the  atmosphere  of  this  '  working-da> 
world/  and  withdrew  from  it  as  much  as  possible. 
Hence  her  moral  principles  were  seldom  brought 
to  bear  upon  the  actual  and  ordinary  concerns  of 
life.  She  was  rather  the  associate  of  *  the  mighty 
dead,*  than  the  fellow-creature  of  the  living.  To 
the  latter  she  was  known  chiefly  through  others, 
and  often  through  those  who  were  incapable  of  re* 
fleeting  her  qualities  faithfully,  though  impressed 
with  the  utmost  veneration  for  her  genius.  In 
their  very  anxiety  for  what  they  considered  her 
interests,  (and  of  her  worldly  interests  she  took  tio 
charge,)  they  would  in  her  name  authorize  pru- 
dential arrangements,  which  gave  rise  to  the  sus- 
picion of  covetousness,  whilst  she  was  sitting  rapt 
in  heavenly  contemplation.  Had  she  given  hei 
mind  to  the  consideration  and  investigation  of 
relative  claims,  she  might  on  some  occasions  have 
acted  differently — or,  rather,  she  would  have  acted 
where  in  fact  others  only  acted:  for  never,  as  1 
have  reason  to  believe,  was  a  case  of  distress  pre- 
sented to  her  without  her  being  ready  to  give  even 
till  her  *  hand  lacked  means.*  Many  of  the  pooi 
in  her  neighborhood  were  pensioned  by  her 

"  She  was  credulous — simple — to  an  extraor. 
linajy  degree.  Profession  had,  therefore,  too  muck 
weight  with  her.     She  was  accustomed  to  matu 


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MBS.  SIDD0N8.  457 

/estations  of  {jie  sontiments  she  excited,  and  in 
weking  the  demonstration  sometimes  overlooked 
the  silent  reality ; — ^this  was  a  consequence  of  hor 
profession. 

'*  She  was  not  only  exact  in  the  performance  of 
her  religious  duties ;  her  religion  was  a  pervading 
sentiment,  influencing  her  to  the  strictest  obser- 
vance of  truth  and  charity — ^I  mean  charity  in 
judging  others:  the  very  active  and  excursive 
benevolence  which 

*  Seeks  the  duty,  nay,  prevents  the  need,' 

would  have  been  incompatible  with  her  toilsome 
engrossing  avocations  and  with  the  visionary  ten- 
dencies of  her  character.  But  the  visionary  has 
his  own  sphere  of  action,  and  can  often  touch  the 
master-springs  of  other  minds,  so  as  to  give  the 
first  impulse  to  the  good  deeds  flowing  from  them. 
There  are  some  who  can  trace  back  to  the  sympa- 
thies which  Mrs.  Siddons  awakened,  their  devoted- 
ness  to  the  cause  of  the  sufl*ering  and  oppressed. 
Faithfully  did  she  perform  the  part  in  life  which 
she  believed  allotted  to  her;  and  who  may  pre- 
sume to  judge  that  she  did  not  choose  the  better 
part?" 

The  idea  that  she  was  a  cold  woman  is  emi- 
nently false.  Her  aflections,  like  her  intellectual 
powers,  were  slow,  but  tenacious ;  they  enveloped 
.n  folds,  strong  as  flesh  and  blood,  those  whom  slio 
had  found  worthy  and  taken  to  her  heart ;  and  her 
h'\ppiness  was  more  entwined  with  them  than  tliose 


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158  MRS.  SIDD0N8. 

vrlio  knew  lier  only  in  her  professlvial  charactei 
could  have  suppoeed ;  she  would  return  home  fhwM 
the  theatre,  every  nerve  thrilling  with  the  excite- 
ment of  sympathy,  and  applause,  and  admiration, 
and  a  cold  look  or  word  from  her  husband  has  seni 
her  to  bed  in  tears.  She  had  that  sure  indication 
of  a  good  heart  and  a  fine  mind,  an  exceeding  love 
for  children,  and  a  power  to  attract  and  amuse 
them.  It  was  remarked  that  her 'voice  alwayi 
softened  in  addressing  a  child.  I  remember  a 
letter  of  hers  relative  to  a  young  mother  and  her 
infant,  in  which,  among  other  tender  and  playful 
things,  she  says,  "  I  wonder  whether  Lady  N —  if 
as  good  a  talker  of  baby-nonsense  as  I  flatter  my- 
self /  am  I  **  A  lady  who  was  intimate  with  her, 
happening  to  enter  her  bedroom  early  one  mom* 
ing,  found  her  with  two  of  her  little  grandchildren 
romping  on  her  bed,  and  playing  with  the  tresses 
of  her  long  dark  hair,  which  she  had  let  down  foi 
their  amusement.  Her  own  children  adored  her; 
her  surviving  friends  refer  to  her  with  tenderness, 
with  gratitude,  even  with  tears.  I  speak  here  of 
what  I  know.  I  have  seldom  been  more  touched 
to  the  heart  than  by  the  perusal  of  some  of  hei 
most  private  letters  and  notes,  which  for  tender> 
ness  of  sentiment,  genuine  feeling,  and  simple  yel 
forcible    expression,    could    not    be    surpassed.* 

*  I  UB  pennitted  to  s^ve  the  Ibllowing  little  extract  as  lkrth.)i 
Uiutiating  that  tenderness  of  nature  which  I  hare  only  touched 

«pon.    "  I  owe a  letter,  but  I  don't  know  how  it  If 

ttow  that  I  am  arrired  a    that  time  of  life  when  I  suppoeed  I 


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MRS.  8IDDON8.  459 

A-cireas  though  she  was,  she  had  no  idea  of  doing 
any  thing  for  the  sake  of  appearances,  or  of  court- 
ing popularity  by  any  means  but  excellence  in  her 
art  She  loved  the  elegances  and  refinements  of 
life — enjoyed,  and  freely  shared  what  she  had 
toiled  to  obt£un — ^and  in  the  earlier  part  of  her 
career  was  the  frequent  victim  of  her  own  kind 
and  careless  nature.  She  has  been  known  to  give 
generously,  nobly, — to  sympathize  warmly;  but 
did  she  deny  to  greedy  selfishness  or  spendthrift 
vanity  the  twentieth  demand  on  her  purse  or  her 
benevolence?  Was  she,  while  absorbed  in  her 
poetical,  ideal  existence,  the  dupe  of  exterior 
ehows  in  judging  of  character  ?  Or  did  she,  from 
total  ignorance  of,  or  indifference  to,  the  common- 
place prejudices,  or  customary  forms  of  society, 
unconsciously  wound  the  amour-propre  of  some 
shallow  flatterer  or  critic,— or  by  bringing  the 
gravity  and  glory  of  her  histrionic  impersonations 
into  the  firivolities  and  hard  realities  of  this  our 
world,  render  herself  obnoxious  to  vulgar  ridicule  ? 
— ^then  was  she  made  to  feel  what  it  is  to  live  in 


riMmld  be  able  to  sit  down  and  indulge  my  natural  indolence,  I 
Bnd  the  bndness  of  it  thickens  and  increases  around  me;  and  1 
am  now  as  much  occupied  about  the  aflD&irs  of  others  as  I  have 
been  about  my  own.  I  am  Just  now  expecting  my  son  George^s 
\«ro  babies  from  India  The  ship  which  took  them  from  their 
|4irents,  I  thank  heaTen,  is  safely  arrived:  Oh!  that  they  could 
i»owit.*  For  the  present  I  shall  hare  them  near  me.  Then 
in  a  8cho<d  between  my  little  hut  and  the  church,  where  thej 
hOI  haTe  delicious  air,  and  I  shaL  be  able  to  see  the  poor  dean 
irery  day." 


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160  MBB.  SIDDONS. 

the  public  eye;  then  flew  round  the  maligiant 
ilander,  the  vengeful  lie,  the  base  sneer,  the  im> 
pertinent  misinterpretation  of  what  few  could 
understand  and  fewer  feel  I  Reach  her  these  libels 
could  not — but  sometimes  thej  reached  those  whose 
affectionate  reverence  fenced  her  round  from  the 
rude  contact  of  real  life.  In  some  things  Mnu 
Siddons  was  like  a  child.  I  have  heard  anecdotes 
of  her  extreme  simplicity,  which  hj  the  force  of 
contrast  made  me  smile — at  ihcm^  not  at  her :  who 
could  have  laughed  at  Mrs.  Siddons  ?  I  should 
as  soon  have  thought  of  laughing  at  the  Delphic 
SibyL 

As  an  artist,  her  genius  appears  to  have  been 
slowly  developed.  She  did  not,  as  it  has  hee\ 
said  of  her  niece,  "  spring  at  once  into  the  chair 
of  the  tragic  muse  ;**  but  toiled  her  way  up  to  glory 
and  excellence  in  her  profession,  through  length 
of  time,  difficulties,  and  obstacles  innimierable 
She  was  exclusively  professional ;  and  all  her  at- 
tainments, and  all  her  powers,  seem  to  have  been 
directed  to  one  end  and  aim.  Yet  I  suppose  no 
one  would  have  said  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  that  she  was 
a  "  mere  actress,"  as  it  was  usually  said  of  Garriek, 
that  he  was  a  "  mere  player  ;  ** — the  most  admirable 
%nd  versatile  actor  that  ever  existed ;  but  still  the 
mere  player ; — nothing  more — nothing  better.  He 
docs  not  appear  to  have  had  a  tincture  of  that  high 
gentlemanly  feeling,  that  native  elevation  of  cha'- 
acter,  and  general  literary  taste  which  strike  us  ii 
John  Kemble  and  hb  brother  Charles;  nor  any 


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MRS.  SIDDON8.  461 

flADgof  the  splendid  imagination,  the  enthisiasm 
Df  art,  the  personal  grace  and  grandeur,  -which 
threw  such  a  glory  around  Mrs.  Siddons.  Of  John 
Remble  it  might  be  said,*  as  Dryden  said  of  Harte 
m  his  time,  that  "kings  and  princes  might  have 
come  to  him,  and  taken  lessons  how  to  comport 
themselves  with  dignity."  And  with  the  noble 
presence  of  Mrs.  Siddons  we  associated,  in  public 
and  in  private,  scxnething  absolutely  awful.  We 
were  accustomed  to  bring  her  before  our  fancy  ai 
one  habitually  elevated  above  the  sphere  of  familial 
life,— 

**  Attired  in  all  the  majesty  of  art — 
Crown' d  with  the  rich  traditions  of  a  soul 
That  hates  to  have  her  dignity  profaned 
B"«'  any  relish  of  an  earthly  thought"  f 

Wlio  iras  it? — (I  think  Northcote  the  painter,) 
who  said  he  had  seen  a  group  of  young  ladies  <A 
rank.  Lady  Fannys  and  Lady  Marys,  peeping 
through  the  half-open  door  of  a  room  where  Mrs. 
Siddons  was  sitting,  with  the  same  timidity  and 
curiosity  as  if  it  had  been  some  preternatural  being, 
— ^much  more  than  if  it  had  been  the  queen :  which 
I  can  easily  believe.  I  remember  that  the  first 
time  I  found  myself  in  the  same  room  with  Mrs. 
Siddons,  (I  was  then  about  twenty,)  I  gazed  on  her 
as  I  should  have  gazed  at  one  of  the  Egyptian 

•  I  belieye  it  ?uu  beea  said;  but,  like  Madlle.  de  Montpenflkr 
aj  imagination  and  my  memoiy  are  KnnetlmflB  confounded. 

