But I love to go back over and over the scenes of that cathedral; to look up those arches that seem to me, in their buoyant lightness, to have not been made with hands, but to have shot up like an enchantment—to have risen like an aspiration, an impersonation of the upward sweep of the soul, in its loftiest moods of divine communion. There were about five minutes of feeling, worth all the discomforts of getting here; and it is only for some such short time that we can enjoy—then our prison door closes.
There are four painted glass windows, given by the King of Bavaria. I have got for H. the photograph of two of them, representing the birth and death of Christ. They are gorgeous paintings by the first masters. The windows round the choir were painted in a style that reminded me of our forests in autumn.
Well, after our sublimities came a farce. We went to St. Ursula's church, to see the bones of the eleven thousand virgins, who, the chronicle says, were slain here because they would not break their vows of chastity. I was much amused. As we entered the church, C. remarked impressively, “It is evident that these virgins have no connection with cologne water!” The fact was lamentably apparent. Doleful looking figures of virgins, painted in all the colors of the rainbow, were looking down upon us from all quarters; and in front, in a glass frame, was a bill of fare, in French, of the relics which could be served up to order. C. read the list aloud, and then we proceeded to a small side room to see the exhibition. The upper portion of the walls was covered with small bones, strung on wires and arranged in a kind of fanciful arabesque, much as shell boxes are made; and the lower part was taken up with busts in silver and gold gilding, representing still the interminable eleven thousand. A sort of cupboard door half opened showed the shelves all full of skulls, adorned with little satin caps, coronets, and tinsel jewelry; which skulls, we were informed, were the original head-pieces of the same redoubtable females.
At the other end of the room was a raised stage, where the most holy relics of all were being displayed, under the devout eye of a priest in a long, black robe. C. and I went upon the stage to be instructed. S., whom the aforesaid lack of cologne water in the establishment had rendered peculiarly unpropitious, stood at a majestic distance; but C., assuming an air of profound faith, stood up to be initiated.
“That,” says the priest, in a plaintive voice, pitched to the exact point between lamentation and veneration, “is the ring of St. Ursula.”
“Indeed,” says C., “her ring!”
“Yes,” says the priest, “it was found in her tomb.”
“It was found in her tomb—only think!” says C., turning gravely to me. I had to look another way, while the priest proceeded to introduce, by name, four remarkably yellow skulls, with tastefully trimmed red caps on, as those of St. Ursula and sundry of her most intimate friends. S. looked gloriously indignant, and C. increasingly solemn.
“Dere,” said the priest, opening an ivory box, in which was about a quart of teeth of different sizes, “dere is de teeth of the eleven thousand.”
“Indeed,” echoes C., “their teeth!”
S., at this, waxed magnificent, and, as a novel writer would say, swept from the apartment. I turned round, shaking with laughter, while the priest went on.
“Dere is a rib of St. ——.”
“Ah, his rib; indeed!”
“And dere is de arrow as pierced the heart of St. Ursula.”
“H.,” says C., “here is the arrow that killed St. Ursula.” (The wicked scamp knew I was laughing!)
“Dere is the net that was on her hair.”
“This is what she wore on her hair, then,” says C., eyeing the rag with severe and melancholy gravity.
“And here is some of the blood of the martyr Stephen,” says the priest, holding a glass case with some mud in it.
In the same way he showed two thorns from the crown of Christ, and a piece of the Virgin's petticoat.
“And here is the waterpot of stone, in which our Lord made the wine at the marriage in Cana.”
“Indeed,” said C., examining it with great interest; “where are the rest of them?”
“The rest?” says the priest.
“Yes; I think there were six of them; where are they?”
The priest only went over the old story. “This came from Rome, and the piece broken out of the side is at Rome yet.”
