Chapter VIII: Part II (1)

MEMORANDA AT MUNICH, NUREMBURG, AND DRESDEN.

I.

MEMORANDA AT MUNICH.

SEPT. 28th.--A week at Munich! and nothing done! nothing seen! 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 _acclimatée_.

What could induce the princes of Bavaria 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 and as white as a fleece, and look, and feel too, like rarefied snow;--but as no one else complains, 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 splendour of Munich, quite veiled from sight, and shrouded in mist, even for a few morning hours.

I am lodged in the Max-Joseph's-Platz, opposite 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 corners; 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, riding on the back of the other. Some internal arrangement of the theatre may render this deformity necessary, but it _is_ a deformity, and one that annoys me whenever I look at it.

On the right, I have the new palace, which forms one side of the square: a long range of plain, almost rustic, architecture; altogether a striking, but rather a pleasing contrast, to the luxuriant grace of the theatre. Just now, when I looked out, what a beautiful scene! The full moon, rising over the theatre, lights up half the white columns, and half are lost in shade. The performances are just over; (half-past nine!) crowds of people emerging from the portico into the brilliant moonshine, (many of them military, in glittering accoutrements,) descend the steps, and spread themselves through the square, single, or in various groups; carriages are drawing up and drawing off,--and all this gay confusion 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 some lovely optical or scenic illusion; a moving picture, magnified.

_Oct. 4th._--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 hands on my arrival. In the first place, I did not understand it; secondly, I never thought 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 persuasion, to venture over to the theatre. I had been tantalised _so_ long by looking at the exterior! Then it was a pleasant evening--broad daylight; and the whole theatre being heated by stoves to an even regulated warmth according to the season, I was assured that once within the doors there would be no danger of fresh indisposition from draughts or cold.

Entering the box, my first glance was of course at the stage. The drop-scene, or curtain, a well painted copy of Guido's Aurora, pleased me infinitely more than the beautiful drop-curtain at Manheim: _that_ 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 orchestre 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 corresponded in splendour; the two colossal muses, as Caryatides supporting the king's state box, the noble columns of white and gold, and the Caryatides 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!

When I looked down on the _parterre_, I beheld a motley assemblage in various costumes: there were a great number of the military; there were the well-dressed daughters of people of some condition, in the French fashion of two or three years back; there were girls in the Tyrolean costume, with their scarlet boddices and silver chains; and the women of Munich, with their odd little two-horned caps of rich gold or silver brocade,--forming altogether a singular spectacle. As for the scenery, it was very well, but would bear no comparison to Stanfield's glorious illusions.

The inducement held out to me to-night was to see Ferdinand Eslair play the Duke of Alva in "Egmont." Eslair, formerly one of the first actors at Manheim, when Manheim boasted the first theatre in Germany, is esteemed the finest tragedian here, and the Duke of Alva is one of his best characters. It appeared to me a superb piece of acting; so quietly stern, so fearfully hard and composed: it was a fine conception cast in bronze:--in this consisted its beauty and truth as a whole. Some of his _silent_ passages, and his by-play, were admirable. He gave us, in the scene with Egmont, an exact living transcript of Titian's famous picture of the Duke of Alva; the dress, the attitude, the position of the helmet and the glove on the table beside him, 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. Mademoiselle Schöller, who plays the young heroines here, is a pupil of Madame Schröder, (the German Siddons,) and promises well; but she wants development; she wants the power, the passion, the tenderness, the energy of Clärchen. Clärchen is a plebeian girl, but an impassioned and devoted woman--she is a sort of Flemish Juliet. There is the same truth of nature and passion, the same impress of intense and luxuriant life--but then it is a different life--it is a Rubens compared to a Titian--and such Clärchen ought to be. Now to give all the internal power and poetry, yet preserve all the external simplicity and homeliness of the character,--to give all the _abandon_, yet preserve all the delicacy,--to give the delicacy, 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 Clärchen, 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 colour it too highly: there was no danger of the latter mistake with Mademoiselle Schöller, in whose hands Clärchen became a mere pretty affectionate girl. In that lovely scene with Egmont in the third act, which might be contrasted with Juliet's balcony scene, as a test of the powers of a young actress, Mademoiselle Schöller was timid even to feebleness; the change of manner, when Clärchen substitutes the tender familiarity of the second person singular (Du) for the tone of respect in which she before addressed her lover, should have been felt and marked, so as to have been _felt_ and _remarked_: but this was not the case. In short, I was disappointed by this scene.