*  Ben  Jonson. 


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162  MRA.  SIDDONS 

pyrauiids — nay,  with  a  deeper  awe,  for  wliat  ii 
material  and  physical  immensity,  compar3d  with 
moral  and  poetical  grandeur  ?  I  was  struck  with 
a  sensation  which  made  my  heart  pause,  and  reii« 
dered  me  dumb  for  some  minutes ;  and  when  I  was 
led  into  conversation  with  her,  my  first  words  came 
faltering  and  thick, — which  never  certainly  would 
have  been  the  case  in  presence  of  the  autocratrix 
of  all  the  Russias.  The  greatest,  the  noblest  in  the 
land  approached  her  with  a  deference  not  unmin- 
gled  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment,  while  she  stood 
in  regal  guise  majestic,  with  the  air  of  one  who  be- 
stowed and  never  received  honor.*  Nor  was  this 
feeling  of  her  power,  which  was  derived,  partly 
from  her  own  peculiar  dignity  of  deportment,  partly 
from  her  association  with  all  that  was  grand,  poeti- 
cal, terrible,  confined  to  those  who  could  appreciate 
the  full  measure  of  her  endowments.  Every  mem- 
ber of  that  public,  whose  idol  she  was,  from  the 
greatest  down  to  the  meanest,  felt  it  more  or  less. 
I  knew  a  poor  woman  who  once  went  to  the  house 
of  Mrs.  Siddons  to  be  paid  by  her  daughter  for 
some  embroidery.  Mrs.  Siddons  happened  to  be  in 
the  room,  and  the  woman  perceiving  who  it  was, 
was  so  overpowered,  that  she  could  not  count  her 
money,  and  scarcely  dared  to  draw  her  breath. 
**  And  when  I  went  away,  ma'am,"  added  she,  in 
describing  her  own  sensations,  **I  walked  all  the 
way  down  the  street,  feeling  myself  a  great  dea«* 

*  George  the  Fourth,  after  eouTersing  with  her,  nid  with  ea 
plMfU,  "  She  is  the  on^  real  queen ' " 


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MRS.  SIDDONS.  468 

taller.**  This  was  the  same  unconsc.  ous  feeling  of 
the  sublime,  which  made  Bouchardon  say  that, 
after  reading  the  Eiad,  he  fancied  himself  seven 
feet  high. 

She  modelled  very  beautifully,  and  in  this  talent, 
which  was  in  a  manner  intuitive,  she  displayed  a 
creatif  e  as  well  as  an  imitative  power.  Might  we 
not  say  that  in  the  peculiar  character  of  her  genius 
—in  the  combination  of  the  very  real  with  the  very 
ideal,  of  the  demonstrative  and  the  visionary,  of 
vastness  and  symmetry,  of  the  massive  matenal  and 
the  grand  unearthly  forms  into  which  it  shaped  it- 
self— there  was  something  analogous  to  sculpture  ? 
At  all  events,  it  is  the  opinion  of  many  who  knew 
her,  that  if  she  had  not  been  a  great  actress  she 
would  have  devoted  herself  to  sculpture.  She  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  occupied  with  her  model- 
ling tools ;  she  would  stand  at  her  work  eight  hours 
together,  scarcely  turning  her  head.  Music  she 
passionately  loved  :  in  her  younger  days  her  voice 
in  singing  was  exquisitely  sweet  and  flexible.  She 
would  sometimes  compose  verses,  and  sing  them  to 
an  extemporaneous  air ;  but  I  believe  she  did  not 
perform  on  any  instrument 

To  complete  this  sketch  I  shall  add  an  outline  oi 
W  professional  life. 

Mrs.  Siddons  was  bom  in  1 755  She  might  be 
said,  almost  without  metaphor,  to  have  been  "  bom 
on  the  stage.**  All  the  family,  I  believe,  for  two  or 
thn^e  generations,  had  been  players.  In  her  early 
life  she  endured  many  vicissitudes,  and  was  ao* 


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iHA  MBS.   SIBDONS. 

quainted  with  niisery  and  hardship  in  many  repnl- 
aye  forms.  On  this  subject  she  had  none  of  the 
pride  of  a  little  mind ;  but  alluded  to  her  former 
Dituation  with  perfect  simplicity.  The  description 
in  Mrs.  Inchbald*s  Memoirs  of  ^*  Mrs.  Siddons  sing- 
^g  and  mending  her  children's  clothes,"  is  from 
lie  life,  and  charming  as  well  as  touching,  when  we 
consider  her  peculiar  character  and  her  subsequent 
destinies.  She  was  in  her  twenty-first  year  when 
she  made  her  first  attempt  in  London,  (for  it  was 
but  an  attempt,)  in  the  character  of  Portia.  She 
also  appeared  as  Lady  Anne  in  Richard  IQ.  and 
in  comedy  as  Mrs.  Strickland  to  Garrick's  Ranger. 
She  was  not  successful:  Garrick  is  said  to  have 
been  jealous  of  her  ri^ng  powers :  the  public  did 
not  discover  in  her  the  future  tragic  muse,  and  for 
herself—"  She  felt  that  she  was  greater  than  she 
knew."  She  returned  to  her  provincial  career; 
she  spent  seven  years  in  patient  study,  in  refleo- 
don,  in  contemplation,  and  in  mastering  the  practi- 
cal part  of  her  profession ;  and  then  she  returned 
ftt  the  age  of  twenty-eight,  and  burst  upon  the 
world  in  the  prime  of  her  beauty  and  transcendent 
powers,  with  all  the  attributes  of  confirmed  and  ac- 
knowledged excellence. 

It  appears  that,  in  her  first  season,  she  did  not 
^lay  one  of  Shakspeare's  characters :  she  performed 
Isabella,  Euphrasia,  Jane  Shore,  Calista,  and  Zara. 
In  a  visit  she  paid  to  Dr.  Johnson,  at  the  conclu- 
von  of  the  season,  she  informed  him  that  it  was  het 
kitention,  the  following  year,  to  bring  out  some  O: 


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MRS.    SIDD0X8.  460 

Shakspe<»re's  heroines,  particularly  Katherine  d 
Arragon,  to  which  she  then  gave  the  preference  as 
a  character.  Dr.  Johnson  agreed  with  her,  and 
added  that,  when  she  played  Katherine,  he  would 
hobble  to  the  theatre  himself  to  see  her ;  but  he 
did  not  live  to  pay  her  this  tribute  of  admiration. 
He,  however,  paid  her  another  not  less  valuable : 
describing  his  visitor  after  her  departure,  he  said. 
**  she  left  nothing  behind  her  to  be  censured  or  de- 
spised ;  neither  praise  nor  money,  those  two  power- 
ful corrupters  of  mankind,  seem  to  have  depraved 
her."*  In  this  interview  she  seems  to  have  pleased 
the  old  critic  and  moralist,  who  was  also  a  severe 
and  acute  judge  of  human  nature,  and  not  inclined 
to  judge  favorably  of  actresses,  by  the  union  of 
modesty  with  native  dignity  which  at  all  times  dis- 
tinguished her ; — a  rare  union  I  and  most  delightful 
in  those  who  are  the  objects  of  the  public  gaze, 
and  when  the  popular  enthusiasm  is  still  in  all  it» 
first  intoxicating  effervescence. 

The  first  of  Shakspeare's  characters  which  Mrs. 
Siddons  performed  was  Isabella,  in  Measure  for 
Measure,  (1 784,)  and  the  next  Constfince.  In  the 
same  year  Sir  Joshua  painted  her  as  the  tragic 
Muse.f  With  what  a  deep  interest  shall  we  now 
visit  this  her  true  apotheosis, — now  that  it  has  re- 
ceived its  last  consecration !  The  rest  of  Shak- 
•peare's  characters  followed  in  this  order:  Lady 

•  In  a  tetter  to  Mrs.  Thrate. 

t  In  the  GrosTenor  gallery.  There  is  a  duplicate  at  thk  piv 
twe  In  Che  Dulwlch  gallery 


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166  MBS.    8IDD0N8. 

Macbeth  in  1785,  aud,  soon  afterwards,  as  if  by 
waj  of  contrast,  Desdemona,  Ophelia,  Rosalind 
In  1786  she  played  Imogen;  in  1788  Eatherine 
of  Arragon;  and,  in  1789,  Yolumnia;  and  in  the 
fame  season  she  played  Juliet,  being  then  in  her 
thirty-fifth  year, — ^too  old  for  Juliet ;  nor  did  this 
ever  become  one  of  her  popular  parts ;  she  left  it 
to  her  niece  to  identify  herself  forever  with  the 
poetry  and  senability,  the  youthful  grace  and  fervid 
passion  of  Shakspeare's  Juliet;  and  we  have  as 
little  chance  of  ever  seeing  such  another  Juliet  as 
Fanny  Eemble,  as  of  ever  seeing  such  another 
Lady  Macbeth  as  her  magnificent  aunt 

A  good  critic,  who  was  also  a  great  admirer  of 
Mrs.  Siddons,  asserts  that  there  must  be  something 
in  acting  which  levels  all  poetical  distinctions,  since 
people  talked  in  the  same  breath  of  her  Lady  Mac- 
beth and  Mrs.  Beverley  as  being  equally  ^*  fine 
pieces  of  acting."  I  think  he  is  mistaken.  No 
5ne — no  one  at  least  but  the  most  vulgar  part  of 
her  audience— ever  equalized  these  two  characters, 
even  as  pieces  of  acting ;  or  imagined  for  a  moment 
that  the  same  degree  of  talent  which  sufficed  to 
represent  Mrs.  Beverley  could  have  grasped  the 
towering  grandeur  of  such  a  character  as  Lady 
Macbeth ; — dived  into  its  profound  and  gloomy 
depths — seized  and  reflected  its  wonderful  grada- 
tions— displayed  its  magnificence — developed  iti 
beauties,  and  revealed  its  terrors:  no  such  thing 
She  might  have  drawn  more  tears  in  Isabella  than 
m  Constance — thrown  more  young  ladies  into  hye* 


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MRS.    SIBDONB.  46  T 

terics  in  Beividera  tban  in  Katheriue  of  Arragon  \ 
but  all  with  whom  I  have  conversed  on  the  subject 
of  Mrs.  Siddons,  are  agreed  in  this ; — that  her  finest 
characters,  as  pieces  of  art,  were  those  which  af- 
forded the  fullest  scope  for  her  powers,  and  con- 
tained in  themselves  the  largest  materials  in  poetry, 
grandeur,  and  passion  :  consequently,  that  her 
Constance,  Eatherine  of  Arragon,  Volumnia,  Her- 
mione,  and  Lady  Macbeth  stood  preeminent.  In 
playing  Jane  de  Montfort,  in  Joanna  Baillie*8 
tragedy,  her  audience  almost  lost  the  sense  of  im- 
personation in  the  feeling  of  identity.  She  uxu 
Jane  de  Montfort — the  actress,  the  woman,  the 
character,  blended  into  each  other.  It  b  a  mistaken 
idea  that  she  herself  preferred  the  part  of  Aspasia 
(in  Rowe's  Bajazet)  to  any  of  these  grand  impei^ 
Bonations.  She  spoke  of  it  as  one  in  which  she  had 
produced  the  most  extraordinary  effect  on  the 
nerves  of  her  audience ;  and  this  is  true.  "  I  rec- 
ollect,** said  a  gentleman  to  me,  "  being  present  at 
one  of  the  last  representations  of  Bajazet :  and  at 
the  moment  when  the  order  b  given  to  strangle 
Moneses,  while  Aspasia  stands  immovable  in  front 
of  the  stage,  I  turned  my  head,  unable  to  endure 
more,  and  to  my  amazement  I  beheld  the  whole  pit 
itaring  ghastly,  with  upward  faces,  dilated  eyes, 
and  mouths  wide  open — gasping — ^fascinated.  Nor 
shall  I  ever  forget  the  strange  effect  produced  by 
that  sea  of  human  faces,  all  fixed  in  one  simulta- 
neous expression  of  stony  horror.  It  realized  for  a 
moment  the  fabled  power  of  *he  Medusa — ^it  wai 
^ft^r^blef'' 


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168  MRS.  SIDD0N8. 

