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.
