Oct. 6,
, where he arrived on the twenty-fifth.
Here he remained a month, in the course of which he was received by Prince Metternich in his
. Thence, after brief pauses at
, where he remained five weeks. Here he saw much of society, and conversed with the celebrated
.
, Jan. 14, 1840, warm with affection: ‘Your departure,’ he said, ‘has thrown a shade over our little circle and haunts.
The
looks desolate, and the crowded rooms of——are stupider than ever.
Many persons spoke of your
. cards with very complimentary expressions of regret; but none of them like me has lost a faithful ally and a sympathizing companion.’
, Jan. 9, 1840, he went by the way of
, where he remained five weeks, enjoying the society of its celebrated professors,
[
, the codification of the law. Here, as elsewhere in
, he studied with great earnestness the language of the country.
He had consumed so much time in his journeys that he was obliged to forego a visit to
.
He was so soon to be at home that he reserved the details of the latter part of his journey for conversations with his friends.
From
he wrote to his mother, urging that his brother Horace, a boy of fifteen, should be sent to a school at
, of which he had, after careful inquiry, formed a very favorable opinion; but she wisely placed her son, a slender youth, in an excellent public school at home.
His friends at home began to feel that it would be unwise for him to prolong his absence, and advised him not to tarry in
on his way home.
wrote, Dec. 1, 1839:—
dear
Hillard,—The day after I wrote you from
Venice I inscribed my name for a place in the
malle-postefor that evening as far as
Milan.
We started at eight o'clock; it poured down cataracts: my companions, a countess, and an honest father with his son, a boy of fourteen, going to a school in
Switzerland to prepare for trade by learning book-keeping, geography, history, arithmetic, and to speak English, French,
German, and
Italian.
All that night we rode in the midst of a tremendous storm.
It is exciting to rattle over the pavements of villages, towns, and cities in the dead of night; to catch, perhaps, a solitary light shining from the room of some watcher, like ‘a good deed in a naughty world;’ and when as you arrive at the gates of a city, the
[
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postilion winds his horn, and the heavy portals are swung open, it seems like a vision of romance.
Nor is it less exciting in earlier evening, when the shops and streets are bright with light, and people throng the streets, to dash along.
All the next day we rode, and the next night, stopping one half-hour only for dinner.
We passed through Padua,
Verona,
Brescia,
Bergamo; and at nine o'clock on the morning after the second night, entered
Milan.
This is a great place for encountering friends, it is such a thoroughfare.
I had just entered the room which contains Leonardo's ‘Last Supper,’—a painting truly divine,—when I heard a voice, ‘There is
Sumner!’
I turned, and saw
Sir Charles Vaughan.
He is on his way to
Rome.
A friend here, who is travelling alone,
à laBeckford, in his own carriage, urged me to take a place with him to
Munich,—a distance of nearly five hundred miles. This luxury of travel, faring richly and easily, I at once declined,— ‘Dashed down yon cup of Samian wine,’— wishing to lose no opportunity of seeing the people and talking the language; and at once inscribed myself again for the
malle-posteby the passage of the Stelvio to
Innsbruck.
Started Sunday morning at eleven o'clock, and arrived at
Innsbruck Wednesday morning at ten; sleeping out of the carriage but three and a half hours during those three days and three nights.
The pass over the
Alps is magnificent, dwarfing infinitely any thing I have ever seen among the mountains of
New Hampshire or
Vermont.
It is the highest road in
Europe, being eight thousand nine hundred feet above the level of the sea, in the region of perpetual snow, and amidst flashing glaciers.
We stopped for a little sleep at twelve o'clock at night, at
Santa Maria, a thousand feet below the summit.
It was the sixth of October: we had left the plains of
Italy warm with sunshine; here was sharp winter.
The house was provided with double windows; my bed had warm clothing, to which I added my heavy cloak;
6 and yet I was bitter cold, and before daylight was glad to stir my blood by ascending on foot.
The sun was just gilding the highest snow-peaks when we reached the summit, and crossed the boundary-line of
Italy.
The villages of the Tyrol were beautiful.
There was a fair Tyrolese who invited me, through an interpreter, to waltz while some wandering Hungarians played.
After one day at
Innsbruck, left for
Munich,—a day and a night.
In the
malle-postefound a very pleasant Englishman, quite a linguist, an ancient friend of
Cleveland.
At the
table d'hotehere encountered our
Mrs.——, of
Boston.
She is
toute Francaisein her dress and manners, and affects continental ways and usages, particularly in her
coiffure.She speaks French with great facility and even grace, though I have heard her trip on her genders.
She appears at the
table d'hotein the dress of a dinner-party, making a great contrast with the simple costume of the
English here.
Disraeli and his wife (whom he has taken with five thousand pounds a year) were here.
Mrs.——said to
Disraeli (the conversation had grown out of ‘
Vivian Grey’): ‘There is a great deal written in the garrets of
London.’
Putting his hand on his heart,
Disraeli said: ‘I assure you, “
Vivian Grey” was not written in a garret.’
[
124]
At length in
Vienna.