It is to be confessed that I felt in my heart, through this disgusting recital, some of S.'s indignation; and I could not help agreeing with her that the odor of sanctity, as generally developed in the vicinity, was any thing but agreeable. I did long to look that man once steadily in the eyes, to see if he was such a fool as he pretended; but the ridiculousness of the whole scene overcame me so that I could not look up, and I marched out in silence. The whole church is equally full of virgins. The altar piece is a vast picture of the slaughter, not badly painted. Through various glass openings you perceive that the walls are full of the bones and skulls. Did the worship of Egypt ever sink lower in horrible and loathsome idolatry? I had heard of such things; but it is one thing to hear of them, and another to see them by the light of this nineteenth century, in a city whose streets look much like the streets of any other, and where men and women appear much as they do any where else. Here we saw, in one morning, the splendor and the rottenness of the Romish system. From those majestic arches, that triumphant chant, there is but a step down to the worship of dead men's bones and all uncleanness.
We went also into the Jesuits' church. The effect, to my eye, was that of a profusion of tawdry, dirty ornament; only the railing of the choir, which was a splendid piece of carving, out from a single block of Carrara marble.
The guide book prescribes, I think, no less than half a dozen churches in Cologne as a dose for the faithful; but we were satisfied with these three, and went back to our hotel. As a general thing I would not recommend more than three churches on an empty stomach.
The outer wall of Cologne is a very fine specimen of fortification, (I am quoting my guide book,) and we got a perfect view of it in crossing the bridge of boats to return to our hotel. Why they have a bridge of boats here I cannot say; perhaps on account of the width and swiftness of the river.
Having heard so much of the dirt and vile smells of Cologne, I was surprised that our drive took us through streets no way differing from those of most other cities, and, except in the vicinity of the eleven thousand virgins, smelling no worse. Still, there may be vile, ill-smelling streets; but so there are in Edinburgh, London, and New York.
From Cologne we went, at four o'clock, to Dusseldorf, a little town, celebrated for the head quarters of the Dusseldorf school of painting. I cannot imagine why they chose this town for a school of the fine arts, as it is altogether an indifferent, uninteresting place. It is about an hour's ride from Cologne. We arrived there in time to go into the exhibition of the works of the artists, which is open all summer. I don't know how good a specimen it is, but I thought it rather indifferent. There were some few paintings that interested me, but nothing equal to those. I have seen in the Dusseldorf gallery at home. Whittridge lives there, but, unfortunately, was gone for eight days.
Our hotel was pleasant—opening on a walk shaded by double rows of trees. We ordered a nice little tea in our room, arid waxed quite merry over it.
This morning we started at seven, and here we are to-night in Leipsic—as uninteresting a country as I have seen yet. Moreover, we had passed beyond the limits of our Rhine guide book, and as yet had no other, and so did not know any thing about the few objects of interest which presented themselves. The railroads, of course, persist in their invariable habit of running you up against a dead wall, so that you see nothing where you stop.
The city of Magdeburg is the only interesting object I have seen. I had a fair view of its cathedral, which I think, though not so imposing, yet as picturesque and beautiful as any I remember to have seen; and its old wall, too. We changed cars here, going through the wall into the city, and I saw just enough to make me wish to
see more; and now to-night we are in Leipsic.
Morning. We are going out now, and I must mail this letter. To-morrow we spend at Halle.
JOURNAL—(CONTINUED.)
Friday, August 5. Dusseldorf to Leipsic, three hundred and seventy-three miles. A very level and apparently fertile country. If well governed it ought to increase vastly in riches.
Saturday, August 6. Called at the counting house of M. Tauchnitz, the celebrated publisher. An hour after, accompanied by Mrs. T., he came with two open carriages, and took us to see the city and environs. We visited the battle ground, and saw the spot where Napoleon stood during the engagement; a slight elevation, commanding an immense plain in every direction, with the spires of the city rising in the distance. After seeing various sights of interest, we returned to our hotel, where our kind friends took their leave. In the afternoon M. Tauchnitz sent H. a package of his entertaining English publications, to read in the cars, also a Murray for Germany. H. and I then took the cars for Halle, where we hoped to spend the Sabbath and meet with Dr. Tholuck. Travellers sometimes visit Chamouni without seeing Mont Blanc, who remains enveloped in clouds during their stay. So with us. In an hour we were in rooms at the Kron Prince. We sent a note to the professor; the waiter returned, saying that Dr. Tholuck was at Kissengen. Our theological Mont Blanc was hid in mist. Blank enough looked we!