The Flemish costumes were correct and beautiful. The Prince of Orange, in particular, looked as if he had just walked out of one of Vandyke's pictures.

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

_Friday._--Dinner at the French ambassador's _five_ o'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 five is super-elegant--in the very extreme of finery--like a nine o'clock dinner in London. There were present some French and Austrians of high rank, who had all visited England; and the conversation turning on our English aristocratic society--the only society they knew any thing about--I had another proof of the ridicule with which foreigners treat our assumption of superior morality and domestic happiness. But the person who fixed my attention was Leo von Klenze, the celebrated architect, and deservedly a favourite of the king, who has, I believe, bestowed on him the superfluous honours of nobility. With the others, I had no sympathies--with him a thousand, though he knew it not. I looked at him with curiosity--with interest. I liked his plain, but marked and clever countenance, and his easy manners. I felt an unconscious desire to be agreeable, and longed to make him talk; but I knew that this was not the place or the moment for us to see each other to the greatest advantage. We had, however, some little conversation--a kind of beginning. He told me at dinner that the Glypthothek, (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 of himself--with gratitude and admiration of the king, of whose talent, vivacity, impatience, and enthusiasm for art and artists I had already heard some characteristic anecdotes.

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

_Oct. 6._--They are now celebrating here the _Volksfest_, (literally the "_people's feast_,") or annual fair of Munich, and this has been a grand day of festivity. There have been races, a military review, &c.; but, except the race-horses in their embroidered trappings, which were led past my window, and a long cavalcade of royal carriages and crowds of people, in gay and grotesque costumes, hurrying by, I have 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.

* * * * *

_Oct. 8._--First visit to the Glypthothek--just returned--my imagination, still filled with "the blaze, the splendour, 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 yearly savings? I am wonder-struck! I was not prepared for any thing so spacious, so magnificent, so perfect in taste and arrangement.

I do not yet know the exact measurement of the building; but it contains twelve galleries, the smallest 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 approach is by a noble portico of eight 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 is very imposing and beautiful. There are no exterior windows, they all open into the central court.

From the portico we enter a hall, paved with marble. Over the principal door is the name of the king, and the date of the erection. Two side doors lead to the galleries. Over the door on the left there is an inscription to the honour of Leo von Klenze, the architect of the building. Over the door on the right, is the name of Peter Cornelius, the painter, by whom the frescos were designed 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 fame would allow no participation.

I walked slowly through the galleries so excited by the feeling of admiration, that I could make no minute or particular observations. The floors are all paved with marbles of various colours--the walls, to a certain height, are stuccoed in imitation of grey or dark green marble, so as to throw out the sculpture, and give it the full effect. 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 judiciously studied. The light is not too great, nor too generally diffused--it is poured in from high semicircular windows on one side only, so as to throw the sculpture into beautiful relief. Two lofty and spacious halls are richly painted in fresco, with subjects from the Greek mythology, and the whole building would contain, I suppose, six times, or ten times, the number of works of art now there; at the same time all are so arranged that there appears 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 ancient art, many that I had already seen in Italy; for instance, the Egina marbles, the Barberini Faun, the Barberini Muse, or Apollo, the Leucothoë, the Medusa Rondanini above all, the Ilioneus; but I cannot now dwell on these. I must go again and again before I can methodise my impressions and recollections.

_Oct. 11._--Yesterday and to-day, at the Glypthothek, 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 of art, but a regular progressive history of the rise and decline of sculpture. Thus we step from the vestibule into the Egyptian gallery, of which the principal treasure is the colossal Antinous of Rossoantico, with the attributes of Osiris.

I admired in this room the exquisite beauty and propriety of the basso-relievo over the door, designed and modelled by Schwanthaler. It is of course intended to be symbolical of the birth of art among the Egyptians. Isis discovers the body of her lost husband Osiris, concealed in a sarcophagus: she strikes it with the mystic wand, and he stands revealed, and restored to her. The imitation of the Egyptian style is perfect.

