Besides the Church question there are other grave problems raised by the present state of Germany:—such as, whether the Empire is likely to endure, or to be broken to pieces by the jealousy of the smaller States of the preponderance of Prussia? and whether peace will continue, or there will be a general war? But these are rather large questions to be dispatched in a few pages. They are questions that will keep, and may be discussed a year hence as well as to-day, and better—since we may then regard them by the light of accomplished events; whereas now we should have to indulge too much in prophecies. I prefer therefore, instead of undertaking to give lessons of political wisdom, to entertain my readers with a brief description of Berlin.
This can never be the most beautiful of European cities, even if it should come in time to be the largest, for its situation is very unfavorable; it lies too low. It seems strange that this spot should ever have been chosen for the site of a great city. It has no advantages of position whatever, except that it is on the little river Spree. But having chosen this flat prairie, they have made the most of it. It has been laid out in large spaces, with long, wide streets. At first, it must have been, like Washington, a city of magnificent distances, but in the course of a hundred years these distances have been filled up with buildings, many of them of fine architecture, so that gradually the city has taken on a stately appearance. Since I was here in 1858, it has enlarged on every side; new streets and squares have added to the size and the magnificence of the capital; and the military element is more conspicuous than ever; "the man on horseback" is seen everywhere. Nor is this strange, for in that time the country has had two great wars, and the German armies, returning triumphant from hard campaigns, have filed in endless procession, with banners torn with shot and shell, through the Unter den Linden, past the statue of the great Frederick, out of the Brandenburg gate to the Thiergarten, where now a lofty column (like that in the Place Vendôme at Paris), surmounted by a flaming statue of Victory, commemorates the triumph of the German arms.
Of course we did our duty heroically in the way of seeing sights—such as the King's Castle and the Museum. But I confess I felt more interest in seeing the great University, which has been the home of so many eminent scholars, and is the chief seat of learning on the Continent, than in seeing the Palace; and in riding by the plain house in a quiet street, where Bismarck lives, than in seeing all the mansions of the Royal Princes, with soldiers keeping guard before the gates.
The most interesting place in the neighborhood of Berlin, of course, is Potsdam, with its historical associations, especially with its memories of Frederick the Great. The day we spent there was full of interest. An hour was given to the New Palace—that is, one that was new a hundred years ago, but which at present is kept more for show than for use, though one wing is occupied by the Crown Prince. Externally it has no architectural beauty whatever, nothing to render it imposing but size; but the interior shows many stately apartments. One of these, called the Grotto, is quite unique, the walls being crusted with shells and all manner of stones, so that, entering here, one might feel that he had found some cave of the ocean, dripping with coolness, and, when lighted up, reflecting from all its precious stones a thousand splendors. It was here that the Emperor entertained the King of Sweden at a royal banquet a few weeks ago. But palaces are pretty much all the same; we wander through endless apartments, rich with gilding and ornament, till we are weary of all this grandeur, and are glad when we light on some quiet nook, like the modest little palace—if palace it may be called—Charlottenhof, where Alexander von Humboldt lived and wrote his works. I found more interest in seeing the desk on which he wrote his Kosmos, and the narrow bed on which the great man slept (he did not need much of a bed, since he slept only four hours), than in all the grand state apartments of ordinary kings.
But Frederick the Great was not an ordinary king, and the palace in which he lived is invested with the interest of an extraordinary personality. Walking a mile through a park of noble trees, we come to Sans Souci (a pretty name, Without Care). This is much smaller than the New Palace, but it is more home-like—it was built by Frederick the Great for his own residence, and here he spent the last years of his life. Every room is connected with him. In this he gave audience to foreign ministers; at this desk he wrote. This is the room occupied by Voltaire, whom Frederick, worshipping his genius, had invited to Potsdam, but who soon got tired of his royal patron (as the other perhaps got tired of him), and ended the romantic friendship by running away. And here is the room in which the great king breathed his last. He died sitting in his chair, which still bears the stains of his blood, for his physicians had bled him. At that moment, they tell us, a little mantel clock, which Frederick always wound up with his own hand, stopped, and there it stands now, with its fingers pointing to the very hour and minute when he died. That was ninety years ago, and yet almost every day of every year since strangers have entered that room, to see where this king, this leader of armies, met a greater Conqueror than he, and bowed his royal head to the inevitable Destroyer.