Left
Munich in the
eilwagen7 for
Passau; rode a day and night.
At
Passau, with an English friend, chartered a little gondola, or skiff, down the
Danube, seventy miles, to Linz; dropped with the current, through magnificent scenery, till towards midnight, and stopped at a little village on the banks.
To our inquiries, if they ever saw any English there, we were told they should as soon expect to see the Almighty; and I was asked if America was not in the neighborhood of
Odessa.
At Linz took a carriage for
Vienna,—two days and a half,—where I arrived yesterday.
You have doubtless heard of
Webster's reception in
England.
I have just read a letter from my friend Morpeth
8 (to whom I sent a letter for
Webster), who says he ‘was much struck by him; there seemed to be a colossal placidity about him.’
All appear to think him reserved and not a conversationist.
9 Sydney Smith calls him the ‘Great Western.’
My friend
Parkes, whom I encountered with his family at
Munich, says that his friends, such as
Charles Austin and
Grote, were disappointed in his attainments.
Parkes insists that on my return to
London I shall stay with him in his house in Great George Street. He was highly gratified to know the author of that article on
Milton, which he says is the ablest and truest appreciation of
Milton's character ever published,
10 entirely beating
Macaulay's or
Dr. Channing's.
Parkes wishes me to take to
Emerson the copy of
Milton edited by himself in 1826 (
Pickering's edition). He has a collection of upwards of one hundred works about
Milton,
11 and contemplates a thorough edition of him,
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125]
and also of Andrew Marvel.
But politics and eight thousand pounds a year in his profession bind him for the present.
As ever,
C. S
12
An Englishman at the supper table to-night spoke
Italian with his neighbor, and in the midst of a long sentence broke out in admiration of the skill of the
French d'arrangiare il complottoof their dramas.
The beautiful
Italian of his neighbor arrested my attention; it was music to my ears; strains from the
South, coming from breathing ruins and art; it seemed like my mother tongue,—so different from these gutturals and compounds that I am now dealing with.
Ah! give me back
Italy!
Don't be surprised if I am at
Rome on the heels of this letter.
Give me the wings of the morning,—no, not so much as that, only a moderate competence; and then, the
juris nodos et legumn aenigmataI should leave to be untied and solved by others.
It was on the top of the Stelvio in the region of perpetual snow, eight thousand nine hundred feet above the level of the Mediterranean, with no sign of verdure in sight, but with dazzling glaciers near, gilded with the morning sun, that I left
Italy.
There was a column marked on one side,
Regno Lombardo;on the other,
Tyrolese Austria.I passed it some distance, and then the thought came to my mind that I was quitting
Italy.
I rushed back, stood on the border line: looked in vain for those beautiful fields which seem Elysian in my memory, said to myself that I should never see them again,—took off my hat and made my last salute.
My sole companion was an elderly, learned, lean, pragmatical
German, who heard my parting words; he at once turned round in the contrary direction, and doffing the straw covering of his head, said: ‘Et moi je salue l'allemagne.’
And yet I must again go to
Italy.
Have I left it for ever?
How charming it seems in my mind's eye!
Pictures, statues, poetry, all come across my soul with ravishing power.
Where do these words come from?
They are of the thousand verses that are hymning through my mind with a music like that of ‘Dorian flutes and
[
126]
soft recorders.’
All this is your heritage; to me is unchanging drudgery, where there are no flowers to pluck by the wayside,—
Tra violette umili,
Nobilissima rosa;
no green sprigs, fresh myrtle, hanging vines,—but the great grindstone of the law. There I must work.
Sisyphus ‘rolled the rock reluctant up the hill,’ and I am going home to do the same.
The pass of the Stelvio is grand; it dwarfs all that I have ever seen of the kind in
America.
Munich is a nice place.
The king is a great patron of art. His gallery of sculpture has some delicious things, and the building is truly beautiful.
There is a sculptor here with a hard German name, who is no mean artist; but as for
Cornelius13 the painter, who has already ‘done’ whole acres of fresco, I don't like him. There is such a predominance of brick-dust in his coloring and such sameness in his countenances, as to tire one soon.
One of his large frescos is
Orpheus14 demanding, begging I should say,
Eurydice of
Pluto.
Every thing stands still at the sound of his lyre.
Cerberus lies quiet at his feet; he is of the bull-dog breed, with a smooth skin, a snake for a tail, with the hissing mouth at the end, another snake wound round the neck, ears and head smooth, totally unlike
Ponto; the whole body extended on the ground, fore-legs as well as hind-legs, one head fast asleep, the next on the ground, eyes half open, the next raised and gaping.
I write this for
Crawford.
They have the sense here to admire
Thorwaldsen,
15 and the king hopes to catch him in his passage to
Italy and give him a
fete.I was present at the first uncovering, to the sound of music, of the equestrian statue by
Thorwaldsen of ‘Maximilian the Elector;’ it is the finest equestrian I have ever seen.
No letter from you!
Have you forgotten me already, or has the post miscarried? . . . In my letter from
Milan I announced to you the coming of two
Americans—Preston and
Lewis—to whom I wished you, for various reasons, to be kind; also of
Sir Charles Vaughan.