From the Egyptian, we step into the Etruscan gallery, of which the ceiling is painted in the most vivid and beautiful colours. The third room contains the famous Egina marbles, which I had seen at Rome when Thorwaldson was engaged in restoring them. To appreciate the classical beauty and propriety of the arrangement of these singular relics, we must call to mind their history, their subject, and their original destination. Thus Æacus, the first king of the Island of Ægina, was the son of Jupiter, or rather Zeus, (for the Greek designations are infinitely more elegant and expressive than the Roman.) The temple was dedicated to Zeus, and the groups which adorned the pediments represented the history of the two branches of the Æacidæ, descended from Telamon and Peleus, sons of Æacus. 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 of the other group, the conflict for the body of Patroclus, there are ten figures. Along the walls, on tables of marble, are ranged a variety of fragments from the same temple, which must have been splendidly rich in sculpture, within and without. On the ceiling of this room, the four Æacidæ, Æacus, 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 Tympanum 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.[30]

I remember asking W----, who has been in every part of the world, what was the most beautiful scene he had ever beheld, taking natural beauty and poetical associations together? He replied, after a little thought, "A sunset from the temple of Ægina;"--and I can conceive this. Lord Byron introduces it into his Grecian Sunset--but as an object--

"On old Ægina's steep and Idra's Isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile."

From the Ægina gallery we enter the Hall of Apollo. The ceiling of this room, splendidly decorated in white and gold, represents the emblems of the four principal cities of Greece, viz. the Athenian owl, the winged-horse of Corinth, the Chimera of Sicyon, and the wolf of Argos.

The chief glory of this apartment is that celebrated colossal statue, once known as the Barberini 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 heaviness and formality of the most ancient Greek school, and in point of style it forms a link between the Ægina marbles and the Elgin marbles. It should seem that the eyes of this statue were once represented by gems--the orifices remain, surrounded 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 emblems 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 ornamented the tomb of Adrian. I cannot tell how this may be, but here we behold with astonishment 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 drawing of this statue, which gave me the idea of something coarse and heavy; whereas, in the original, the delicate beauty of the workmanship, and the inimitable sleepy abandonment of the attitude, soften the effect of the colossal forms. I would place this statue immediately after the Elgin marbles; 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 sarcophagus, representing in the most exquisite sculpture, the marriage of Bacchus and Ariadne. The blending of the idea of death with the fullness of life, and even with the most luxuriant and festive associations of life, is common 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 lamentable, terrible, disgusting.

Fixed in the wall, opposite to the window, there is a bas relief of amazing beauty--the marriage of Neptune and Amphitrite. It is a piece of lyric poetry.

The Hall of Niobe contains few objects; but among them some of the most perfect specimens of Grecian art; and first, the ILIONEUS.

It was because the Grecian sculptors were themselves poets and creators, that "marble grew divine" beneath their hands, and became so instinct with the indestructible spirit of life, that their half-defaced ruins retain their immortality: else how should we stand shivering with awe before those tremendous fragments--the sister Fates in the Elgin marbles! Or, how should I, who am incapable 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 suppose 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 this divine statue was in the vestibule of Goethe's house, at Weimar. It immediately fixed my attention. Afterwards 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 of 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.[31] A certain Dr. Barth purchased it for a trifle, and brought it to Vienna, where Dannecker happened to 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 evident purport of the figure, have decided that it belongs to the group of Niobe and her children. It has attained the appellation of Ilioneus, which Ovid gives to the youngest of her sons. It represents a youth kneeling. 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 elegance of the whole, touched me unspeakably.

The King of Bavaria is said to have paid for this exquisite relic 15,000 florins--a large sum for a little 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 is the Medusa Rondanini, 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 Mercury of the Belvidere; another of the Venus of Cnidos; another (most beautiful) of one of the sons of Niobe, recumbent, lifeless; and some other master-pieces.

These six rooms occupy one side of the building, and contain altogether one hundred and forty-seven specimens of ancient art.