Of  all  her  great  characters,  Lord  Byron,  I  be- 
lieve, preferred  Constance,  to  which  she  gave  the 
preference  herself,  and  esteemed  it  the  most  diffi- 
cult and  the  most  finished  of  all  her  impersonations , 
but  the  general  opinion  stamps  her  Ladj  Macbeth 
as  the  grandest  efibrt  of  her  art;  and  therefore,  as 
she  was  the  first  in  her  art,  as  the  neplus  ultra  of 
acting.  This  at  least  was  the  opinion  of  one  who 
ftdmired  her  with  all  the  fervor  of  a  kindred  genius, 
and  could  lavish  on  her  prsuse  of  such  "  rich  words 
composed  as  made  the  gift  more  sweef  Of  her 
Lady  Macbeth,  he  says,  "  nothing  could  have  been 
imagined  grander, — it  was  something  above  nature ; 
h  seemed  almost  as  if  a  being  of  a  superior  order 
had  dropped  from  a  higher  sphere  to  awe  the  world 
with  the  majesty  of  her  appearance.  Power  was 
beatcd  on  her  brow,  passion  emanated  from  her 
breast  as  from  a  shrine.  In  coming  on  in  the  sleep- 
ing scene,  her  eyes  were  open,  but  their  sense  was 
shut ;  she  was  like  a  person  bewildered :  her  lips 
moved  involuntarily;  all  her  gestures  seemed 
mechanical — she  glided  on  and  ofi*  the  stage  like 
an  apparition.  To  have  seen  her  in  that  charactei 
was  an  event  in  every  one's  life  never  to  be  fi»^ 
gotten." 

By  profound  and  incessant  study  she  had  brough . 
her  conception  and  representation  of  this  character 
to  such  a  pitch  of  perfection  that  the  imagination 
could  conceive  of  nothing  more  magnificent  or 
more  finished ;  and  yet  she  has  been  heard  to  say, 
ifter  playing  it  for  thirty  years,  that  she  nevei 


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MBS.  8IDDON8.  469 

read  over  th<5  part  without  disco'vering  in  it  somp- 
Jiing  new ;  nor  ever  went  on  the  stage  to  perform 
t,  without  spending  the  whole  morning  in  studying 
and  meditating  it,  line  hj  line,  as  intently  as  if 
ihe  were  about  to  act  it  for  the  first  time.  In  this 
character  she  bid  farewell  to  her  profession  and  the 
public,  (June  29th,  1812.)  The  audience,  on  this 
occasion,  paid  her  a  singular  and  touching  tribute 
of  respect  On  her  going  off  in  the  sleeping  scene, 
they  commanded  the  curtain  to  fall,  and  would  not 
Buffer  the  play  to  proceed.  ♦ 

The  idea  that  Mrs.  Siddons  was  quite  unmoved 
by  the  emotions  she  portrayed — the  sorrows  and 
the  passions  she  embodied  with  such  inimitablo 
skill  and  truth,  is  altogether  false.  Fine  acting 
may  accidentally  be  mere  impulse ;  it  never  can  be 
wholly  mechanical.  To  a  late  period  of  her  life 
she  continued  to  be  strongly,  sometimes  painfully, 
excited  by  her  own  acting  ;  the  part  of  Constance 
always  affected  her  powerfully — she  invariably  left 
the  stage,  her  face  streaming  with  tears ;  and  after 
playing  Lady  Macbeth,  she  could  not  sleep :  even 


*  She  afterwardfl  played  Lady  Randolph  for  Mr.  Oharles  Kern  • 
ble^s  benefit,  and  performed  Lady  Bfaoheth  at  the  request  of  thj 
Prineesfl  Charlotte  in  1816.  This  was  her  final  appearance.  She 
was  then  sixty-one,  and  her  powers  unabated.  I  recollect  a 
sharacteristic  passage  in  one  of  her  letters  relating  to  this  cir- 
cumstance :  she  says, "  The  princess  honored  me  with  seTeral 
'  gracious  (not  ^^occ/uZ)  nods;  but  the  newspapers  gave  me  credit 
for  much  more  sensibiUty  than  "  either  felt  or  displayed  on  the 
occasion.  I  was  by  no  means  fo  much  overwhelmed  by  her  Royai 
^hness's  kindness,  as  they  were  pleased  to  represent  me.'' 


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170  MRS.  BIDD0N8. 

ifler  reading  the  play  of  Macbeth  a  feyerish,  wake 
ful  night  was  generally  the  consequence. 

I  am  not  old  enough  to  remember  Mrs.  Siddoni 
in  her  best  days ;  but,  jud^ng  fix)m  my  own  recol 
lections,  I  should  say  that,  to  hear  her  read  one  of 
Shakspeare's  plays,  was  a  higher,  a  more  complete 
gratification,  and  a  more  astonishing  display  of  her 
powers,  than  her  performance  of  any  single  char« 
acter.  On  the  stage  she  was  the  perfect  actress ; 
when  she  was  reading  Shakspeare,  her  profound 
enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  poet,  and  deep  in- 
nght  into  hb  most  hidden  beauties,  made  her  almost 
a  poetess,  or  at  least,  like  a  priestess,  full  of  the 
god  of  her  idolatry.  Her  whole  soul  looked  out 
from  her  r^al  brow  and  efiulgent  eyes ;  and  then 
her  countenance ! — the  inconceivable  flexibility 
and  musical  intonations  of  her  voice !  there  was  no 
got-up  illusion  here :  no  scenes — no  trickery  of  the 
stage ;  there  needed  no  sceptred  pall — no  sweeping 
train,  nor  any  of  the  gorgeous  accompaniments  of 
tragedy ; — She  was  Tragedy !  When  in  reading 
Macbeth  she  said,  *' give  me  the  daggers  I"  they 
gleamed  before  our  eyes.  The  witch  scenes  in  the 
same  play  she  rendered  awfully  terrific  by  the 
magic  of  looks  and  tones ;  she  invested  the  weird 
listers  with  all  their  own  infernal  fascinations ;  they 
were  the  serious,  poetical,  tragical  personages  which 
the  poet  intended  them  to  be,  and  the  wild  gro- 
tesque horror  of  their  enchantments  made  th€ 
t>lood  curdle.  When,  in  King  John,  she  came  tc 
(he  passage  beginning — 


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MRS.   SIDDON8.  47 \ 

^  £f  the  midnight  bell, 
Did  with  his  iron  tongue  and  brazen  note/*  &o. 

.  renxember  I  felt  every  drop  of  blood  pause,  and 
tfien  fun  backwards  through  my  veins  with  an 
•verpowering  awe  and  horror.  No  scenic  repre- 
sentation I  ever  witnessed  produced  the  hundredth 
part  of  the  effect  of  her  reading  Hamlet  This 
tragedy  was  the  triumph  of  her  art  Hamlet  and 
bis  mother,  Polonius,  Ophelia,  were  all  there  before 
US.  Those  who  ever  heard  her  give  Ophelia's  reply 
Co  Hamlet, 

Hamlet.    I  loved  you  not 
Ophelia.   I  was  the  more  deceived  1 

tnd  tne  lines — 

And  I,  of  ladies  most  deject  and  wretched. 
That  sacked  the  honey  of  his  music  vows,  &c. 

will  never  forget  their  exquisite  pathos.  What  a 
revelation  of  love  and  woe  was  there  ! — ^the  very 
heart  seemed  to  break  upon  the  utterance. 

Liear  was  another  of  her  grai  dest  efforts ;  bnt 
her  rare  talent  was  not  confined  to  tragedy ;  none 
could  exceed  her  in  the  power  to  conceive  and 
render  witty  and  humorous  character.  I  thought 
I  had  never  understood  or  felt  the  comic  force  of 
luch  parts  as  Polonius,  Lucio,  Gratiano,  and 
Shakspeare's  clowns,  till  I  heard  the  dialogue  from 
her  lips :  and  to  hear  her  read  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  and  As  You  Like  It,  was  hardly  a  leas  pep 
feet  treat  than  to  hear  her  read  Macbeth. 


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472  MRS.  8IDD0N8. 

The  foUo^ving  short  extract  from  a  letter  of  Mr« 
Joanna  Ba'llie,  dated  about  a  year  before  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Siddons  will,  I  am  persuaded,  be 
read  with  a  double  interest,  for  her  sake  who 
penned  it,  not  less  than  hers  who  is  the  subject 
of  it. 

^The  most  agreeable  thing  I  have  to  b^;in 
with,  is  a  visit  we  paid  last  week  to  Mrs.  Siddcma. 
We  had  met  her  at  dinner  at  Mr.  Rogers's  a  few 
days  before,  and  she  kindly  asked  us,  our  host 
and  his  sister,  the  Thursday  following;  an  invita- 
tion which  we  gladly  accepted,  though  we  ex- 
pected to  see  much  decay  in  her  powers  of  ex- 
pression, and  consequently  to  have  our  pleasure 
.mingled  with  pain.  Judge  then  of  our  delight 
when  we  heard  her  read  the  best  scenes  of  Hamlet, 
with  expression  of  countenance,  voice,  and  action, 
that  would  have  done  honor  to  her  best  days  I  She 
was  before  us  as  an  unconquerable  creature,  over 
whose  astonishing  gifts  of  nature  time  had  no 
power.*  She  complained  of  her  voice,  which  she 
said  was  not  obedient  to  her  will ;  but  it  appeared 
to  my  ear  to  be  peculiarly  true  to  nature,  and  the 
more  so,  because  it  had  lost  that  deep  solemnity  of 
tone  which  she,  perhaps,  had  considered  as  an  ex- 
cellence. I  thought  I  could  trace  in  the  pity  and 
tenderness,  mixed  with  her  awe  of  the  ghost,  the 


•  «  r<nr  time  hath  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her 
As  be  too  had  been  awed." 

Di  MoirTFOiv. 


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MRS.   SIDDONS.  478 

aatural  feelings  of  one  who  had  lost  deai  friends, 
ind  expected  to  go  to  them  soon ;  and  her  reading 
of  that  scene,  (the  noblest  which  dramatic  art  ever 
achieved,)  went  to  my  heart  as  it  had  never  done 
bf  fore.  At  the  end,  Mr.  Rogers  very  justly  said, 
'  Oh,  that  we  could  have  assembled  a  company  of 
''onng  people  to  witness  this,  that  they  might  have 
fX)nveyed  the  memory  of  it  down  to  another  gener* 
ation  I  *  In  short,  we  left  her  full  of  admiration, 
as  well  as  of  gratitude,  that  she  had  made  such  an 
exertion  to  gratify  so  small  an  audience ;  for,  ex- 
clusive of  her  own  family,  we  were  but  five." 