Perhaps the recent death of Sir Charles's brother,
16 may have prevented his reaching there.
If you see him there I wish you would remember me cordially to him, and if you can with propriety, say that I most sincerely sympathize with him in the affliction of his brother's death.
His brother was a very kind friend of mine, and a most distinguished man. I have another English friend who will arrive in
Rome very soon,—
Mr. Kenyon, the ancient friend of
Coleridge, and now the bosom friend of
Southey,
Wordsworth, and
Landor.
He is a cordial, hearty, accomplished, scholarly man. Rely upon his frankness and goodness.
Ever yours,
C. S.
P. S. I am reading
Herder's ‘Ideen zur Philosophie der Geschichte der Menscheit,’ one of the most difficult works of German prose; and the prose is more difficult than the poetry.
[127]
dear Henry,—. . . I shall soon be with you; and I now begin to think of hard work, of long days filled with uninteresting toil and humble gains.
I sometimes have a moment of misgiving, when I think of the certainties which I abandoned for travel and of the uncertainties to which I return.
But this is momentary; for I am thoroughly content with what I have done.
If clients fail me; if the favorable opinion of those on whom professional reputation depends leaves me; if I find myself poor and solitary,—still I shall be rich in the recollection of what I have seen, and will make companions of the great minds of these countries I have visited.
But it is to my friends that I look with unabated interest, and in their warm greeting and renewed confidence I hope to find ample compensation, even for lost
Europe.
Then will I work gladly, and look with trust to what may fall from the ample folds of the future,—
‘Veggo, pur troppo
Che favola é la vita
E la favola mia non é compita.’
I hope people will not say that I have forgotten my profession, and that I cannot live contented at home.
Both of these things are untrue; I know my profession better now than when I left
Boston, and I can live content at home. . . . You alone are left to me, dear Henry.
All my friends, save you, are now engaged or married.
And now, Good-night,
And believe me, as ever,
Affectionately yours,
dear
Hillard,—A happy
Christmas to you, and all my friends!
If this sheet is fortunate in reaching the steamship, you will receive it before my arrival; otherwise, it may be doubtful which will first see
Boston.
Your last is of Oct. 14, and gives me the afflicting intelligence of the death of
Alvord.
17
Dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
The loss is great for all; but greater for us, his friends.
I can hardly realize that my circle of friends is to be drawn closer by this departure; and yet this is the course of life: one by one we shall be summoned, till this circle entirely disappears.
I shall break away from
Berlin soon,—though, I confess, with great reluctance.
I fain would rest here all the winter, pursuing my studies, and mingling in this learned and gay world.
I know everybody, and
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am engaged every day. All the distinguished professors I have seen familiarly, or received them at my own room.
Raumer,
18 and
Ranke,
19 the historians; of these two,
Ranke pleases me the most: he has the most vivacity, humor, and, I should think, genius, and is placed before
Raumer here.
You doubtless know his ‘History of the Popes;’
Mrs. Austin is translating it in
England.
Humboldt20 is very kind to me. He is placed at the head of the conversers of
Germany.
So far as I can compare conversation in different languages, his reminds me of
Judge Story's: it is rapid, continuous, unflagging, lively, various.
He has spoken to me in the highest terms of
Prescott's book,—which I saw on his table,—as has
Ranke also.
In a note to me, he spoke of ‘l'excellent et spirituel
Gouverneur Everett.’
Savigny21 I know well, and have had the great pleasure of discussing with him the question of codification.
I was told in
Paris that he had modified his views on this subject of late years; but I was sorry to find that my informants are mistaken.
He is as firm as ever in his opposition to codes.
He listened very kindly to my views on the subject, but seemed unshakable in his own. He is placed, by common consent, at the head of jurisprudence in
Germany, and, you may say, upon the whole Continent.
He had read
Judge Story's ‘Conflict of Laws’ with admiration, and wished to know why he was not on our committee for codifying the
Criminal Law.
Savigny, in personal appearance and manner, resembles
Webster more than any person I have ever seen.
He is taller, not quite so stout; has the same dark face, hair, and eyes; and as he has been sitting by my side, when I have first caught his voice, I have thought it was our
Senator's.
Savigny and
Humboldt both are in what is called the
societyof
Berlin; that is, with
la haute volee,the court, and the diplomatic circle,—though I have not seen either there.
The other professors do not enter that circle.
Most of the
corps diplomatiqueand the
Ministers I know already; and I have been well received by the
Crown Prince, and the Prince William, and their princesses.
22 The Crown
Prince, who seems
bon garcon,inquired about our summers: he thought they must be magnificent.
I told him I thought so, till I had been in
Italy.
He asked me if
Boston were not an old city (
une ville
[
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ancienne), three hundred years old. ‘Two hundred,’ I said; ‘but that is antiquity with us.’
I regret much that
Mr. Wheaton23 is not here.
He is passing the winter in
Paris.
He is at the head of our diplomacy in
Europe, and does us great honor: the Princess William spoke of him to me in the most flattering terms.