I do not quite understand Flaxman's division of ancient art into three periods--the heroic age, the philosophic age, and the age of perfection. Perhaps if he had lived to correct his essays, he would have made this more clear. According to his distinction, 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 hundred 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 dignity; 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 vigour and grace, as in the Ægina marbles; the next is the union of grandeur and elegance; and the next is the utmost poetical refinement. I recollect that somewhere in Boswell's life of Johnson, a conversation is recorded as taking place at the table of Sir Joshua Reynolds; in the course of which Sir Joshua remarked, that it was impossible to conceive what the ancient writers meant, 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 this remark, the Elgin marbles were unknown in England.

Between this range of galleries, and a corresponding range on the opposite side, are two immense 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 hall, (Götter-Saal, or hall of the gods,) present a magnificent view of the whole Greek mythology.

Whatever may be thought of the conception and execution of certain parts, on minute examination the grand, yet simple arrangement of the whole design addresses itself to the understanding, while the splendour of colour, 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 considered methodically to understand all its merit; for instance, in the centre of the roof we have the primeval god, Eros, in four compartments; first, with the dolphin, representing water; secondly, with the eagle, representing light or fire; thirdly, with the peacock, representing air; and lastly, with Cerberus, representing earth. Disposed around these primeval elements, we have the seasons of 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, is followed by the noon, i. e. the history of Helios or Apollo, in four compartments. The autumn, as Bacchus; and then evening, expressed in the history 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 invention, all the classical emblems and allegories, such as satyrs, fauns, syrens, dryads, Graces, Furies, &c. &c.

But the grand summary is reserved for the walls. On one side is represented the kingdom of Olympus, 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 infernal gods, and the story of Orpheus. The third side, over against the window, is the triumph of Neptune and Amphitrite, surrounded by the sea-gods.

The figures in these three frescos are colossal, about eight feet in height. The colouring of the flesh is a little too red and dingy, 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 of professor Zimmerman, Schlotthauer, Heinrich Hess, and a number of pupils and assistants.

There are also along the frieze some beautiful bas-reliefs; and over the two doors are two alto-relievos by Schwanthaler, the one representing Cupid and Psyche in each others arms, the symbol of immortal love: the other, the re-union 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 Prometheus 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 Thetis, and the appearance of the goddess of Discord, with her fatal apple. Around this are the twelve gods who were present at the feast, modelled in relief by Schwanthaler. Then follow twelve compartments, containing the most striking scenes of the Iliad, divided and adorned by the most rich and fanciful arabesques, combining the exploits or histories of the Grecian heroes, which are not included in the Iliad. The figures in these compartments 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. There is wonderful energy and movement in this picture. The third is the destruction of Troy. The figure of Hecuba sitting in motionless horror and despair, with her dishevelled grey hair, her daughters clinging to her;--the beautiful attitudes of Polyxena and Cassandra; the silent remorse of Helen; the wild fury of the conquerors, and the vigour and splendour of the whole painting, render this composition exceedingly striking:--I did not quite like the figure of Priam. All these designs are by Cornelius, and executed partly by him, and partly under his direction by Zimmermann, Schlotthauer, and their pupils. The arabesques are by Eugene Neureuther: and there are two admirable and spirited bas-reliefs by Schwanthaler--one representing the battle of the ships, and the other the combat of Achilles with the river gods.

The paintings in this hall were finished in 1830.

We then enter the range of galleries, devoted to the later Greek, and the Roman sculpture. The first, corresponding in size and situation with the Hall of Niobe, contains nothing peculiarly interesting, except the famous figure of the young warrior 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 d'oeil_. The utmost luxury of architectural decoration has been lavished on the ceilings; and the effect of the marble pavement, with the disposition of the busts, candelabræ, altars, as seen in perspective, is truly and tastefully magnificent. I particularly admired the ceiling, which is divided into three domes, adorned with bas-reliefs, taken from the Roman history and manners: these were designed by Schwanthaler. I cannot remember any thing remarkable in this gallery; or rather, there were too many things deserving of notice, for me to note all. The standing Agrippina has, however, dwelt on my mind; and an exceeding fine bust of Octavius Cæsar, crowned with the oak leaves.

A small room contains the sculpture in coloured 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 around it the heads of four distinguished sculptors--Nicolo da Pisa, the restorer of the art in the fourteenth century; Michael Angelo, Canova, and Thorwaldson.