“H., is there no other professor we want to see?”
“I believe not.”
Pensively she read one of the Tauchnitz Library. Plaintively my Amati sighed condolence.
“H.” said I, “perhaps we might reach Dresden to-night.”
“Do you think so? Is it possible? Is there a train?”
“We can soon ascertain.”
“How amazed they would look!”
We summoned the maitre d'hotel, ordered tea, paid, packed, raced, ran, and hurried, presto, prestissimo, into a car half choked with voyagers, changed lines at Leipsic, and shot off to Dresden. By deep midnight we were thundering over the great stone Pont d'Elbe, to the Hotel de Saxe, where, by one o'clock, we were lost in dreams.
In the morning the question was, how to find our party.
“Waiter, bring me a directory.”
“There is no directory, sir.”
“No directory? Then how shall we contrive to find our friends?”
“Monsieur has friends residing in Dresden?”
“No, no! our party that came last night from Leipsic.”
“At what hotel do they stop?”
“That is precisely what I wish to find out.”
“Will monsieur allow me to give their description to the police?”
(0, ho, thought I; that is your directory, is it? Wonder if that is the reason you have none printed.) “Non, merci,” said I, and set off on foot to visit the principal hotels. I knew they would go by Murray or Bradshaw, and lo, sure enough they were at the Hotel Bellevue, just sitting down to breakfast. S. started as if she had seen a ghost.
“Why, where did you come from? What has happened? Where is H.? We thought you were in Halle!”
Explanations followed. H. was speedily transferred to their hotel, where they had bespoken rooms for us; and we sallied forth to the court church to hear the music of high mass.
This music is celebrated throughout Germany. It is, therefore, undoubtedly superior. The organ is noble, the opera company royal. But more perfect than all combined are the echoes of the church, which (though the guide book does not mention it) nullify every effect.
Monday, 8. Visited the walks and gardens on the banks of the Elbe. The sky was clear, the weather glorious, and all nature full of joy. We almost think this Elbe another Seine; these Bruhlsche gardens and terraces, these majestic old bridges, and cleft city, another Paris! Here, too, is that out-of-doors life, life in gardens, we admire so much. Breakfast in the public gardens; hundreds of little groups sipping their coffee! Dinner, tea, and supper in the gardens, with music of birds and bands!
Visited the Picture Gallery. If one were to chance upon an altar in this German Athens inscribed to the “unknown god,” he might be tempted to suggest that that deity's name is Decency.
The human form is indeed divine, as M. Belloc insists, and rightly, sacredly drawn, cannot offend the purest eye. All nature is symbolic. The universe itself is a complex symbol of spiritual ideas. So in the structure and relation of the human body, some of the highest spiritual ideas, the divinest mysteries of pure worship, are designedly shadowed forth.
If, then, the painter rightly and sacredly conceives the divine meaning, and creates upon the canvas, or in marble, forms of exalted ideal loveliness, we cannot murmur even if, like Adam and Eve in Eden, “they are naked, and are not ashamed.”
And yet even sacred things love mystery, and holiest emotions claim reserve. Nature herself seems to tell us that the more sacred some works of art might be, the less they should be unveiled. There are flowers that will wither in the sun The passion of love, when developed according to the divine order, is, even in its physical relations, so holy that it cannot retain its delicacy under the sultry blaze of profane publicity.
But it is far otherwise with paintings where the animus is not sacred, nor the meaning spiritual. No excellences of coloring, no marvels of foreshortening, no miracles of mechanism can consecrate the salacious images of mythologic abomination.
The cheek that can forget to blush at the Venus and Cupid by Titian, at Leda and her Swan, at Jupiter and Io, and others of equally evil intent, ought never to pretend to blush at any thing. Such pictures are a disgrace to the artists that painted, to the age that tolerates, and to the gallery that contains them. They are fit for a bagnio rather than a public exhibition.
