you drive me, to put your watch in the shafts, and your horse in your pocket." A judicious valet-de-place would first take a stranger in Berlin to the Old Bridge, whereon stands the bronze Equestrian Statue of the Great Elector. Of which statue, by the way, it is told that the Jews, with their peculiar turn for speculation, offered to cover the court-yard of the Old Palace with dollars, in exchange for the verdigris on the figure; but, perhaps, fearing that they would scrape down the Great Elector into a little one, the bargain was declined. A judicious guide, I say, would place a stranger on the aforesaid Bridge, and then ask the gentleman which of the two Berlins he pleased to wish to see; for, in reality, there are two of them, the Old and the New. Knowing your taste, Gerard, I should take you across an elegant iron-bridge, to show you the beautiful front of the Museum; but I should be careful of taking you within it, lest we should not come out again, for it contains an almost matchless collection of the early Flemish School of Painting,—such Van Eycks and Hemlincks! — to say nothing of a Titian's Daughter, not merely herself but the whole picture such an eye-bewitching brunette, that it still haunts me! Perhaps, in turning round to have another look at the façade of the Museum, you will run against an immense utensil, scooped out of a rock of granite; and, if you ask me what is its history, all I can say is, I believe it was the washhand basin of the Giant in the Castle of Otranto. That modest-looking house, too small for the great stone hemlets stuck along its front, is the private residence of the Soldier-King, who thence sees a little to the right his Arsenal, and to the left his Guard-house. The horseshoe, nailed up at one of the first-floor windows, is not, as you might suppose, for luck, but in commemoration of being cast up through that very window at his Majesty, not by a two-legged regicide, but by an officer's charger, - with what design, even Monsieur Rochow, and all his police, could never unriddle. I have a ticket of admission for you to the Arsenal; - but stop!-look up at those two-and-twenty hideous colossal masks, representing the human face in all the various convulsions and agonies of a violent death! Was there ever devised a series of decorations, remembering the place, in such bad taste, nay, to speak mildly, in such unchristian, inhuman feeling? Why, Jack Ketch, out of respect to our flesh-andblood sympathies, draws a cap over the face of his victims to hide their last writhings, and what is War, disguise it as we may under all its "pride, pomp, and circumstance," but a great wholesale executioner? Its horrors would be unendurable but for the dazzling Bengal Light called Glory that we cast on its deluge of blood and tears, but for the gorgeous flags we wave, like veils before its grim and ferocious features, and the triumphant clangor of martial music with which we drown its shrieks and groans. But here we are disgustingly reminded of what we would willingly forget, Battle is a Butchery. Faugh! the place smells of the shambles! As yet we are only in the inner court, but we will go no farther. Those frightful masks shockingly illustrate that that a "War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-splitting art ;" and who would care to see its murderous tools, however well-polished or tastefully arranged? A cool walk under the fragrant Lindens is quite necessary to sweeten such associations. We will admire the Brandenburg Gate as much as you please; but the street, wide and long and handsome as it is, does not satisfy me. The houses want character, in short, as a picture, Prout could make nothing of it. But look-off with your hat! no, not to that white-headed good old General, — but to yonder carriage. It is not the king's, but contains a personage so in love with Absolutism, that one cannot help wishing him such a pure Despotism as was enjoyed by Alexander Selkirk : "I am monarch of all I survey, The persons of all ranks thronging up those steps are going to the Exhibition, and if you went with them you would see some Historical pictures, by German artists, well worthy of your admiration. In landscape they are not so strong: their views are deficient in what the moon wants, an atmosphere: to be sure the painters never saw one for the smoke; and, between ourselves, they have as little eye for color as nose for smells. Finally, instead of a catalogue raisonné, or consulting Dr. Waagen, you may go to any pipe-shop to know which are the best, or at any rate the most popular pictures, by the miniature copies on the bowls. Painting is fashionable in Berlin; and has both royal and plebeian