She  continued  to  exercise  her  power  of  reading 
and  reciting  long  after  the  date  of  this  letter,  even 
till  within  a  few  days  of  her  death,  although  her 
health  had  long  been  in  a  declining  state.*  She 
died  at  length  on  the  8th  of  June,  1831,  afler  a 
few  hours  of  acute  suffering.  She  had  lived  nearly 
Beventy-six  years,  of  which  forty-six  were  spent  in 
the  constant  presence  and  service  of  the  public. 
She  was  an  honor  to  her  profession,  which  wa§ 
more  honored  and  honorable  in  her  person  and 
family  than  it  ever  was  before,  or  will  be  hereaftere 
rill  the  stage  becomes  something  very  different 
6K>m  what  it  now  is. 

And,  since  it  has  pleased  some  writers  (wlio 
apparently  knew  as  Httle  of  her  real  situation  as  of 
her  real  character)  to  lament  over  the  misfortune 
of  this  celebrated  woman,  in  having  survived  all 

«  The  last  play  she  lead  aloud  was  Henrr  Y.  only  ten  dajf  b* 
'kare  she  iied 


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174  MRS.   SIDDONS. 

her  children,  &c.  &c^  it  may  be  interesting  to  add 
that,  a  short  time  before  her  death,  she  was  seated 
in  a  room  in  her  own  house,  when  about  thirty 
of  her  young  relatiyes,  children,  grandchildren, 
nephews  and  nieces,  were  assembled,  and  looked 
on  while  they  were  dancing,  with  great  and  evi- 
dent pleasure:  and  that  her  surviving  daughter, 
Cecilia  Siddons,*  who  had  been,  for  many  yean, 
the  inseparable  friend  and  companion  of  her 
mother,  attended  upon  her  with  truly  filial  devo- 
tion and  reverence  to  the  last  moment  of  existence. 
Her  admirers  may,  therefore,  console  themselvei 
with  the  idea  that  in  "  love,  obedience,  troops  of 
friends,"  as  well  as  affluence  and  fame,  she  had 
*^  all  that  should  accompany  old  age."  She  died 
full  of  years  and  honors ;  having  enjoyed,  in  her 
long  life,  as  much  glory  and  prosperity  as  any  mor- 
tal could  expect:  having  imparted  more  intense 
and  general  pleasure  than  ever  mortal  did ;  and 
having  paid  the  tribute  of  mortality  in  such  suffer- 
ing and  sorrow  as  wait  on  the  widowed  wife  and 
the  bereaved  mother.  If  with  such  rare  natural 
^fls  were  blended  some  human  infirmities ; — if  the 
cnltivalion  of  the  imaginative  far  above  the  pei^ 
ceptive  faculties,  hazarded  her  individual  happi- 
ness ; — ^if  in  the  course  of  a  professional  career  of 
unexampled  continuance  and  splendor,  the  love 
of  praise  ever  degenerated  into  the  appetite  for 
applause; — if  the  worshipped  actress  languished 

*  Now  Mm.  Geoise  Caml)«. 


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MRS.   8IDDONS.  476 

rat  of  her  atmosphere  of  incense, — is  this  to  be 
made  matter  of  wonder  or  of  ill-natured  comment  ? 
Did  ever  any  human  being  escape  more  intacte  in 
person  and  mind  from  the  fiery  furnace  of  popular 
admiration  ?  Let  U8  remember  the  seyerity  of  the 
ordeal  to  which  she  was  exposed ;  the  hard  lot  of 
those  who  pass  their  lives  in  the  full-noon  glare  of 
public  observation,  where  every  speck  is  noted  I 
What  a  difference  too,  between  the  aspiration  after 
immortahty  and  the  pursmt  of  celebrity  1 — The 
noise  of  distant  and  future  fame  is  like  the  sound 
of  the  far-off  sea,  and  the  mingled  roll  of  its  multi- 
tudinous waves,  which,  as  it  swells  on  the  ear,  ele- 
vates the  soul  with  a  sublime  emotion ;  but  present 
and  loud  applause,  flung  continually  in  one's  face 
is  like  the  noisy  dash  of  the  surf  upor  the  rock,— 
iod  it  requires  the  firmness  of  the  rork  tc  bear  it 


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SKETCHES 

OF 

FANNY  KEMBLE 

IN  JULIET. 

mRODUCTION  AND  NOTES  TO  MR.  JOHN  HATTBB*I| 
8KBTCHE8  OF  FANNT  KBMBLB,  IN  THE  CHARACTTKB 
OF  JULIET.* 

<*  Non  place  a  lei  ehe  innamerabil  taitM 
Tiya  in  atto  di  fteor,  morta  di  dentro, 
Le  applauda  a  oaso,  e  mano  a  man  pexouoto; 
Ne  si  rallegra  se  le  road  Toci 

Tolgano  a  lei  quelle  inflniti  lodi 

Ma  la  poasanza  del  diyino  ingegno, 

Vita  di  dentro." 

It  would  be  doing  an  injustice  to  the  author  of 
these  sketches,  and  something  worse  than  injustice 
to  her  who  is  the  subject  of  them,  should  more  be 
expected  than  the  pencil  could  possibly  convey, 
and  more  required  than  the  artist  ever  intended  to 
exocute.  Their  merit  consists  in  their  fidelity,  as 
far  as  they  go ;  their  interest  in  conveying  a  lively 
and  distinct  idea  of  some  immediate  and  transient 

*  These  sketches,  once  intended  fat  publication,  an  nov  in 
*he  possession  of  liOrd  Francis  Bgerton.  The  introduction  and 
Qotes  were  written  in  llarch,  1880— the  conclusion  in  Siareh 
\8d4. 


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VANirX    KEMBLE  Cf   JULIET.  477 

»ti*ects  of  grace  and  expression.  They  do  not 
Assume  to  be  portr^uts  of  Miss  Kemble  :  they  are 
merely  a  series  of  rapid  outlines,  caught  from  her 
action,  and  exhibiting,  at  the  first  glance,  just  so 
Siuch  of  the  individual  and  peculiar  character  she 
has  thrown  into  her  impersonation  of  Juliet,  as  at 
once  to  be  recognized  by  those  who  have  seen  her 
To  them  alone  these  isolated  passages — ^linked  to- 
gether in  the  imagination  by  all  the  intervening 
graces  of  attitude  and  sentiment,  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  a  countenance  where  the  kindled  soul  looks 
oat  through  every  feature,  and  of  a  voice  whose 
tones  tremble  into  one's  very  heart — will  give  some 
faint  reflection  of  the  effect  produced  by  the  whole 
of  this  beautiful  piece  of  acting, — or  rather  of 
nature,  for  here  "  each  seems  either.**  It  will  be 
allowed,  even  by  the  most  enthusiastic  lover  of 
painting,  that  the  merely  imitative  arts  can  do  but 
feeble  justice  to  the  powers  of  a  fine  actress ;  for 
what  graphic  skill  can  fix  the  evanescent  shades 
of  feeling  as  they  melt  one  into  another  ? — 

**  What  fine  chisel  could  ever  yet  cut  breath?  *' 

— and  yet  even  those  who  have  not  witnessed  and 
may  never  witness  Miss  Kemble's  performance,  to 
whom  her  name  alone  can  be  borne  through  long 
intervals  of  space  and  time,  will  not  regard  these 
little  sketches  without  curiosity  and  interest.  If 
any  one  had  thought  of  transferring  to,  paper  a 
connected  series  of  some  of  the  awe-f;ommanding 
Srestures  of  Mrs.  Siddons  in  one  of  Ler  great  parts 


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17b  FA5NT  KEMBLE  IN  JULIE  f. 

"*  caught  (flying)  some  of  the  inimitable  gracea  of 
Aovement  and  attitude,  and  sparkling  effects  ol 
manner,  with  which  Mrs.  Charles  Eemble  ouc« 
enchanted  the  world,  with  what  avidity  wotdd 
they  now  be.  sought  I — ^they  would  have  served  as 
^udies  for  their  successors  in  art  to  the  end  of 
time. 

All  the  fine  arts,  poetry  excepted,  possdcB  a 
limited  range  of  power.  Painting  and  sculpture 
can  convey  none  of  the  graces  that  belong  to 
movement  and  sound:  music  can  suggest  vague 
sentiments  and  feelings,  but  it  cannot  express  inci- 
dent, or  situation,  or  form,  or  colour.  Poetry  alone 
grasps  an  unlimited  sceptre,  rules  over  the  whole 
visible  and  intellectual  universe,  and  knows  no 
hounds  but  those  of  human  genius.  And  it  is 
here  that  tragic  acting,  considered  in  its  perfec- 
tion, and  in  its  relation  to  the  fine  arts,  is  allied  to 
poetry,  or  rather  is  itself  living,  breathing  poetry  ; 
made  sensible  in  a  degree  to  the  hardest  and  dull- 
est minds,  seizing  on  the  dormant  sympathies  of 
our  nature,  and  dismissing  us  again  to  the  cares  of 
this  "  working-day  world,"  if  not  very  much  wiser, 
or  better,  or  happier,  at  least  enabled  to  digest 
with  less  bitterness  the  mixture  of  our  good  and 
evil  days. 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  just  enthusiasm  which 
a  great  actor  or  actress  excites,  so  long  as  the) 
«xist  to  minister  to  our  delight ; — in  the  midst  of 
that  atmosphere  of  light  and  life  they  shed  around 
them,  it  is  a  common  subject  of  repicing  that  suck 


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FANNT  KEMBLE   IN  JULIET.  47f 

glory  should  be  so  transient ;  that  an  art  requiring 
in  its  perfection  such  a  rare  combination  of  mental 
and  external  qualities,  can  leave  behind  no  perma- 
nent monument  of  its  own  excellence,  but  must  de- 
pend on  the  other  fine  arts  for  all  it  can  claim  of 
immortality:  that  Garrick,  for  instance,  has  be- 
come a  name — no  more — his  fame  the  echo  of  an 
echo  1  that  Mrs.  Siddons  herself  has  bequeathed  to 
posterity  only  a  pictured  semblance ; — that  when 
the  voice  of  Pasta  is  heard  no  longer  upon  earth, 
the  utmost  pomp  of  words  can  only  attest  her 
powers  1  The  painter  and  the  poet,  struggling 
through  obscurity  to  the  heights  of  fame,  and  con- 
suming a  life  in  the  pursuit  of  (perhaps)  posthu- 
mous celebrity,  may  say  to  the  sublime  actress, — 
"  Thou  in  thy  generation  haat  had  thy  meed ;  we 
have  waited  patiently  for  ours :  thou  art  vanished 
like  a  lost  star  from  the  firmament,  into  the  *  un- 
comfortable night  of  nothing';  we  have  left  the 
light  of  our  souls  behind  us,  and  survive  to  *  bless- 
ings and  eternal  praise ! ' "  And  why  should  it 
not  be  so  ?  Were  it  otherwise,  the  even-handed 
distribution  of  the  best  gifts  of  Heaven  among  fa- 
vored mortals  might  with  reason  be  impugned. 
Shall  the  young  spirit "  dampt  by  the  necessity  of 
oblivion  **  disdain  what  is  attainable  because  it  can 
not  grasp  all  ?  Conceive  for  a  moment  the  situa 
tion  of  a  woman,  in  the  prime  and  bloom  of  exiht 
ence,  with  all  her  youthful  enthusiasm,  her  unwon? 
feelings  tresh  about  her,  privileged  to  step  forth  foi 
a  short  space  out  of  the  bounds  of  common  life^ 


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480  FANKT   KEMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

without  o'erstepping  the  modesty  of  her  feDiininc 
nature,  permitted  to  cast  off  for  a  while,  unre- 
proved  and  unrestrained,  the  conyentional  tram 
mels  of  form  and  manner;  and  called  upon  tc 
realize  in  her  own  presence  and  person  the  divin 
est  dreams  of  poetry  and  romance ;  to  send  fortL 
in  a  word — a  glance, — the  electric  flash  which  io 
felt  through  a  thousand  bosoms  at  once,  till  ever}' 
heart  beats  the  same  measure  with  her  own  1  la 
there  nothing  in  all  this  to  countervail  the  dangers, 
the  evils,  and  the  vicissitudes  attendant  on  thit 
iplendid  and  public  exercise  of  talent  ?  It  may 
possibly  become,  in  time,  a  thing  of  habitude ;  it 
may  be  degraded  into  a  mere  bcsoin  de  Mainour 
propre — a  necessary,  yet  palling  excitement :  bul 
in  its  outset  it  is  surely  a  triumph  far  beyond  the 
mere  intoxication  of  personal  vanity ;  and  to  the 
very  last,  it  must  be  deemed  a  magnificent  and  an 
enviable  power. 