This society is pleasant to enter, as I do, for a few times, and with the excitement of novelty; but I think I could not endure it a whole season.
The presence of the
Royal Princess is too
genante;and then, all is formality and etiquette.
I have seen here some very pretty women, —some of the prettiest I have ever met; two of them young princesses, the nieces of Puckler-
Muskau.
24 Bad, however, as the society is, I should prefer it before
Vienna, where aristocracy has its most select home.
Personally, I can bear very slight testimony on this subject, as I left
Vienna the week the season commenced.
I was, however, at Prince Metternich's, where I saw the highest and proudest.
Princess Metternich is thought very beautiful.
I do not think so. She tosses a slight nod, if a proud prince or ambassador bends his body before her. The
Austrian nobility only await the death of the
Prince,
25 her husband, to take their
revanche.On my entering the
salon, the
Prince covered me with all those pleasant terms of French salutation: ‘Je suis bien enchante de faire votre connaissance,’ &c. He spoke of our country, for which he professed the greatest regard; said we were young, and
Europe old: ‘Mais laissons nous jouir de notre vieillesse.’
I disclaimed for myself and the better portion of my countrymen any vulgar propagandism.
He spoke of
Washington with great respect, and inquired about
Sparks's ‘Life and Writings,’ and this new labor of
Guizot.
He requested me, on my return to
America, to make the acquaintance of the
Austrian Minister.
After this reception from the
Prince, I should probably have found the way easy to extending my acquaintance.
But I left
Vienna immediately, rode a night and a day and night over a dismal country to
Prague: there passed a day; saw its bridge, its ancient towers, and the palace of the
Bohemian kings.
Then another night and day to
Dresden, where I thought of
Italy as I looked upon the beautiful paintings; then to
Leipsic, on a railway where one of the cars was called ‘
Washington.’
At
Leipsic, examined that great battlefield, and drank the red wine in
Auerbach's cellar, where ‘Mephistopheles’ once was; then another night and day to
Berlin.
But this must soon end. This bright charm of travel will be soon broken,—my book and staff sunk in the deepest well, and I in
Boston.
In a week or fortnight, I shall leave here,—make a rapid course (‘we fly by night’) to
Heidelberg; then down the
Rhine to
Cologne; then to
Brussels,
Antwerp,
London,—where I shall be at the end of January,—thence to sail for
America.
If this letter reaches you by the
[
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‘
British Queen,’ do not fail to write me by the return.
Give my love to all my friends; and tell them I shall soon see them.
As ever, affectionately yours,
C. S.
P. S. Cogswell26 has just arrived at
Dresden.
I have not seen him; but he speaks of ‘Hyperion’ as one of the best books that has ever come from our country.
dear
Greene,—Would I were with you in
Rome!
Every day I chide myself because I was so idle and remiss while in that Mother-City.
I regret that I left so many things unseen, and saw so little of many others worthy to be studied and pondered,—food for thought and imagination.
There you are amidst those wonders manifold, and this mighty book of travel will soon be closed to me; its spell and enchantment will exist only in memory, and I,— amidst freshly painted houses, green blinds, new streets, and the worldly calls of American life,—shall muse upon the grandeur, the antiquity, and the beauty I have seen.
But you will from time to time assist in calling them to my mind; write me in my exile; help me recall
Europe, the great Past with which you live.
‘Give all thou canst, and let me dream the rest.’
Yours of
Rome, 11th November, I found on my arrival at this place.
I am delighted at the success of the ‘
Orpheus.’
I am glad you have written about
Crawford for the ‘
Knickerbocker.’
My letters are strangely behind, and I have no advices with regard to what I wrote home.
I shall begin to believe there must be some truth in that bust of me, after what you say of
Sir C. Vaughan.
I am pleased that he ordered his bust; it will do
Crawford good.
Many of our countrymen are so weak as to make their judgments depend upon Englishmen, and I know none of his countrymen whose patronage ought to avail more with
Americans.
He was the most popular minister, I think, that ever resided at
Washington.
I hope you see a good deal of
Mr. Kenyon; his conversation must be interesting to you. He is a lover of the fine arts, and, I doubt not, a patron of them.
Fay,
27 the
Secretary here, is a very nice and amiable person.
I love him. He has a romance in press, in
London, entitled ‘The
Countess,’ the scene of which is partly laid in
Berlin during the
French revolution.
Wheaton, our minister, who is our most creditable representative abroad, is passing the winter at
Paris.
He
[
131]
is preparing a ‘History of the
Law of Nations,’ which will make three volumes.
He has already published a very good abridgment of ‘International Law,’ with which perhaps you are acquainted.
Cogswell has come abroad again; he is at
Dresden now. His mission was two-fold; to establish a grandson of
Astor at one of the German universities, and to purchase the
Bourtoulin Library.
Mr. Astor is about founding a public library in New York, and this library was to be the basis of it; but unfortunately it is already under the hammer in
Paris, selling piece-meal, and
Cogswell has abandoned the purchase.
He has written to New York for authority to make discretionary purchases in other directions; if he does not have this, he will not remain abroad longer than March.
The ‘New York Review’ is exclusively his property.