patrons. Look at the shutter, or flap, over that victualling-cellar (akin to our London Shades) with a loaf, a bottle of beer, a glass, a cheese, and a dish of oysters, all painted to the still-life! My heart leaps at it; and O, would that I could make my voice reach to England, and ring throughout its metropolis! Come hither, I would cry, all ye still-life portrait-daubers, ye would-be painters and would-not-be glaziers,-ye Unfine Artists, "Come hither, come hither, come hither!" for here are Unfine Arts for you and Unfine Patrons! Here you may get bread and cheese for painting them; and beer and wine by drawing them. You need not speak German. Ye shall make signs for sausages, and they shall be put in your plates. Come hither! In England you are nobodies and nothings to nobodies, but here you shall be all Van Eycks and Hemlincks; at least you shall paint, as they did, on shutters. Impartial hangers shall hang your works upon hinges, and not too high up, but full in the public gaze, in a good light; and when that is gone, they shall show you "fiery off indeed" with the lamplight and candle. Instead of neglect and omissions, here you shall have plentiful commissions. You shall take off hats, brush at boots and coats, and do perukes in oil; and whereas in England you would scarcely get one face to copy, you shall here take the portraits of a score of mugs! One sight more, and we will finish our stroll. It is the Fishmarket. Look at those great oval tubs, like the cooling-tubs in a brewery. They contain the living fish. What monstrous jack and carp!—and species strange to us, — and one grown almost out of knowledge- prodigious bream! You may look at them, but beware what you say of them, to that old woman, who sits near them in an immense shiny black bonnet, very like a common coal-scuttle; for if you provoke her, no scold, on the banks of Thames, can be more fluently abusive and vulgarly sarcastic! Strange it is, and worthy of philosophical investigation; but so surely as horse-dealing and dishonesty go together, so do fish-fagging and vituperative eloquence. It would seem as if the powers of speech, denied to her mute commodity, were added to the natural gifts of the female dealer therein: however, from Billingsgate to Berlin, every fishmonger in petticoats is as rough-tongued as a buffalo ! But farewell to the capital of Prussia. A letter of recall from my uncle has just come to hand; and I am booked again by the Eilwagen. Considering the distance, you will own that I have had a miraculously cheap ride hither, when I tell you that, besides paying no turnpikes, I have disposed of my nag, at twenty shillings' loss, to a timid invalid, recommended to take horse-exercise. I honestly warranted the animal sound, quiet, and free from vice: and have no doubt it will carry the old gentleman very pleasantly, provided he is not too particular as to the way he goes; for I shrewdly suspect, wherever soldiers may be marching, my late horse will be sure to follow in the same direction. I have bought some black iron Berlin-ware for Emily, and with love to you both, am, My dear Gerard, FRANK SOMERVILLE. EXTRACTS FROM A LETTER TO GERARD BROOKE, ESQ. THIS is simply to announce my safe return to the banks of the Rhine. The rest of the family party met me at Mayence, and we returned together to Coblentz, quite enchanted with the scenery of one of the finest portions of the renowned river. The alleged reason for my recall was the lateness of the season; but I rather suspect my worthy uncle is impatient to relate his observations and adventures to his old friends Bagshaw and the Doctor, as my aunt is eager to impart her wanderings to Miss Wilmot. Like other travellers, they are longing to publish, and no doubt will talk quartos and folios when they return to Woodlands. The changes I found in the family on my return were almost as strange as those which so astonished Rip Van Winkle on awaking from his supernatural sleep. My uncle was literally a new man. His warnings had had warning, and gone off for good; and he has now no more idea of dying than a man of twice his age: a paradox in sound, but a philosophical truth. My aunt, instead of perpetually reminding us that she is a disconsolate widow, has almost forgotten it herself; and it is only on a dull and very wet day that we hear of "poor George." Even Martha is altered for the better; for she is reconciled to her mistress, to herself, and to her old religion. The truth is, that her zeal in the new one was so hot, that, like a fire with the blower on, it soon burnt itself Her mistress says, the re-conversion was much hastened by a very long procession, on a very warm day, which Martha out. |