Two of the most celebrated productions of modern sculpture are here:--the Paris of Canova, and 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 effeminate beauty, the merits of the two artists were fairly brought into comparison. Thorwaldson's statue reminded me of the Antinous; Canova's recalled the young Apollo. I hardly know which to prefer as a conception; but the material and workmanship 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 disagreeably in certain lights, as if it were spar or lump-sugar; whereas the smooth close compact 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, the feeling is classically and beautifully true. The soft melancholy of the countenance and attitude 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 some work of Flaxman, or Chantrey, or Gibson, might have found its way hither--but no!--

_Oct. 12._--Last night to the opera with a pleasant party; but, tired and over-excited with my morning at the Glyptothek, I wanted soothing, and was not in a humour for the noisy florid music of Wilhelm 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 Pelligrini we had in England, but a fixture here, and their best male singer--a fine _basso cantante_) acted Tell. I say _acted_, because he did not merely sing his part--he acted it, and well; so well, that once I felt my eyes moisten. Madame Spitzeder sang in Matilda von Hapsburg tolerably. Their first tenor, Bayer, I do not like; his intonation is defective. The decorations and dresses are beautiful. 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! bounded like a young faun! floated like the swan-down on the air! Yet even Taglioni, though she makes the nearest approach to it, does not complete my idea of a poetical 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--one more such artist, who should bring modesty, and sense, and feeling, into this lovely and most desecrated art, might do something to retrieve it--might introduce the necessity for dancers having heads as well as heels, and in time revolutionize the whole _corps de ballet_.

_Wednesday._--This morning, M. Herman Stuntz, 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 intelligent and enthusiastic on other subjects, and with that childlike simplicity of mind and manner, so often combined with talent. We touched upon every thing from the high sublime to the deep absurd--ran round the whole circle of art in a sort of touch-and-go style, and his _naïveté_ and originality 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 difficult 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 pronunciation. 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 only paints pictures to give them away, and those who possess them are, with reason, extremely proud of the possession.

In the evening, Madame Meric, _prima-donna aus London_, as the play-bills set forth, made her first appearance in the Gazza Ladra. She is engaged here for a limited time, and takes the _gast-rolles_--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 remembered 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 women 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! 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! Some things written at eighteen and twenty have most surprised me; some passages in the "Vie privée," and the "Appel," have most charmed me. She is not very eloquent, and I should think had not a playful or poetic fancy. There is an almost 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 remember that all I have just read was written in a prison, in daily, hourly expectation of death! but _that_ excites more interest than surprise, for a situation of strong excitement of mind and passion, with external repose and solitude, must be favourable to this development of the faculties, where there is character as well as talent. Some of her disclosures are a little too _naïve_. I am amused by the quantity of feminine vanity which is mixed up with all this loftiness of spirit, this real independence of soul. Madame de Staël had not _more_ vanity, whatever they may say; but it was less balanced by self-esteem--it required more sympathy. Then we have those two admirable women * * and * *. What exquisite feminine vanity is there! Yet, happily, in both instances how far removed 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 _every_ woman's physiognomy was vanity." A phrenologist 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, I mean _now_, a great wish to please, mingled with a consciousness of the powers of pleasing, and not what Madame Roland describes,--"cette ambition constante, ce soin perpetuel d'occuper de soi, et de paraitre autre ou meilleur que l'on n'est en effet," for this is diseased vanity.

* * * * *

Dr. Martius[32] lent me two pretty little volumes of "Poems, by Louis I. king of Bavaria," the present king--the first royal author we have 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 admirable; the other shrugged up his shoulders--"Que voulez vous? c'est un Roi!" 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 artists, which contains the following beautiful lines: he is speaking of art--

"In der Stille muss es sich gestalten,
Wenn es kräftig wirkend soll ersteh'n;
Aus dem Herzen nur kann sich entfalten,
Das was wahrhaft wird zum Herzen geh'n.

Ja! ihr nehmet es aus reinen Tiefen,
Fromm und einfach, wie die Vorweit war,
Weckend die Gefühle, welche schliefen,
Ehrend zeugt's von Euch und immerdar.