The last number I am told contains a very complimentary article on ‘Hyperion,’ written by
Samuel Ward.
January 4.
A happy New Year to you and
Mrs. Greene, and
Ponto. May your plans thrive.
I wish you could give up article-writing and the thought of making translations, and apply yourself entirely to your ‘Opus Maximum.’
Ranke, the historian of the Popes, I know.
He is an ardent, lively, indefatigable person.
He once obtained permission to search the manuscripts of the Vatican.
Mai
28 attended him, and they took down a volume which contained several different things;
Ranke at once struck upon a manuscript upon the Inquisition.
Mai tore this out of the book and threw it aside.
The
French had the Vatican in their hands ten or more years.
It is strange they did not bring out its hidden treasures.
I like
Ranke better than
Von Raumer.
Both are professors at
Berlin.
Our countryman,
Dr. Robinson,
29 is here, preparing a work, which seems to excite great expectations, on the geography of
Palestine.
It will be in two volumes, and will be published at the same time in English and German.
He is not only learned in ‘
Greek and Hebrew roots,’ but has a sound, scientific mind, and is a good writer.
I like
Fay more and more.
He is a sterling person, simple, quiet, and dignified; his style is very clear, smooth, and elegant, perhaps wanting in force.
I have just received an admirable letter from my brother in the
East.
He has seen
Palestine thoroughly, and
Egypt, having ascended beyond the cataracts of the
Nile, into
Nubia.
His letter was dated Dec. 4,
Cairo; from this place he proposed to pass over to
Athens, see
Greece, then to
Malta,
Sicily,
Naples, and
Rome, where he will probably arrive some time after the Easter solemnities.
Perhaps you will have him there during the summer.
He has been travelling, I should think, with no little profit to himself,—laboring hard to improve himself,—seeing much, and forming many acquaintances.
I have promised him a friendly welcome from you. I cannot forbear saying again that I think him one of the most remarkable persons, of his age, I have ever known.
He proposes to stay in
[
132]
Europe two or three years more; to visit
Germany,
France, and perhaps
Spain, as well as
England,
Scotland, and
Ireland.
I leave
Berlin in a few days for
Heidelberg, whence I shall go down the
Rhine to
Cologne, then to
Brussels,
Antwerp,
London.
If I can do aught for you at home, you will let me know.
Can I see
Sparks for you?
Ah! my journey approaches its end; I shall soon be shelved in
America, away from these sights which have filled me with so many throbs; down to the bottom of the well I must throw the magic rod. Tell
Crawford to write me. I rely much for my future happiness upon my friends in
Europe.
Don't let me lose the vision of
Rome and of art!
Who has ordered the ‘
Orpheus’?
I hope you have knocked away those books on which I stand.
30 Remember me to
Mrs. Greene,
la petitePonto, Pasquali,
31 and all.
Ever affectionately yours,
P. S. Have you received my letter from
Vienna?
Always acknowledge the receipt of letters
by the date. See
Madame de Sevigne, ‘J'ai recu la votre,’ &c.
To his brother George.
my dear George,
32—.. Do not fail to study art.
Greene will be your mentor about this.
Make yourself a master of the principles of taste with regard to sculpture, and understand the characteristics of all the great schools of painting.
Read
Sir Joshua Reynolds's lectures; Flaxman's;
De Quincy's ‘Life of Raphael’ (in
French); and, if you read
Italian, Lanzi's ‘Storia Pittorica;’ one of the ‘Lives’ of
Canova, in French or Italian.
Whatever portion of time you allot to
Italy,—four, or six, or twelve months,— spend half of it at
Rome.
I think summer decidedly the best season.
Strangers have then flown, and you have every thing to yourself: you can pass your time more pleasantly in galleries, on stone floors, or in the open air. Man's season is over; but God's is come.
If, then, you are in
Rome during the summer, you will see high solemnities of the
Church enough without witnessing those of
Easter.
Corpus Christi day, at the end of June, will be enough for you. See, as you propose,
Sicily,—though I would make but a short stay there; then go to
Naples where there is much to interest; the Museum is very rich, both in antiquities and paintings: and then, on one side, there is
Pompeii,
Herculaneum,
Vesuvius,
Paestum; and, on the other
Baiae,
Cumae, &c. Do not fail to procure Valery's book on
Italy, in
French; the Brussels edition is in one volume, and therefore more portable, as well as cheaper than the three volumes of
Paris.
This book is the production of a scholar; and all the spots are described with references to the ancient classics.
To you in particular, who have not had the advantage of an early
[
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classical education, it will be indispensable.
Read also
Eustace's ‘Classical Tour’ and Matthew's ‘Diary of an Invalid.’
If you devote yourself entirely to sight-seeing, a fortnight will suffice for
Naples,—though I should be well pleased to be there months, and to muse over the remains of Old Time. . . . At
Rome, you will see
Greene immediately.
He knows more about
Italy than any person I know.
He is a finished scholar, and much my friend.
He will receive you warmly.
I leave
Berlin to-morrow for
Frankfort and
Heidelberg.
