I desired to visit some of the manufactures of Berlin steel, and expected to see beautiful specimens. It is a curious fact, how difficult it is to find out where you ought to go, and how to see any sight, unless it be a regular lion, or you have an exact address. We took a drosky, and drove to a shop; it was closed: to another; there was no such thing. We returned to our hotel, and learnt that we had been spending many useless groschen by not taking the drosky by the hour instead of the course. Having reformed this oversight, we set off again in search of the manufactory. You know the history of the building of Berlin. Frederic the Great, desirous that his capital should rival that of other kingdoms, inclosed a large space within its walls, and ordered the vacancy to be filled up with houses. This occasions a great difference between Berlin and most foreign cities. In the latter, the aim is to save land, and to encroach on heaven. Here, the builders endeavoured to cover as much space as possible, and many of the finest houses are only two stories high. Wide and grass-grown, the streets, all straight and at right angles, stretch far away, with scarce a solitary passenger or drosky here and there, making the solitude even more felt. There is another peculiarity in this wide-spread city. It is built on the flattest plain in the world. The Spree stagnates beneath its bridges, and the drains, just covered by planks, stagnate in the streets, and are by no means agreeable during the present heat and drought.
At length, after driving about from one place to another, asking our way as well as we could, resolved not to give in, but much puzzled, we reached the Eisengiesserei, or iron-foundry, just outside the Oranienburg gate. We alighted from the drosky and walked into a large court-yard, and into the sort of immense shed in which is the foundry. We asked every one we met where the works in steel were sold; no one could tell us. We wandered about a long time. The men were at work making moulds in sand. At length a vast cauldron of molten metal was brought from the furnace, and poured into a mould. There is something singular in boiling metal, the sight of which gives a new idea to the mind, a new sensation to the soul. Boiling water, or other liquid, presents only an inanimate element, changed to the touch, not to the eye; but molten metal, red and fiery, takes a new appearance, and seems to have life,—the heat appears to give it voluntary action, and the sense of its power of injury adds to the emotion with which it is regarded; as well as the fact that it takes and preserves the form into which it flows. In this every-day world a new sensation is a new delight. I have read somewhere of a French lady, who went to Rome to kiss the Pope’s toe, because it made her heart beat quicker so to do. Certainly, seeing the diminutive Cyclops pour the glowing living liquid from their cauldron, viewing it run fiercely into the various portions of the mould, and then grow tranquil and dark as its task was fulfilled, imparted, I know not why or how, a thrill to the frame.
After this we were taken to an outhouse, in which there were articles for sale—no bracelets, nor chains, nor necklaces; chiefly small statuettes of Napoleon and Frederic the Great.
I would willingly remain here some days longer; and, above all, I should like to visit Potzdam and the Peacock Island. It is impossible; and we shall proceed to-morrow by railroad to Dresden.
LETTER VII.
Arrival at Dresden.—Rabenau.—Gallery of Dresden.—Madonna di San Sisto.—Pictures of Correggio.
July 30th.
A direct railroad from Berlin to Dresden is talked of: as it is, we were obliged to go round by Leipsig. On this account those travellers who have carriages prefer posting; the conveyance of a carriage by a railroad being always expensive. In no part of the world, however, is the speed of steam more acceptable; a drearier prospect of level desert cannot be imagined. I felt this the less, for being very much fatigued, and not well, I slept nearly all the way. We arrived at about two at Leipsig, dined at the Hôtel de Saxe, and embarked on the Dresden railroad. The carriages are small and uncomfortable. As we drew near Dresden, the country assumed a different aspect; hills appeared, and we beheld again some of the charms of earth. The station is in the New Town, and a drosky took us to the Hôtel de Pologne, which Murray mentions as the best; but in this he is mistaken. It is an hotel a good deal frequented by Englishmen, travelling tutors, and their pupils; but the hotels to which all families go are in the Neu Markt. There are several on a scale as extensive and complete as the Hôtel de Saxe, at Leipsig.
We expected to find a friend here conversant with the town to give us information and advice. We learn that he, as well as everybody else, is away; but instead of going to some fashionable baths, he is rusticating at Rabenau, a village some seven miles off. We at once resolved to visit him there; and hiring one of the hack carriages, we the next morning set out on this expedition.
August 1st.
At first we followed the course of the Elbe, beneath picturesque cliffs, and then turning off we got among some cross-roads of the most impracticable description, up a steep slope; when we reached the top we found a chasm, in the depth of which the village we sought is situated. The road was far too precipitous for the carriage to descend, so we walked down. The country has a singular aspect. In other mountainous lands, we live in the valleys, and look up to the hills as they lift themselves towards the sky. Here, however, we descend from the plain into the ravine. These words require further explanation. I have mentioned that we ascended a hill: this was composed of arable land, the fields, unbroken by tree or rock, spread round in smooth upland; but in the midst we found the chasm, the fissure, the rent I mentioned, and we descended, as it were, down into the bosom of the earth—and deeper, deeper, till the wooded hills close round and almost shut out the sky, and a brawling stream, which turns a mill, frets its way between rocks clothed by trees, that nearly meet on either side. Nothing can be more peaceful, more secluded, more shut in; and if not wildly sublime, yet rock and wood and torrent combined to render it picturesque; a rustic bridge crossed the stream, and there, abutting against the hill side, stood the mill, and before the mill a large pleasant room for the reception of guests, for many come, especially on feast days, to dine here. Here our friend had betaken him to compose his opera. Beside the dashing waterfalls, beneath the music-giving pines; and in grassy nooks shaded by mossy rocks and tree-grown precipices, he found a spot whose breath was melody, whose aspect imparted peace. Earth had opened, and this little ravine was a very nest adorned by nature’s hand with her choicest gifts. When we arrived he was absent; he had gone with his note-book to study among the pines. You know and admire his compositions. Thanks to them, Shelley’s Poems have found an echo of sweet sounds worthy of them. The fanciful wildness, the tender melancholy, the holy calm of the poet, have met a similar inspiration on the part of the musician. They have as much melody as the Italian, as much science as the German school—they appertain most, indeed, to the last; but the airs themselves are original. The song of “Arethusa,” and that entitled “Spirit of Night,” are perhaps the best. The one, light and fanciful; the other, solemn and impassioned; both, beautiful. The rest are second only to these.[[9]]