But that was not the last king who died in this palace. When we were here in 1858, the present Emperor was not on the throne, but his elder brother, whose private apartments we then saw; and now we were shown them again, with only this added: "In this room the old king died; in that very bed he breathed his last." All remains just as he left it; his military cap, with his gloves folded beside it; and here is a cast of his face taken after his death. So do they preserve his memory, while the living form returns no more.
From the palace of the late king we drove to that of the present Emperor. Babelsberg is still more interesting than Sans Souci, as it is associated with living personages, who occupy the most exalted stations. It is the home of the Emperor himself when at Potsdam. It is not so large as the New Palace, but, like Sans Souci, seems designed more for comfort than for grandeur. It was built by King William himself, according to his own taste, and has in it all the appointments of an elegant home. The site is beautiful. It stands on elevated ground (it seems a commanding eminence compared with the flat country around Berlin), and looks out on a prospect in which a noble park, and green slopes, descending to lovely bits of water, unite to form what may be called an English landscape—like that from Richmond on the Hill, or some scene in the Lake District of England. The house is worthy of such surroundings. We were fortunate in being there when the Family were absent. The Empress was expected home in a day or two; they were preparing the rooms for her return; and the Emperor was to follow the next week, when of course the house would be closed to visitors. But now we were admitted, and shown through, not only the State apartments, but the private rooms. Such an inspection of the home of a royal family gives one some idea of their domestic life; we seem to see the interior of the household. In this case the impression was most charming. While there was very little that was for show, there was everything that was tasteful and refined and elegant. It was pleasant to hear the attendant who showed us the rooms speak in terms of such admiration, and even affection, of the Emperor, as "a very kind man." One who is thus beloved by his dependents, by every member of his household, cannot but have some excellent traits of character. We were shown the drawing-room and the library, and the private study of the Emperor, the chair in which he sits, the desk at which he writes, and the table around which he gathers his ministers—Bismarck and Moltke, etc. We were shown also what a New England housekeeper would call the "living rooms," where he dined and where he slept. The ladies of our party declared that the bed did not answer at all to their ideas of royal luxury, or even comfort, the sturdy old Emperor having only a single mattress under him, and that a pretty hard one. Perhaps however he despises luxury, and prefers to harden himself, like Napoleon, or the Emperor Nicholas, who slept on a camp bedstead. He is certainly very plain in his habits and simple in his tastes. Descending the staircase, the attendant took from a corner and put in our hand the Emperor's cane. It was a rough stick, such as any dandy in New York would have despised, but the old man had cut it himself many years ago, and now he always has it in his hand when he walks abroad. And there through the window we look down into the poultry yard, where the Empress, we were told, feeds her chickens with her own hand every morning. I was glad to hear this of the grand old lady. It shows a kind heart, and how, after all, for the greatest as well as the humblest of mankind, the simplest pleasures are the sweetest. I dare say she takes more pleasure in feeding her chickens than in presiding at the tedious court ceremonies. Such little touches give a most pleasant impression of the simple home-life of the Royal House of Prussia.
Our last visit was to the tomb of Frederick the Great, who is buried in the Garrison Church. There is nothing about it imposing to the imagination, as in the tomb of Napoleon at Paris. It is only a little vault, which a woman opens with a key, and lights a tallow candle, and you lay your hand on the metallic coffin of the great King. There he lies—that fiery spirit that made war for the love of war, that attacked Austria, and seized Silesia, more for the sake of the excitement of the thing, and, as he confessed, "to make people talk about him," than because he had the slightest pretence to that Austrian province; who, though he wanted to be a soldier, yet in his first battle ran away as fast as his horse could carry him, and hid himself in a barn; but who afterwards recovered control of himself, and became the greatest captain of his time. He it was who carried through the Seven Years' War, not only against Austria, but against Europe, and who held Silesia against them all. "The Continent in arms," says Macaulay, "could not tear it from that iron grasp." But now the warrior is at rest; that figure, long so well known, no more rides at the head of armies. In this bronze coffin lies all that remains of Frederick the Great:
"He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle,
No sound shall awake him to glory again."