After a rapid survey, we are about to leave this magazine of Bellona, when we are struck by the sight of an object which reminds us so completely of one of those “gorgeous processions” in Eastern “spectacles” at home, that we wonder for a moment whether it be “part of the play,” or tangible, sober reality. Yes! placed upon a scarlet cushion lies an enormous gilt key (such a one as clown in the pantomime might open his writing-desk with, or such as hangs over a locksmith’s door), and above it glistens a golden legend to the effect that the treasure beneath was presented to “William of Prussia by his loving cousin, Nicolas, Emperor of all the Russias,” and is no less a prize than the identical key of the captured city of Adrianople! Has, then, the Russian Emperor so many such trophies of Eastern spoliation that his own museums at Petersburg are insufficient to contain them?
Up the steep way towards the residence of the Prince of Prussia, guarded by its zealous sentries, we pursue our course, and reach the first bridge we have yet seen, being one of the very many which span the Spree as it meanders through the city. This river does not present an imposing appearance in any part of Berlin. The Berliners may shake their heads, and talk of the “Lange Brücke,” but let them remember that in no part does the Spree exceed two hundred feet in width. Moreover, the manner in which it is jammed
up between locks, like a mere canal—one is puzzled sometimes to know which is canal and which river—does not improve its appearance, while the use to which some of its bridges are appropriated does not increase its purity. Passing onwards we come upon the Schloss Platz, which is itself half a garden, and find ourselves in the midst of an assemblage of public wonders—the Museum, the Protestant Cathedral, a handsome basin and fountain (the pride of the true Berliner), the Exchange, and the Old Palace.
The Museum stands on the left-hand, gracefully shaded by young trees. Traversing this miniature grove, which guards its entrance, and passing by the lofty fountain scattering its spray upon the leaves, we come upon an elegant vase of gigantic proportions, sculptured from a solid mass of native granite. Ascending into the body of the building by a sombre stone staircase, we reach the Gallery of Antiquities and the Museum of Paintings. The latter, though no doubt very valuable, appeals unsatisfactorily to me (not presuming to be a critic), and is of a peculiarly rigid, ecclesiastical character, of the early school; certainly one of its chief features is a crowd of martyred St. Sebastians.
The portion of the Museum appropriated to painting, unlike the National Gallery of London, and the Pinakothek at Munich, receives a lateral light. Imagine a long gallery divided into small cabinets by partitions, which advance only so far from the outer wall as to leave a commodious passage along its entire extent; imagine also that each of these cabinets has a lofty window, and that on its side walls (the partitions) are suspended the paintings for exhibition,—and you will form something like a notion of the general arrangement. An effective ensemble is out of the question; but, on the other hand, every painting is well lighted, and a better opportunity is afforded for quiet observation and study.
We descend into the “Platz,” and proceed towards the palace, a huge rectangular building, striped with columns, dotted with windows, and blackened as few continental edifices are.
The palace of the kings of Prussia—few as they have been—has surely its thrilling historical records. Doubtless; and through them all the spirit of the one king, “Der Alter Fritz,” shines, all but visible. Here did he hold his councils, here sit in private study; this was his favourite promenade, here did he take his rest. These details light up the imagination; but when we have traversed the echoing galleries, admired the gilt mouldings and the costly
hangings, the quaint furniture and beautiful pictures: when we have, in short, become wrought into enthusiasm by the clustering memories of a great monarch, by traits and traditions which fill the very air, what do we see next? We are ushered into a private chamber, and called upon to express our especial reverence for a miserable figure, dressed up in the Great Frederick’s “own clothes;” seated in his own chair, stuck into his identical boots; his own redoubtable stick dangling from its splayed fingers, and the whole contemptible effigy crowned by the very three-cornered hat and crisp wig he last wore! The spirit of mountebankism overshadows the spirit of the mighty man, and his very relics are rendered ridiculous.
We turn from this puppet-show to contemplate with a melancholy wonder the truly iron records of the almost life-imprisonment of Baron von Trenck. For here, a silent memorial of at least one bad act of the Prussian monarch, are iron cups and utensils engraved with scrolls and legends; the work, not of the skilled artisan with tempered and well-prepared gravers, but of the patient hands of a state prisoner with a mere nail sharpened on the stony walls of his dungeon, and the painful result of long and weary years. A strange contrast! the waxen image of the jailer, tricked out in his last garments; the solitary labours of his captive.
Thinking more of the soldier and less of the king, we quit the palace and turn on the left hand once more towards the waters of the Spree. Here is one other monument we must not forget in our hasty ramble through the main artery of the Prussian capital. In the centre of the Lange Brücke (the Long Bridge) stands the bronze figure of the last Elector and Duke of Brandenburg, Frederick William, the grandfather of Frederick the Great. It is a well-executed equestrian statue, but to my mind the four figures clustered round the pediment, on whose hands still hang the broken chains of slavery, are better works of art, as well as admirable emblems of the energetic materials—the oppressed but spirited inhabitants of a few small states—of which the now powerful kingdom of Prussia was originally formed.