If you can write me while in
London, address care of
Coates & Co., Bread Street; otherwise, address simply
Boston.
How this sounds!
I would gladly stay longer, if I could; but I must close this charmed book.
I have spent more than five thousand dollars; and I cannot afford to travel longer.
I wish you a deeper purse than I have, health to enjoy
Europe, and the ability to profit by what you see. It is a glorious privilege, that of travel.
Let us make the most of it.
Gladden my American exile by flashes from the Old World.
I will keep you advised of things at home.
Ever affectionately yours,
dear
Hillard,—Here in this retired place, I have just read in ‘Galignani's,’ the horrible, the distressing, the truly dismal account of the loss of the ‘
Lexington.’
My blood boils when I think of the carelessness of life shown by the owners and managers of that steamer.
To peril the precious lives of so many human beings!
My God!
Is it not a crime?
With what various hopes were that hundred filled—now passed, through fire and water, to their account!
And to what other hopes, through the links of family and friendship, were these joined, all now broken down and crushed!
And
Dr. Follen33 is gone; able, virtuous, learned, good, with a heart throbbing to all that is honest and humane.
In him there is a great loss.
I am sad, and there is no one here to whom I can go for sympathy.
But I shall soon be with you. . . . I still think of that miserable cargo of human beings so disgracefully sacrificed.
No man holds his life at a paltrier price than I do mine, but however I may be indifferent to my own, I value beyond price that of my friends.
February 11.
Left
Berlin in the middle of January, cold as the North Pole, and passed to
Leipsic, to
Weimar,
Gotha,
Frankfort, and
Heidelberg; for a day and
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night was shut up in the carriage with four Jews, one a great Rabbi with a tremendous beard.
I heard their views about Christianity; they think their time is coming, and the faith in
Christ is vanishing from the world.
Everybody in
Germany smokes.
I doubt not that I am the only man above ten years old now in the country who does not. Often have I been shut up in a carriage where every person was puffing like a volcano. . . . I am here talking and studying
German.
I know many learned men; fill my own time by doing something; live cheaply; shall leave here in a fortnight and be in
London the beginning of March, seeing the
Rhine on my way. I look forward with great pleasure to meeting you and all my dear friends, with no little anxiety also to my future professional life.
I shall wish to plunge at once,—that is as soon as possible—
in medias res;but I anticipate mortification and disappointment, perhaps defeat.
Still all this cannot destroy the stored recollections I have of
Europe, of the world, of life; and to these I shall fondly recur as my springs of happiness.
Are you aware how the
French journals are discussing and eulogizing
Washington?
Guizot, by his translation of ‘
Sparks,’
34 and particularly his ‘Introduction,’ has given him great vogue at present.
See a leader in the ‘Journal des Debats’ about 15th November, and three articles by
Saint-Marc Girardin in the same paper during the month of January.
Also an article in the ‘
Supplement du Constitutionnel’ at the end of December; also in the ‘National’ during January; also in the ‘Revue des deux Mondes,’ for January.
I write entirely from memory, and do not know if these journals are procurable in
Boston; but all these articles are interesting to
Americans: they are well written, and come from distinguished pens.
It was the first article about which I conversed with Prince Metternich.
Von Raumer's German translation, which, by the way, was made by
Tieck's daughter, seems to have fallen still-born.
Nobody says a word about it. He seems a little mortified to see how
Guizot has distanced him before the public.
Good-by.
‘Leben Sie wohl.’
Ever affectionately yours,
C. S.
P. S. I have seen three duels, with swords: first being taken to the grindstone where they were ground and sharpened, then to the assembling room where the students were drinking and smoking, then to the contest, where the combatants were attended by a doctor who very coolly smoked all the while, and surrounded by students with pipes in their mouths.
A student this week has lost his nose; it being cut off at one blow.
It has since been sewed on; but he has brushed it off twice in the night.
It was from this neighborhood that
Dr. Follen,
35 or as he is here called Dr Follenius, came; and his death is sincerely lamented by all the Germans with whom I have spoken.
At a large supper-party last night, of professors and doctors, I communicated it.
[135]
my dear
Judge,— . . . You dispose of my views about raising the standard of education in Harvard College summarily enough.
Would that I had your influence on that question!
The age, our national character, our future destinies, demand that there should be some truer standard of taste than is to be found among us; and this will only proceed from a finished education. . . . A few days ago I received your delightful letter of Dec. 1.
Thanks to you for cheating posterity out of five pages in order to bestow them upon me. I am astonished at the labor you have gone through.
I am anxious to read the ‘Commentaries on Agency,’ and shall get them in
London to read on my passage home.
I am here in this beautiful place to study
German, before I take my final leap to
America.
Lovely it is, even in this season, with its hills ‘in russet clad;’ but lovely indeed must it be when they are invested with the green and purple of
summer and
autumn.
Every thing is on the simplest scale.
I dined with
Mittermaier,
36 who, out of deference to my habit of dining late, placed his dinner at half-past 12 instead of twelve, though he told me he was afraid it would trouble
Mr. Thibaut,
37—dear old man,—who was to be of the party, and who was not accustomed to such late hours.