Sklavisch an das Alte euch zu halten,
Eures Strebens Zweck ist dieses nicht
Seyd gefasst von himmlischen Gewalten,
Dringet rastlos zu dem hehren Licht!"

Which may be thus literally rendered--

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

"Yes! pious and simple as the old world was, ye draw it (art)
from the same pure depths, awakening the feelings which slumber!
and it shall bear honourable witness of ye--and for ever!

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

Methinks this magnificent prince deserves, even more than his ancestor, Maximilian I., to be styled the Lorenzo de' Medici of Bavaria. The power to 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 purple_, on whose laurels there rests not a bloodstain, 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 made way for me. Groups of about twenty or thirty people were admitted at a time, at intervals 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 auditors 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 singular dresses, mechanics and girls of Munich, soldiers, travelling students. I was much amused. While the cicerone held forth, some merely wondered 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 in the same apartment; but as one went out, 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 his 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 memoranda till I have gone over the whole with Leo von Klenze. He has promised to be my cicerone himself, and I feel the full value of the compliment. Count V---- told me last night, that he (De Klenze) has made for this building alone upwards of seven hundred drawings and designs with his own hand.

_Oct. 13._--Called on my English friends, the C * * s, and found them pleasantly settled in a beautiful 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 Como; and they confirmed what Mr. J. M. Stuntz and M. K. had all told me of her benevolence and excellent character. 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, Malibran, and Schröder Devrient. Other singers have more or less talent and feeling, more or less compass 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 Schröder Devrient has that energy of heart and soul--that capacity for exciting, and being excited, which gives her such unbounded command over the feelings and senses of her audience.[33] So far we were agreed; but as the conversation went on, I was doomed to listen to a torrent of commonplace and sarcastic criticism on the private habits of these and other women of the same profession: one was accused of vulgarity, another of bad temper, and another of violence and caprice: one was 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 God! to think of the situation of these women! and then to look upon _those_ women, who, fenced in from infancy 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 removed from want and grief and fear,"--now sitting in judgment, and passing sentence of excommunication on others of their sex, who have been steeped in excitement from childhood, their nerves for ever in a state of tension between severest application and maddening flattery; cast on the world without chart or compass--with energies misdirected, passions uncontrolled, and all the inflammable and imaginative part of their being cultivated into excess as a part of their profession--of their material! 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 results, without a reference to causes? and when will reflection upon these causes lead to their removal? They are evils which press upon few, but are reflected on many, inasmuch as they degrade art and the pursuit of art;--but all can sneer, and few can think.

* * * * *

I begin at length to feel my way among the pictures here. Hitherto I have been bewildered. I have lounged away morning after morning at the gallery of the Hofgarten, at Schleissheim, and at the Duc 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 impressions.

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 gallery; and the rest distributed through various palaces. The national gallery, or Pinakothek, which is now building under the direction of Leo von Klenze, 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 Deuxponts, and the electors of Bavaria, all sovereign houses, and descended from Otto von Wittelsbach, who received the investiture of the dukedom of Bavaria in 1180. Thus it is that the celebrated gallery once at Dusseldorf, formed under the auspices of the elector John William; the various collections at Manheim, Deuxponts, and Heidelberg, 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 begin 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!" but, in truth, without that full feeling of their power which I have since acquired.

Certainly we have in these days mean ideas about painting--mean and false ideas! It has become a mere object of luxury and connoisseurship, or _virtù_: unless it be addressed to our personal 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 Catholic church,--how is it now vulgarized in its objects! how narrowed in its application! And if it be said, that in the present state of society, in these calculating, money-making, political, intellectual times, we are acted upon by far different influences, 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 influence of painting; on the contrary: but she has fallen from her high estate, and there are none to raise her. The public--the national spirit, is wanting; individual patronage is confined, is misdirected, is arbitrary, demanding of the artist any thing rather than the highest and purest intellectual application of his art, and affording nor space nor opportunity for him to address himself to the grand universal passions, principles, and interests of human nature! Suppose a Michael Angelo to be born to us in England: we should not, perhaps, 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 scope for action? He would struggle and gasp like a stranded Leviathan!

But this is digressing: the question is, may not the moral effect of painting be still counted on, if the painter be himself imbued with the right spirit?[34]