It  was  difficult  to  select  for  graphic  delineatioi 
any  particular  points  from  IViiss  Kemble's  repre 
sentation  of  Juliet  These  drawings  may  not, 
perhaps,  justify  the  enthusiasm  she  excited :  but  it 
ought  to  add  to  their  value  rather  than  detract 
from  it,  that  the  causes  of  their  imperfection  com- 
prehend the  very  foundation  on  which  the  present 
and  future  celebrity  of  this  young  actress  may  I  «e 
laid  to  rest.  In  the  first  place,  the  power  by  which 
she  seized  at  once  on  public  admiration  and  sym- 
pathy, was  not  derived  from  any  thing  external.  It 
was  not  founded  m  the  splendor  of  her  hereditary 


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FANNT  KEMBLE   IN  JULIET.  481 

pretenaous,  though  in  them  there  was  much  to 
fascinate :  nor  in  the  departed  or  fading  glones  of 
her  race :  nor  in  the  remembrance  of  her  mother 
—once  the  young  Euphrosyne  of  our  stage :  nor 
in  the  name  and  high  talent  of  her  father,  with 
whom,  it  was  once  feared  the  poetical  and  classical 
school  of  acting  was  destined  to  perish  from  the 
scene :  nor  in  any  mere  personal  advantageSf  for 
in  these  she  has  been  excelled, — 

**  Though  on  her  eyelids  many  graces  sit 
Under  the  shadow  of  those  even  brows:" 

nor  in  her  extreme  youth,  and  delicacy  of  figure, 
which  tell  so  beautifully  in  the  character  of  Juliel: 
nor  in  the  accladm  of  public  favor — 

"  To  have  all  eyes 
Dazzled  with  admiration,  and  all  tongues 
Shouting  loud  praises ;  to  rob  every  heart 
Of  love— 
This  glory  round  about  her  hath  thrown  beams.** 

But  stich  glory  has  circled  other  brows  ere  now, 
and  left  them  again  "  shorn  of  their  beams."  No  I 
her  success  was  founded  on  a  power  superior  to 
ftll  these — in  the  power  of  genius  superadded  to 
that  moral  interest  which  claimed  irresistibly  the 
best  sympathies  of  her  audience.  The  peculiar 
circumstances  and  feelings  which  brought  Mis* 
Kemble  before  the  public,  contrary  (as  it  is  under- 
stood) to  all  the  previous  wishes  and  fntentionp  of 
her  parents,  were  such  as  would  have  justified  «« 


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482  FANNT   KEMBLE   IN  JUI.U.r. 

decided  talent, — ^honorable  to  herself  and  to  he: 
family.  The  feeling  entertained  towards  her  on 
this  score  was  really  delightful ;  it  was  a  species  of 
homage,  which,  like  the  quality  of  mercy,  was 
^  twice  blessed ;  **  blessing  those  who  gave  and  her 
who  received.  It  produced  a  feeling  between  her- 
self and  the  public,  which  mere  admiration  on  the 
one  hand,  and  gratified  vanity  on  the  other,  could 
not  have  excited.  She  strongly  felt  this,  and  no 
change,  no  reverse,  diminished  her  feeling  of  the 
kindness  with  which  she  had  once  been  received ; 
but  her  own  fervid  genius  and  sensibility  did  as 
much  for  her.  She  was  herself  a  poetess;  her 
mind  claimed  a  natural  affinity  with  all  that  is 
feeling,  passionate,  and  imaginative ;  not  her  voice 
only,  but  her  soul  and  ear  were  attuned  to  the 
harmony  of  verse ;  and  hence  she  gave  forth  the 
poetry  of  such  parts  as  Juliet  and  Portia  with  an 
intense  and  familiar  power,  as  though  every  line 
and  sentiment  in  Shakspeare  had  been  early  trans- 
planted into  her  heart, — ^had  long  been  brooded 
over  in  silence, — watered  with  her  tears, — to  burst 
forth  at  last,  like  the  spontaneous  and  native 
growth  of  her  own  soul.  An  excellent  critic  of  our 
own  day  has  said,  that  "  poetical  enthusiasm  is  the 
rarest  faculty  among  players :  **  if  so,  it  cannot  be 
too  highly  valued.  Fanny  Kemble  possessed  this 
rare  faculty;  and  in  it,  a  power  that  cannot  be 
taught,  or  analyzed,  or  feigned,  or  put  on  and  off 
with  her  tragic  drapery ; — ^it  pervaded  all  she  wai 
sailed  upon  to  do.    It  was  this  which  in  <he  Greciai 


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FANirr  KBMBLB  IN  JCLIBT.  488 

Dangbter  made  her  look  and  step  so  like  a  young 
Muse ,  which  enabled  her,  by  a  single  glance — a 
tone — a  gesture — ^to  elevate  the  character  far  above 
the  language — and  exalt  the  most  common-place 
declamation  into  power  and  passion.  The  indis- 
putable fact,  that  she  appeared  on  the  stage  without 
any  previous  study  or  tuition,  ought  in  justice  to 
her  to  be  generally  known ;  it  is  most  certsdn  that 
she  was  not  nineteen  when  she  made  her  first 
appearance,  and  that  six  weeks  before  her  debut 
there  was  no  more  thought  of  her  becoming  an 
actress,  than  of  her  becoming  an  empress.  The 
assertion  must  appear  superfluous  to  those  who 
have  seen  her;  for  what  teaching,  or  what  artificial 
aids,  could  endue  her  with  the  advantages  just 
described  ? — ^**  unless  Philosophy  could  make  a  Jur 
lietl"  or  what  power  of  pencil,  though  it  were 
dipped  in  the  rainbow  and  tempered  in  the  sun* 
beams,  could  convey  this  bright  intelligence,  or 
justify  the  enthusiasm  with  which  it  is  hailed  by 
her  audience  ?  There  is  a  second  difficulty  which 
the  artist  has  had  to  contend  with,  not  less  honora* 
ble  to  the  actress ;  the  charm  of  her  impersonation 
of  Juliet  consisted  not  so  much  in  any  particulai 
XHuts,  as  in  the  general  conception  of  the  whole 
part,  and  in  the  sustsdned  preservation  and  gradual 
development  of  the  individual  character,  from  the 
first  scene  to  the  last  Where  the  merit  lies  in  tho 
oeautiful  gradations  of  feeling,  succeedmg  each 
other  like  waves  of  the  sea,  till  the  flood  of  passioo 
swells  and  towers  and  sweeps  away  all  perceptible 


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484  FAMNT  KEHBLS  IV  JITLIST* 

distinctions,  the  pencil  must  necessarily  be  at  fault 
for  as  Madame  de  Stael  says  truly,  ^^VinexprmabU 
est  pricisement  ce  qu*un  grand  aeteur  nous  fak 
ctmnaUre,** 

The  first  drawing  is  taken  from  the  scene  in 
which  Juliet  first  appears.  The  actress  has  little 
to  do,  but  to  look  the  character ; — that  is,  to  convey 
the  impres^on  of  a  gentle,  graceful  girl,  whose 
passions  and  enei^es  lie  folded  up  within  her,  like 
gathered  lightning  in  the  summer  doud;  all  her 
afiections  "  soft  as  dews  on  roses,**  which  must  ere 
long  turn  to  the  fire-shower,  and  blast  her  to  the 
earth.  The  moment  chosen  is  immediately  after 
Juliet's  expostulation  to  her  garrulouds  old  nurse — 
**  I  pr'y  thee,  peace  I  ** 

The  second,  third,  and  fourth  sketches  are  all 
from  the  masquerade  scene.  The  manner  in  which 
Juliet  receives  the  parting  salutations  of  the  guests 
has  been  justly  admired; — nothing  is  denied  to 
genius  and  taste,  aided  by  natural  grace,  else  it 
might  have  been  thought  impossible  to  throw  so 
much  meaning  and  sentiment  into  so  comnMMi  an 
action.  The  first  curtsy  is  to  Benvolio.  The 
second,  to  Mercutio,  is  distinctly  marked,  as  though 
in  him  she  recognized  the  chosen  friend  of  Bomea 
In  the  third,  to  Bomeo  himself,  the  bashfiil  sinking 
of  the  whole  figure,  the  conscious  drooping  of  the 
eyelids,  and  the  hurried,  yet  graceful  recovery  & 
herself  as  she  exclaims— 

'*  Who*8  he  that  follows  there  that  would  not  daoM? 
Go  p.ik  his  name!** 


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FANNT  KBMBLB  IK  JULIBT.  481 

•rlucli  18  die  subject  of  the  third  sketch ;  and  lastljr 
the  tone  in  which  she  gave  the  succeeding  line»« 

**  If  he  be  married, 
My  grave  is  like  to  be  my  wedding-bed  I  *' 

which  seems,  in  its  deep  quiet  pathos,  to  anticipate 
^9ome  consequence  yet  hanging  in  the  stars,"— 
form  one  unbroken  series  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
heartfelt  touches  of  nature.  The  fourth  sketch  is 
from  the  conclusion  of  the  same  scene,  where 
Juliet,  with  reluctant  steps  and  many  a  lingering 
look  back  on  the  portal  through  which  her  lover 
has  departed,  follows  her  nurse  out  of  the  banquet- 
room. 

The  two  next  drawings  are  from  the  balcony 
scene,  which  has  usually  been  considered  the  crite- 
rion of  the  talent  of  an  actress  in  this  part  The 
first  represents  the  action  which  accompanied  the 
line — 

**  By  whose  direction  fbmid*st  thou  oat  this  place?  ** 

The  second  is  the  first  <<  Good  night !" 