Think of me, who, in every country which I have visited, have dined later than everybody else, and never take any thing from breakfast till dinner.
At the table at that hour, of course, I had no appetite; and
Madame Mittermaier said, with much
naivete;, ‘Why, you do not eat; you have already dined before coming here.’
I have long talks with
Mittermaier, who is a truly learned man, and, like yourself, works too hard.
We generally speak
French, though sometimes I attempt
German, and he attempts
English; but we are both happy to return to the universal language of the
European world.
I like
Thibaut very much.
He is now aged but cheerful.
His conversation is very interesting, and abounds with scholarship; if he were not so modest I should think him pedantic.
In every other sentence he quotes a phrase from the Pandects or a classic.
It has been a great treat to me to talk familiarly, as I have, with the two distinguished heads of the great schools,
proand
con,on the subject of codification,—Savigny and
Thibaut.
I have heard their views from their own lips, and have had the honor of receiving both of them in my own room.
I know many other learned men here.
This is almost exclusively an academic place; of course the highest titles are academic.
Sometimes I am addressed as
Herr Doctor,that is,
Doctor of Laws; and at other times,
Herr Professor. My life is somewhat different from that passed in the
grand mondeof
Berlin.
I shall stay here about a fortnight longer; shall be in
London March 1, where I shall pass only a week, merely to attend to some necessary affairs and see two or three of my particular friends,—Morpeth,
Ingham,
Parkes,
Hayward,
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the Montagus, perhaps the Wortleys, &c.,—without attempting to revive my extensive acquaintance; and shall embark either in the Liverpool steamer, which will sail in the first part of March, or in a London packet,—probably the latter, as the passages in that month are short and the accommodations excellent, and the fare less than in a steamer.
I have been sad at the news of the loss of the ‘
Lexington.’
I cannot express my grief at this account, and my indignation at the managers of that boat.
And the Great Archer has been shooting his arrows across my path, before and behind.
The ‘
Allgemeine Zeitung,’ a few days since, announced the death of
Mrs. Clay, the wife of our
Secretary at
Vienna,
38 whom I came to know quite well during my stay there.
She was an Englishwoman,—beautiful, graceful, and accomplished.
At Prince Metternich's I thought her among the most beautiful.
She has died young, leaving two children.
And then there was old
Mr. Justice Vaughan.
I think that he loved me. He showed me the greatest marks of confidence.
He often talked with me about cases before him, even asked my opinion; and, when I left for the Continent, made me promise to write him. I was on the point of doing it when I heard of his death.
I am glad you have Brougham's wig. I always wished it to go to the Law School.
Put it in a case and preserve it. You will see me soon after this letter.
I shall make early acquaintance with the
Cambridge ‘Hourly,’ for I cannot afford a horse as of old. I have in
Heidelberg one hundred dollars, and I doubt not I am the richest person in the place, so simple is every thing here.
Indeed,
Mr. Thibaut called me the
grand seigneur. Farewell.
Remember me, as ever, to
Mrs. Story (whom I hope to find well) and the children, and believe me,
As ever, affectionately yours,
P. S. A friend of mine here,
Dr. Bissing,
39 who has already translated
Chancellor Kent on our Constitution, thinks of translating your great work on the
Constitution.
He is now studying it with great delight.
Dr. Julius says, in his book on
America, that your work has gone to a second edition in
four volumes.
Is this true?
A Dr. Buss, of Tubingen, has already translated the historical part, and intended to go on with it; but he has recently experienced a political change against democratic institutions, and has thrown up the work.
The ‘Conflict of Laws’ was to have been translated by
Dr. Johannsen, of
Heidelberg, but he has died; so that project has failed.
dear
Hillard,—Still at
Heidelberg.
I trust this greeting to you will go by the ‘
British Queen,’ though I fear it is one day too late.
I shall be
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137]
in
London three days after this letter, so that you may expect me soon, very soon.
I wish I had news of you and
Longfellow; but I presume I shall hear nothing more of you till I actually see you face to face.
You will ask me: ‘Well, are you not sorry to quit
Europe?’
I shall use no disguise, and will not affect a pleasure I do not feel.
I have, as my
Dante has it,
sembianza ne trista ne lieta.I should be glad to stay longer, but I am so thankful to have seen what I have, that I come home content: and I wish you to believe these words as I write them.
I feel, too, that though I renounce pleasure and agreeable pursuits, I return to friends whom I love, and in whose sympathy and conversation I promise myself great happiness.
All these scenes of the Old World we will recall together, and in our quiet circle repeat the ‘grand tour.’
My regret at leaving
Europe is enhanced by my interest in its politics, and in the great plot which now begins to thicken.
To-day's news is the rejection of the Nemours dotation bill, the most democratic.
measure in
France since the Revolution of July; and yet in my conscience I think it right.
Louis Philippe—clever, politic, and wise as he is, and also justly conservative in allowing this proposal to go forward in his name— pushed too far, and excited the old republican fires.
It is vain for him to attempt to restore the court and monarchy of Mazarin and Louis XIV., and he will be crushed under the attempt.