Evening. Dresden is the home of Madame Jenny Lind Goldschmidt. H. sent her card. This evening Mr. G. called to express regret that she was unable to see any one, on account of her recent confinement. He kindly offered us the use of his carriage and assistance in sightseeing. H. discussed with him the catalogues of the gallery of paintings. As to music, we learn, with regret, that it is out of season for concerts, oratorios, or any thing worth hearing.
Wednesday, August 10. Dresden to Berlin. Drove to Charlottenburg, and saw the monument of Queen Louisa.
Thursday, 11. Visited the Picture Gallery, and various stores and shops.
Saturday, August 13. Berlin to Wittenberg, two hours' ride. Examined the Schloss-Kirche, where Luther is buried, passing on our way through the public square containing his monument.
At nine in the evening took cars for Erfurt. That night ride, with the moon and one star hanging beautifully over the horizon, was pleasant. There is a wild and thrilling excitement in thus plunging through the mysterious night in a land utterly unknown. Reached Erfurt at two in the morning.
Monday, August 15. Erfurt to Eisenach by eight. Drove to the Wartburg.
LETTER XLIII.
DRESDEN.
DEAR:—
I went to Dresden as an art-pilgrim, principally to see Raphael's great picture of the Madonna di San Sisto, supposing that to be the best specimen of his genius out of Italy. On my way I diligently studied the guide book of that indefatigable friend of the traveller, Mr. Murray, in which descriptions of the finest pictures are given, with the observations of artists; so that inexperienced persons may know exactly what to think, and where to think it. My expectations had been so often disappointed, that my pulse was somewhat calmer. Nevertheless, the glowing eulogiums of these celebrated artists could not but stimulate anticipation. We made our way, therefore, first to the salon devoted to the works of Raphael and Correggio, and soon found ourselves before the grand painting. Trembling with eagerness, I looked up. Was that the picture? W. whispered to me, “I think we have mistaken the painting.”
“No, we have not,” said I, struggling to overcome the disappointment which I found creeping over me. The source of this disappointment was the thin and faded appearance of the coloring, which at first suggested to me the idea of a water-colored
sketch. It had evidently suffered barbarously in the process of cleaning, a fact of which I had been forewarned. This circumstance has a particularly unfavorable effect on a picture of Raphael's, because his coloring, at best, is delicate and reserved, and, as compared with, that of Rubens, approaches to poverty; so that he can ill afford to lose any thing in this way.
Then as to conception and arrangement, there was much which annoyed me. The Virgin and Child in the centre are represented as rising in the air; on one side below them is the kneeling figure of Pope Sixtus; and on the other, that of St. Barbara. Now this Pope Sixtus is, in my eyes, a very homely old man, and as I think no better of homely old men for being popes, his presence in the picture is an annoyance. St. Barbara, on the other side, has the most beautiful head and face that could be represented; but then she is kneeling on a cloud with such a judicious and coquettish arrangement of her neck, shoulders, and face, to show every fine point in them, as makes one feel that no saint (unless with a Parisian education) could ever have dropped into such a position in the abandon of holy rapture. In short, she looks like a theatrical actress; without any sympathy with the solemnity of the religious conception, who is there merely because a beautiful woman was wanted to fill up the picture.
Then that old, faded green curtain, which is painted as hanging down on either side of the picture, is, to my eye, a nuisance. The whole interest, therefore, of the piece concentrates in the centre figures, the Madonna and Child, and two angel children gazing up from the foot of the picture. These angel children were the first point on which my mind rested, in its struggle to overcome its disappointment, and bring itself en rapport with the artist. In order fully to appreciate their spiritual beauty, one must have seen an assortment of those things called angels, which occur in the works of the old masters. Generally speaking, I know of nothing more calculated to moderate any undue eagerness to go to heaven than the common run of canvas angels. Far the greater part are roistering, able-bodied fellows with wings, giving indisputable signs of good living, and of a coarseness slightly suggestive of blackguardism. Far otherwise with these fair creatures, with their rainbow-colored wings, and their serene, upturned eyes of thought baptized with emotion. They are the first things I have seen worthy of my ideas of Raphael.