*<  Sweet,  good  night  1 
This  bud  of  love,  by  summer's  ripening  breath 
May  pruve  a  beauteous  flower,  when  next  we  meet** 

Fanny  Kemble's  conception  of  character  and 
sentiment  in  thb  scene  was  peculiarly  and  entirely 
uer  own.    Juliet,  as  she  properly  felt,  is  a  younii 


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i86  FAIVNY  KBMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

impasffloned  Italian  g^  who  has  flung  her  heart 
and  soul,  and  existence  upon  one  cast 

**  She  was  not  made 
Thro*  yean  or  moons  the  Inner  weight  to  bear. 
Which  colder  hearts  endure  till  thej  are  laid 
By  age  in  earth.** 

In  this  view,  the  pretty  coyness,  the  playful  coquet- 
terie^  which  has  sometimes  been  thrown  into  the 
balcony  scene,  by  way  of  making  an  efiect,  is  out 
of  place,  and  false  to  the  poetry  and  feeling  of  the 
part;  but  in  Fanny  Eemble's  delineation,  the 
earnest,  yet  bashful  tenderness;  the  timid,  yet 
growing  confidence ;  the  gradual  swelling  of  emo- 
tion from  the  depths  of  the  heart,  up  to  that  fine 
burst  of  enthusiastic  passion — 

^  Swear  by  thy  gracious  self^ 
That  art  the  god  of  my  idolatry, 
And  PUbeUeve  thee  P* 

were  all  as  true  to  the  dtuation  and  sentiment, 
as  they  were  beautifully  and  delicately  conveyed. 
The  whole  of  the  speech,  **  Thou  knoVst  the  mask 
of  night  is  on  my  face,"  was  in  truth  ^  like  softest 
music  to  attending  ears,"  from  the  exquisite  and 
various  modulation  of  voice  with  which  it  was 
uttered.  Perhaps  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
entirely  original  points  in  the  whole  scene,  wat 
the  ace  ant  and  gesture  with  which  she  gave  tht 
iine^-^ 


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ITANNT  KEMBLE   IN  JULIET.  487 

"  Romeo,  doflf  thy  name; 
And  for  that  name,  which  is  no  part  of  thee, 
Take— all  myself  I " 

rhe  grace  and  abandon  in  the  manner,  and  the 
softness  of  accent,  which  imparted  a  new  and 
charming  effect  to  this  passage,  cannot  be  expressed 
in  words;  and  it  was  so  delicately  touched,  and  so 
transitory, — so  dependent,  like  a  beautiful  chord  in 
music,  on  that  which  prepared  and  followed  it,  that 
it  was  found  impossible  to  seize  and  fix  it  in  a 
drawing. 

From  the  first  scene  with  the  nurse,  two  draw 
ings  ha^e  been  made.  The  idea  of  Juliet  discov- 
ered as  the  curtain  rises,  gazing  from  the  window, 
and  watching  for  the  return  of  her  confidante,  is 
perfectly  new.  The  attitude  (or  more  properly, 
one  of  her  attitudes,  for  they  are  various  as  they 
are  graceful  and  appropriate,)  is  given  in  the 
seventh  sketch,  and  the  artist  has  conveyed  it  with 
peculiar  grace  and  truth.  The  action  chosen  for 
the  eighth  drawing  occurs  immediately  after  Juliet*fl 
little  moment  of  petulance,  (so  justly  provoked,) 
and  before  she  utters  in  a  caressing  tone,  ^*  Come, 
what  says  Komeo  ? "  The  first  speech  in  this 
Kene, 

**  0,  she  is  lame  I  love's  heralds  should  be  thoughts, 
Which  ten  times  faster  glide  than  the  sun's  beams, 
Driving  back  shadows  over  lowering  hi^ls: 
Therefore  do  nimble-pinion*  d  doves  draw  love, 
And  therefore  hath  the  wmd-swift  Oupid  wings,** 

«-«nd  th3  soliloquy  ir  the  second  scene  of  the  third 


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188  FANNT  EBMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

let,  "  Gallop  apace,  ye  fiery-footed  steeds !  **  in 
which  there  is  no  particular  point  of  dramatic 
effect  to  be  made,  are  instances  of  that  innate  sense 
of  poetkal  harmony,  which  enabled  her  to  impart 
the  most  exquisite  pleasure,  merely  by  her  feeling, 
graceful,  animated  delivery  of  these  beautiful  lines. 
The  most  musical  intonation  of  voice,  the  happiest 
emphasis,  and  the  utmost  refinement,  as  well  as  the 
most  expressive  grace  of  action,  were  here  com- 
bined to  carry  passion  and  poetry  at  once  and 
vividly  to  the  heart:  but  this  perfect  triumph  of 
illusion  is  more  than  painting  could  convey. 

The  ninth  and  tenth  sketches  are  from  the  second 
scene  with  the  nurse,  called  in  theatrical  phrase 
"  the  Banishment  Scene."  One  of  the  grandest 
and  most  impressive  passages  in  the  whole  perform- 
ance was  Juliet's  reply  to  her  nurse. 

**  Nwte,  Shame  come  to  Romeo ! 

Juliet,  BlisterM  be  thy  tongue, 

For  such  a  wish !  he  was  not  born  to  shame: 
Upon  his  brow  shame  is  ashamM  to  sit; 
For  His  a  throne  where  honor  may  be  crown'd 
Sole  monarch  of  the  univeiBal  earth.** 

The  loftiness  of  look  and  gesture  with  which  she 
pronounced  the  last  line,  cannot  be  forgotten :  but 
the  efiect  consisted  so  much  in  the  action  of  the 
arm,  as  she  stepped  across  the  stage,  and  in  the 
kindling  eye  and  brow,  rather  than  in  the  attitude 
only,  that  it  could  not  well  be  conveyed  in  a  draw- 
ing.    The  first  point  selected  is  from  the  passiig«^ 


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FANNY  BBMBLE  IN  JULIBT.  489 

»  O  ln«ak,  my  heart! — ^poor  bankrupt,  break  at 
once ! "  in  which  the  gesture  is  full  of  expresdvo 
and  pathetic  grace.  The  tenth  drawing  repreaents 
the  action  which  accompanied  her  exclamation, 
"  T/balt  is  dead — and  Bmneo — banished  1 "  .The 
tone  of  piercing  anguish  in  which  she  pronounced 
the  last  word,  banished,  and  then  threw  herself  into 
the  arms  of  her  nurse,  in  all  the  helplessness  of 
utter  desolation,  formed  one  of  the  finest  passages 
in  her  performance. 

The  scene  in  which  the  lovers  part,  called  the 
Grarden  Scene,  follows;  and  the  passage  selected 

"  Art  thou  gone  so,  my  love,  my  lord,  my  friend  ? 
1  must  hear  from  thee  every  day  i*  the  hour  I " 

The  subdued  and  tremulous  intonation  with  which 
all  the  speeches  in  this  scene  were  given,  as  thoagh 
the  voice  were  broken  and  exhausted  with  excea- 
sive  weeping ;  and  the  nianner  in  which  she  still, 
though  half  insensible  in  her  nurse's  arms,  signed 
a  last  farewell  to  her  husband,  were  among  the 
most  delicate  and  original  beauties  of  the  charac- 
ter. 

The  two  next  drawings  are  from  the  fifth  scene 
of  the  third  act  The  latter  part  of  this  scene  con- 
tained many  new  and  beautiful  touches  of  feeling 
which  originated  with  Miss  Kemble  herself.  It  is 
here  that  the  real  character  of  Juliet  is  first  devel- 
oped;— it  is  here  that,  abandoned  by  the  whole 
vorld,  and  left  to  struggle  alone  with  her  fearfuJ 


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190  FANXT  KEMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

destiny,  the  higb-eouled  and  devoted  woman  takot 
place  of  the  tender,  trembling  girL  The  confiding, 
helpless  anguish  with  which  she  at  first  throws  her 
•elf  upon  her  nurse — ("  Some  comfort,  nurse  I  '^ 
•—the  gradual  relaxmg  of  her  embrace,  as  the  old 
woman  counsels  her  to  forget  Romeo  and  marry 
Paiis — the  tone  in  which  she  utters  the  question— 

**  Speakest  thou  fipom  thy  heart? 
yune.    From  my  soul  too, 
Or  else  beshrew  them  both!'* 

And  then  the  gathering  up  of  herself  with  all  the 
majesty  of  offended  virtue,  as  she  pronounces  that 
grand  "  Amen  1 " — the  effect  of  which  was  felt  io 

every  bosom ^these  were  revelations  of  beauty 

and  feeling  which  we  owed  to  Fanny  Kemble  alone. 
They  were  points  which  had  never  before  been  felt 
or  conveyed  in  the  same  manner.  The  shrinking 
up  wholly  into  herself,  and  the  concentrated  scorn 
with  which  she  uttered  the  lines — 

**Go,  counsellor  I 
Thou  and  my  bosom  henceforth  shall  be  twain!** 

are  very  spiritedly  given  in  the  fourteenth  draw- 
ing. 

From  the  scene  with  the  friar,  in  the  fourth  act, 
the  action  selected  is  where  she  grasps  her  poniard 
irith  the  resolution  of  despair — 

**  Give  me  some  present  counsel;  or,  behold, 
*Twbct  my  extremes  and  mo  this  bloody  knife 
Shkil  play  the  umpire  1  *' 


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FAKXT  KElfBLB  IN  JULIET.  4^1 

One  of  the  most  original  efiects  of  feeling  and 
geniuB  in  the  whole  play  occurred  in  the  course  of 
ihis  scene;  but,  unfortunately,  it  was  not  found 
nisceptible  of  graphic  delineation.  It  was  the  pe- 
culiar manner  with  which  she  uttered  the  wonds — 

"Are  you  at  leisure,  holy  father,  now? 
Or  shall  I  come  to  you  at  evening  mass?  ** 

The  question  in  itself  is  nothing ;  but  what  a  vol^ 
ome  of  misery  and  dread  suspense  was  in  that  look 
with  which  she  turned  from  Paris  to  the  friar,  and 
the  tone  in  which  she  uttered  those  simple  words ! 
This  was  beyond  the  pencil's  art  to  convey,  and 
jould  but  be  felt  and  remembered.  The  next 
drawing  is  therefore  from  the  scene  in  which  she 
drinks  the  sleeping  potion.  The  idea  of  speaking 
the  first  part  of  the  soliloquy  seated,  and  with  the 
caknness  of  one  settled  and  bent  up  *^  to  act  a  dis- 
mal scene  alone,"  until  her  fixed  meditation  on  the 
feariul  issue,  and  the  horrible  images  crowding  on 
her  mind,  work  her  up  to  gradual  frenzy,  was  new, 
and  originated  with  Miss  Eemble.  The  attitude 
expressed  in  the  drawing — "  0  look,  methinks  1 
see  my  cousin's  ghost," — was  always  hailed  with  an 
excess  of  enthusiasm  of  which  I  thought  many 
i^irts  of  her  performance  far  more  deserving. 

The  eighteenth  sketch  is  from  the  sleeping  scene ; 
ftnd  the  last  two  drawings  are  from  the  tomb  scene. 
The  merits  of  this  last  scene  were  chiefly  those  ol 
»t1ituie,  look,  and  manner;  and  the  whole  were  ai 
once  so  graceful  and  beautitul,  as  well  as  terribU 


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C92  wxtarr  fkmbt.r  m  julult. 

impresaye,  that  they  afforded  some  relief  from  th« 
horrors  of  the  situation,  and  the  ravings  of  Borneo 
The  alteration  of  Shakspeare,  in  the  last  act,  it 
certainly  founded  on  the  historical  tale  of  the  Gin* 
lietta :  but  though  the  circumstances  are  borrowed, 
yet  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  related  by  the  an* 
cient  novelist,  has  not  been  taken  into  considenifi 
tion  by  those  who  manufactured  this  additional 
scene  of  superfluous  horror.*  In  Juliet's  deatU 
Miss  Eemble  seized  an  original  idea,  and  worked 
it  up  with  the  most  powerful  and  beautiful  effect ; 
but  this  effect  consisted  not  so  much  in  one  atti- 
tude or  look,  as  in  a  progressive  series  of  ac^on 
and  expression,  so  true — so  painfully  true,  tb  ^t  as 
one  of  the  chief  beauties  was  the  rapidity  ifidi 
which  the  whole  passed  from  the  fascinated  yet 
aching  sight — the  artist  has  relinquished  a£.y  at>- 
tempt  to  fix  it  on  paper. 

«  «  « 

Fanny  Eemble  made  her  first  appearance  in  the 
character  of  Juliet,  October  6th,  1829,  and  bid  a 
last  farewell  to  her  London  audience  in  May,  1832 : 
during  these  three  years  she  played  through  a  very 
diversified  range  of  parts,  both  in  tragedy  and  high 
comedy .f    Sustained  by  her  native  genius  and  good 

*  The  alteration  and  interpolations  are  by  Garriok,  ci  xrhom  it 
MM  said  and  believed,  that  **  he  neyer  read  through  a  whole  pluy 
If  Shakspeare's  except  with  some  nefitrioiu  design  of  euUiijg  an  J 
taangling  it." 

t  She  played  in  London  the  following  par^s  sumeMiTely:- 
luliet,  Belyidera,  the  Grecian  Daughter,  Mrs.  BereT^  ,  Portia 
Isabella,  Lady  Townly,  Calista,  Bianca,  Beatrice,  V'.iistaui« 


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FANNY  KEMBLE   IN  JULIET.  495 

taste,  an  J  by  the  kindly  feeling  of  her  audience, 
the  could  not  be  said  to  have  failed  in  any,  not  even 
in  those  which  her  inexperience  and  extreme  youth 
rendered  premature^  to  say  the  least  She  never — 
except  in  one  or  two  instances* — had  a  voice  in  the 
selection  of  her  parts,  which,  I  think,  was  in  some 
cases  exceedingly  injudicious,  as  far  as  her  individ- 
ual powers  were  concerned.  I  know  that  she 
played  in  several  contrary  to  her  own  opinion, 
taste,  and  judgment,  and  from  a  principle  of  duty. 
Not  duty  only,  but  a  feeling  of  delicacy,  natural  to 
a  generous  mind,  which  disdained  the  appearance 
of  presuming  on  her  real  power,  rendered  her  do- 
cile, in  some  instances,  to  a  degree  which  I  regret- 
ted while  I  loved  her  for  it  She  had  a  perception 
of  some  of  the  traditional  absurdities  of  dress,  and 
ridiculous  technical  anomalies  of  theatrical  arrange- 
ments, which  she  had  not  power  to  alter,  and  which 
I  have  seen  her  endure  with  wondrous  good  tem- 
per.   Had  she  remmned  on  the  stage,  her  fine  taste 

Oamk)I&,  Lady  TMde,  Donna  Sol,  (in  Lord  Francis  Egerton^s 
translation  of  Hemani  when  played  before  the  qneen  at  Bi^^lge- 
irater  House,)  Queen  Katherine,  Catherine  of  Cleves,  Lonit^  ot 
BaToy,  in  Francis  I.,  Lady  Macbeth,  Julia  in  the  llunchl)ack. 

*  The  only  parts  which,  to  my  knowledge,  she  chose  for  her- 
wlf,  were  Portia,  Camiola,  and  Julia  in  the  Hunchback.  She 
•van  accused  of  haying  decUned  playipg  Inei  de  Castro  in  Miss 
Slitiord  s  tragedy,  and  I  heard  her  repel  that  accusation  Tery 
Indignantly,  dht  added  — **  Setting  aside  my  respect  for  Misi 
Hitford,  I  nerer,  on  principle,  hare  reftised  a  part.  It  is  nu 
easiness  to  do  whatever  is  deemed  adTantageous  to  the  whoi* 
loneem,  to  do  as  much  good  as  I  can;  ukA  to  think  of  myself 
If  they  bid  me a«t  Serubb,  I  wooid  woiVkV 


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194  FANNY  KEMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

and  original  and  powerful  mind  would  hare  can^«4 
the  public  with  her  in  some  things  which  she  corv* 
templated :  for  instance,  she  had  an  idea  of  restorw 
ing  King  Lear,  as  originally  written  by  Shakspeare, 
and  playing  the  real  Cordelia  to  her  father's  Lear. 
^Vhen  left  to  her  own  judgment,  she  ever  thought 
more  of  what  was  worthy  and  beautiful  in  itself^ 
lian  she  calculated  on  the  amount  of  vulgar  ap- 
plause it  might  attract,  or  the  sums  it  might  bring 
to  the  treasury.  Thus,  for  her  first  benefit  sh^ 
played  Portia,  a  character  which  no  vain,  self-con- 
fident actress  would  have  selected  for  such  an  occa- 
sion, because,  as  the  play  is  now  performed,  tfie 
part  is  comparatively  short,  is  always  considered  of 
secondary  importance,  and  afibrds  but  few  effective 
points :  this  was  represented  to  her ;  but  she  per- 
sisted in  her  choice :  and  how  she  played  it  out  of 
her  own  heart  and  soul  1  how  she  n'.velled  in  the 
poetry  of  the  part,  with  a  conscious  sense  and  en- 
joyment of  its  beauty,  which  was  communicated  to 
her  audience  I  Self,  after  the  first  tremor,  was  for- 
gotten, and  vanity  lost  in  her  glowing  perception 
of  the  charm  of  the  character.  She  lamented  over 
every  beautiful  line  and  passage  which  had  beev 
"  cut  out "  by  profane  hands.*    To  those  which  re 

•  Afi  Dreeden  and  at  Frankfbrt  I  law  the  Merchant  of  Ttniee 
played  as  it  stands  in  Shakspeaxe,  with  all  the  stately  scenes 
between  Portia  and  her  snitors— the  whole  of  the  ehaxaoter  ol 
leesiea— the  lorely  moonlight  dialofpie  between  Jessica  and  Lo- 
lenao,  and  the  beantiftd  speeches  giTen  to  Portia,  all  which,  by 
infferanoe  of  an  English  audience,  axe  omitted  on  onr  stage 
Wlien  I  conftssed  to  some  of  the  great  Ger^ian  oritiM,  that  the 


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FANNY  KEMBLE  IN  JULIET.  491 

mained,  the  rich  and  mellow  tones  of  her  voica 
gave  added  power,  blending  with  the  music  of  the 
verse.  It  was  by  her  own  earnest  wish  that  she 
played  Camiola,  in  Massinger's  Maid  of  Honor,  and 
this  was  certainly  one  of  her  most  exquisite  and 
most  finished  parts;  but  the  quiet  elegance,  the 
perfect  delicacy  of  the  delineation  were  never  a,^ 
preciated.  She  was  aware  of  this :  she  said,  "  The 
first  rows  of  the  pit,  and  the  first  few  boxes  will 
understand  me ;  for  the  rest  of  that  great  theatre, 
I  ought  to  play  as  they  paint  the  scenes — ^in  great 
splashes  of  black  and  white."  Bianca,  in  Mill- 
man's  Fazio,  was  another  of  her  finest  parts,  and 
as  it  contained  more  stage  effect,  it  told  more  with 
the  public.  In  this  character  she  certainly  took 
even  her  greatest  admirers  by  surprise.  The  ex- 
pression of  slumbering  passion,  and  its  gradual 
development,  was  so  fervently  portrayed,  and  yet 
so  nicely  shaded ;  the  frenzy  of  jealousy,  and  the 
alienation  of  intellect,  so  admirably  discriminated, 
and  so  powerfully  given,  that  when  the  first  emo- 
tions had  subsided,  not  admiration  only,  but  wonder 
seized  upon  her  audience :  nor  shall  I  easily  forget 
the  pale  composure  with  which  she  bore  this— one 
of  her  most  intoxicating  triumphs. 

Merchant  of  Yenioe,  Romeo,  and  Jnliet.  King  Lear,  &o.  were  n&r^ 
ftrmed  in  England,  not  only  with  imiK>rtant  omissions  of  the 
^nt,  bat  with  absolute  alterations,  affecting  eqnaUy  the  truth  oi 
character,  and  the  construction  of  the  stor}-,  they  looked  at  me, 
%t  first,  w  if  half  incredulous,  and  thdr  perception  of  the  bap 
barism,  as  well  as  the  absurdity,  was  so  forcibly  expressed  oo 
their  countenances,  and  their  contempt  so  Justifiable,  that  1  oon 
t}«8  T  felt  ashamed  fbr  my  countrymen. 


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496  FANNT  KBMBLE  IN  JULIET. 

In  Constance,  in  Queen  Eatherine,  in  Ladj 
Macbeth,  the  want  of  amplitude  and  matuiily  of 
person,  of  physical  weight  and  power,  and  a  defi- 
oienc/  both  of  experience  and  self-confidence,  were 
against  her ;  but  her  conception  of  character  was 
BO  true,  and  her  personal  resemblance  to  her  aum 
00  striking,  in  spite  of  her  comparatiyely  diminutiye 
features  and  figure,  that  one  of  the  best  and 
severest  of  our  dramatic  critics  said,  ^^  it  was  like 
looking  at  Mrs.  Siddons  through  the  wrong  end  of 
an  opera-glass."  ♦  She  had  conceived  the  idea  of 
giving  quite  a  new  reading,  which  undoubtedly 
would  have  been  the  true  reading,  of  the  character 
of  Katherine  of  Arragon,  and  instead  of  plajTng 
it  with  the  splendid  poetical  coloring  in  which  Mrs. 
Siddons  had  arrayed  it,  bring  it  down  to  the  prosaic 
delineation  which  Shakspeare  really  gave,  and 

*  The  resemblance  was  in  the  brow  and  eye.  When  she  was 
ritting  to  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence,  he  said,  "  These  are  the  eyes  ot 
Mrs  Siddons."  She  said,  "  You  mean  like  those  of  Blrs.  Sid- 
dons." "  No,"  he  replied,  ^'  they  are  the  same  eyes,  the  con- 
Itruction  is  the  same,  and  to  draw  them  is  the  same  thing." 

I  hare  ever  been  at  a  loss  for  a  word  which  should  express  the 
peculiar  property  of  an  eye  like  that  of  Mrs.  Siddons,  whkh 
could  not  be  called  piercing  or  penetrating,  or  any  thing  that 
gives  the  idea  of  searching  or  acute;  but  it  was  an  eye  which, 
in  its  softest  look,  and,  to  a  late  period  of  her  life,  went  straight 
Into  the  depths  of  the  soul  as  a  ray  of  light  finds  the  bottom  ot 
the  ocean.  Once,  when  I  was  cooTersing  with  the  oelebrateci 
German  critic,  Bbttigar,  of  Ihresden,  and  he  was  describing  the 
person  of  Madame  Schirmer,  after  floundering  in  a  sea  of  Bng- 
Ush  eirithets,  none  of  which  oonyeyed  his  meaning,  he  at  last 
Ifsclaimed  with  enthuriaon — "  Madame !  her  eye  was  performt 
ma  '" 


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I'ANST  KBMBLB  IN   JULIET.  49/ 

hifltoiy  and  Holbein  have  transmitted  to  us  but 
the  experiment  was  deemed  too  hazardous ;  and  it 
was  so.  The  public  at  large  would  never  have 
understood  it  The  character  of  the  queen  mother, 
in  her  own  tragedy  of  Francis  1.,  was  another  part 
of  which  the  weight  seemed  to  overwhelm  her  ^ 
jouthfiil  powers  and  after  the  first  few  nights  she 
ceased  to  play  it. 

While  on  the  English  stage,  she  never  became 
00  far  the  finished  artist  as  to  be  independent  of 
her  own  emotions,  her  own  individual  sentiments. 
It  was  not  only  necessary  that  she  should  under- 
stand a  character,  it  was  necessary  that  she  should 
fed  it  She  invariably  excelled  in  those  characters 
in  which  her  sympathies  were  awakened.  In 
Juliet,  in  Portia,  in  Camiola,  in  Julia,*  (perhaps 
the  most  popular  of  all  her  parts,)  and  I  believe  I 
may  add,  in  Bianca,  she  will  not  soon  or  easily  be 
surpassed.  For  the  same  reason,  if  she  could  be 
smd  to  have  failed  in  any  part,  it  was  in  that  of 
Calista,  which  she  abhorred,  and  never,  I  believe, 
could  comprehend.  Isabella  f  was  another  part 
which  I  think  she  never  really  felt;  she  never 
could  throw  her  powers  into  it  The  bald  style 
«nd  the  prosaic  monotonous  misery  of  the  first  acts, 
in  which  her  aunt  called  forth  such  torrents  of 
tears,  wearied  her;  though  the  tragic  of  the  situa- 
tions in  the  last  act  roused  her,  and  was  ^ven  most 
efiec^ely.    She  had  not,  at  the  time  she  took 

•  In  the  HnnehbMk.  f  In  the  Attil  Marrla«» 


r 


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*9S  FAKXT  KEMBLE   IN  JULIEI. 

leave  of  us,  conquered  the  mechanical  part  of  h»H 
profession — the  last,  but  not  the  least  necessary 
department  of  her  art,  which  it  had  taken  her  annt 
Siddons  seven  years,  and  Pasta  almost  as  long,  to 
achieve ;  she  was  too  much  under  the  influence  of 
her  own  nerves  and  moods  of  feeling ;  the  wann 
blushes,  the  hot  tears,  the  sob,  the  tremor,  were  at 
times  too  real  After  playing  in  Mrs.  Beverly, 
Bianca,  and  Julia,  the  physical  suffering  and  ex' 
citement  were  sometimes  most  painful;  and  the 
performance  of  Constance  actually  deprived  her 
of  her  hearing  for  several  hours,  and  rendered  her 
own  voice  inaudible  to  her ;  this,  it  will  be  allowed, 
was  paying  somewhat  dear  for  her  laurels,  even 
though  she  had  valued  them  more  than  in  truth  she 
3ver  did. 

Fanny  Eemble,  as  one  of  a  gifled  race,  "  the 
atest  bom  of  all  Olympus*  faded  hierarchy,"  had 
really  a  just  pride  in  the  professional  distinction  of 
her  family.  She  was  proud  of  being  a  Kemble, 
and  not  insensible  to  the  idea  of  treading  in  the 
steps  of  her  aunt  But  she  had  seen  the  stage 
desecrated,  and  never  for  a  moment  indulged  the 
thought  that  she  was  destined  to  regenerate  it 
She  felt  truly  her  own  position.  Her  ambitaon 
was  not  professional.  She  had  always  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  powei^— of  which  she  has  alreadj 
given  evidence — ^to  ensure  to  herself  a  higher,  a 
more  real  immortality  than  that  which  the  stage 
«an  bestow.  She  had  a  very  high  idea,  abstractedly 
Df  the  capabilities  of  her  art ;  but  the  native  el«^ 


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wmn    KEMBLE   IN  JULIET.  49t 

gaiice  of  ^cr  mind,  ber  poeticai  temperament  her 
profound  sense  of  the  seriotis  idealy  rendered  her 
extremely,  and  at  times  painfully  sensitive,  to  the 
prosaic  drawbacks  which  attended  its  exercise  in 
public,  and  her  strong  understanding  showed  her 
its  possible  evils.  She  feared  for  the  effect  that 
incessant  praise,  incessant  excitement,  might  at 
length  produce  on  her  temper.  **  I  am  in  dismay," 
said  she,  (I  give  her  oum  words,)  "  when  I  think 
that  all  this  may  become  necessary  to  me.  Could 
I  be  sure  of  retaining  my  love  for  higher  and 
better  occupations,  and  my  desire  for  a  nobler, 
though  more  distant  fame,  I  should  not  have  these 
apprehensions ;  but  I  am  cut  off  by  constant  labor 
from  those  pursuits  which  I  love  and  honor,  and 
neither  they,  nor  any  of  our  capabilities,  can  out- 
live long  neglect  and  disuse."  Thus  she  felt,  and 
thus  she  expressed  herself  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
and  even  while  enjoying  her  success  with  a  true 
girlish  buoyancy  of  spirit,  the  more  delightful,  the 
more  interesting,  inasmuch  a^  it  seemed  to  tremble 
at  itself.  I  have  actually  heard  her  reproached 
for  not  being  sufficiently  elated  and  excited  by  the 
public  homage ;  but,  the  truth  is,  she  was  grateful 
for  praise,  rather  than  intoxicated  by  it — ^more 
pleased  with  her  success  than  proud  of  it*    ^^  I 

*  I  recollect  being  present,  when  some  one  wm  repeating  to 
Ver  ft  Tory  high-flown  and  enthusiastic  eulogy,  of  which  she  wif 
the  subject.  She  listened  very  quietly,  and  then  said  with  in* 
iescribable  tiaiveti — ^^Perluips  I  ought  to  blush  to  have  aO 
these  thinflr^  thus  repeated  to  my  &ee;  b«t  the  truth  is,  I  earn 


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MH)  FANNY   EEMBLE   IN  JULIET. 

dare  not,"  said  she,  ^  feel  all  I  could  feel :  I  nrul 
watch  myself."  And  by  a  more  exact  attention  to 
her  religious  duties,  and  by  giving  as  much  tune 
as  possible  to  the  cultivation  of  many  resources  and 
accomplishments,  she  endeavored  to  preserve  Iha 
command  over  her  own  faculties,  and  the  even 
balance  of  her  mind.  I  am  persuaded  that  thif 
lofty  tone  of  feeling,  this  mixture  of  self-«ubjection 
and  self-respect,  gave  to  her  general  deportment 
on  the  stage  that  indescribable  charm,  quite  apar' 
from  any  grace  of  person  or  action,  which  all  wh« 
have  seen  her  must  have  felt,  and  none  can  havt 
forgotten. 

And  now,  what  shall  I  say  more  ?  If  I  dared 
to  violate  the  sacredness  of  private  intercourse,  ] 
could  indeed  say  much — much  more.  That  shf 
came  forward  and  devoted  herself  for  her  familj 
in  times  of  trial  and  trouble — ^that  twice  she  saved 
them  from  ruin — that  she  has  achieved  two  for- 
tunes, besides  a  brilliant  fame,  and  by  her  talents 
won  independence  for  herself  and  those  she  loved, 
— and  that  she  has  done  all  this  before  the  age  of 
five-and-twenty,  is  known  to  many ;  but  few  are 
aware  how  much  more  admirable,  more  respectable, 
than  any  of  her  mental  gifts  and  her  well-earned 
distinction,  were  the  moral  strength  with  which  she 

%ot.    I  cannot,  by  any  eflbrt  of  my  own  imagination,  eee  my 
Mlf  as  people  speak  of  me.    It  giTes  no  reflection  back  to  my 
mind.     I  cannot  foncy  myself  like   this.     All  I  can  deari 
understand  is,  tiiat  yon  and  evexy  body  €tra  tery  mueli  { li 
fend  1  tun  vezgr  gla4  nf  it!  ^ 


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fANKT  KBMBLB  IN  JULIET.  501 

lustained  the  severest  ordeal  to  which  a  jouthfbl 
character  could  be  exposed;  the  siinplicity  with 
which  she  endured— half  recoiling— the  incessant 
adulation  which  beset  her  from  morn  to  night;* 
her  self-command  in  success ;  her  gentle  dignity  in 
reverse ;  her  straightforward  integrity,  which  knew 
no  turning  nor  shadow  of  turning ;  her  noble  spirit, 
which  disdained  all  petty  rivalry;  her  earnest 
sense  of  religion,  **  to  which  alone  she  trusted  to 
keep  her  right"  f  Suddenly  she  became  the  idol 
of  the  public ;  suddenly  she  was  transplanted  into 
a  sphere  of  society,  where,  as  long  as  she  could 
administer  excitement  to  fashionable  inanity,  she 
was  worshipped.  She  carried  into  those  circles  all 
the  freshness  of  her  vigorous  and  poetical  mind^ 
all  the  unworn  feelings  of  her  young  heart  So 
much  genuine  simplicity,  such  perfect  innocence 
and  modesty,  allied  to  such  rare  powers,  and  to  an 
habitual  familiarity  with  the  language  of  poetry 
and  the  delineation  of  passion,  was  not  there  xmder- 
stood,  or  rather,  was  m»-understood — and  no 
wonder !    To  the  blas^  men,  the  vapid  girls,  and 

•  It  must  be  remembered  fhat  it  was  not  only  ftshtonable  In- 
eenie  and  pnbUo  applanee ;  it  was  the  open  enthusiastlo  admiia- 
tlon  of  ench  men  as  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
Moore,  Rogers,  Campbell,  Barry  Cornwall,  and  others  of  great 
name,  who  brought  rich  flattrar  in  orose  and  in  Terse,  and  laid 
It  at  her  fbet.  Just  before  sne  came  on  the  stage  she  had  spent 
abont  a  year  in  Scotland  with  her  excellent  relatiye  and  flrlend 
If  rs.  Henry  Siddons,  and  always  referred  to  this  period  as  het 
'^  Sabbatical  year,  grant«si  to  her  to  prepare  her  mind  and  pxlnoi 
lies  for  this  great  trial.'^ 

*  Her  own  words. 


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502  TXSS^r   KEMBLK  IN  JULIET. 

artificial  women,  who  then  surrounded  her,  her 
generous  feelings,  <*  when  the  bright  soul  broke 
forth  on  everjr  mdo,**  appeared  mere  acting ;  they 
were  indeed  constndned  to  believe  it  such ;  for  if 
for  a  moment  they  had  deemed  it  all  real,  it  must 
have  forced  on  them  comparisons  hy  no  meant 
favorable  to  themselves.  If,  under  these  circum- 
stances, her  quick  sensibility  to  pleasurable  emotion 
of  all  kinds,  and  her  ready  sympathy  with  all  the 
external  refinement,  splendor,  and  luxury  of  aris> 
tocratic  life,  conspired  for  a  moment  to  dazzle  her 
tnagination,  she  recovered  herself  immediately, 
and  fix)m  first  to  last,  her  warm  and  strong  afiec* 
tions,  the  moral  texture  of  her  character;  the  re- 
finement, which  was  as  native  to  her  mind,  "  as 
fragrance  to  the  rose,"  remained  unimpaired. 
These — ^a  rich  dower — she  is  about  to  carry  into 
the  shades  of  domestic  life.  Another  land  will  be 
hfT  future  home.  By  another  name  shall  fame 
speak  of  her,  who  was  endeared  to  us  as  Fannt 
Kemblb  :  and  she,  who  with  no  steady  hand  peni 
this  slight  tribute  to  the  virtues  she  loved,  Inda  Xf 
Ihat  name — ^farewell  1 


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