His ministry have resigned.
But possibly the affair will be arranged.
The measure was defeated by
M. Cormenin,
40 whose pamphlet was written as with the point of a sword.
Then there is
Russia, just advancing her southern boundary south of the
Aral Sea and to the east of the
Caspian, so as to square with that on the west of the latter sea, and bring her down to
Persia and nearer
India.
She has formally declared war against
China, and her troops are doubtless now in possession of that territory.
Here is ground for jealousy and misunderstanding on the part of
England, whose public men view
Russian movements with an interest which will be incomprehensible to you in
America.
I once heard
Edward Ellice say, ‘If we do go to war with her, we will break her to pieces,’—a very vain speech, though from the lips of an ancient Minister of War.
England could hurt
Russia very little, and
Russia England very little, though against all other countries they are the two most powerful nations of the globe.
The power of
Russia is truly colossal, and her diplomacy at this moment highhanded and bold, and supported by masterly minds.
People are of different opinions as to the character of
Nicholas.
Some call him very clever, and others say he does not know how to govern his empire.
I speak, of course, of diplomatic persons whose opinions so vary.
Then there is the eternal Eastern Question,—still unsettled, though Mehemet Ali has taken decisive ground.
He is making preparations for war. If the Powers let the war-spirit out, it will be difficult for them to control it. The
King of
Denmark is dead, and his people are begging for more liberal institutions, or rather for some, for they have none.
The
King of
Sweden, old
Bernadotte, cannot live long, and his death will be the signal for a change.
The
King of
Prussia is
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old; his people will demand a constitution on his death, which his successor may be too prudent to deny, though his inclinations are against it: at heart a very good man, but an absolutist.
Austria is quiet and happy; but when Prince Metternich leaves the stage it will lose its present influence, and possibly the
Germanic Confederation, which it now bullies, will be dissolved.
The
King of
Bavaria is a patron of art, a bigot, a libertine, and a bad poet.
The royal family of
Naples is disgusting from its profligacy and violation of all laws.
The
Pope,—I mean
his Holiness the
Pope,—through the skilful attentions of a foreign physician, has recovered from an inveterate disease of long standing.
Tuscany seems happy and well governed.
Spain is not yet free from distractions.
Don Carlos is a prisoner in
France.
Maroto41 has become a traitor, but
Cabrera42 is not dead, though this was joyously announced a month ago. I have been led into this tableau of politics I hardly know how; but hope you will excuse it. I have read
Legareas article
43 on the
Roman laws of which you speak.
It is learned, and in many respects does him credit, though with a touch of what I will call ‘the-finding-a-mare'snest’ style.
Such a style I know was unknown to Aristotle or
Blair.
He takes
Hallam to do for a judgment on certain ancient writers on the
Roman law.
Hallam is right, and
Legare is wrong.
The writers have gone to oblivion, and cannot be dragged out of it. The golden writers of the sixteenth century in
France will be remembered ever,
except in France,where they are now forgotten,—Cujas, Doneau, Dumoulin, and
Faber; but that vast body whose tomes weigh down the shelves of the three or four preceding centuries have passed away.
Of these I had read in Terrasson, Laferriere, ‘Vita Pauli Jovii,’ &c., and I had pored for several days over the monstrosities of Bartolus.
In
France it several times happened to me to defend the
Roman law against men like
Bravard, perhaps the cleverest, as he is the handsomest, of the
French professors.
Of him
Savigny could not speak with any patience.
Said he: ‘II s'appelle
Bavard à bonne raison,’—thus perverting his name to construct this scandalous
calembourg.I was delighted a day or two ago: I went (of course by accident) a little after the hour into
Thibaut's lecture-room, and was most decidedly scraped by the students; thus having in my own person and to my own mortification the best evidence of the
attentionof the audience to the words of their professor.
A servir tout à vous,
C. S.
P. S. No writer is more overrated in
America than Pothier.
All in him from the
Roman law is laughed at by the wisest heads.
His works have gained importance from being relied on by the framers of the
French Code.
[139]
To Lord Morpeth.
my dear Morpeth,—Your delightful letter of August 13 found me at
Vienna, fairly escaped from the fascinations of
Italy.
Since then, I have seen something of the great points of
Germany,—Vienna and Prince Metternich, who praised my country very much (!);
Dresden,
Berlin, and most of the interesting people there, among whom was a kinsman of yours,
Henry Howard;
Leipsic,
Gotha, and the
Ducal Palace;
Frankfort,
Heidelberg, where I am now enjoying the simplicity of German life unadulterated by fashionable and diplomatic intercourse.
I leave here soon, and shall be in
London within a week or two from the time you receive this letter.
You must let me see you. I shall not stay more than eight or ten days, and shall not expect to revive the considerable acquaintance I formed during my previous visit, but I hope not to lose the sight of two or three friends.
Perhaps you may aid me in procuring access to the galleries of the
Marquis of Westminister and of
Lord Leveson Gower,
44 one or both of them.
Between various offers to do me this kindness, when I was in
London before, I fell to the ground.
I feel unwilling to return home without seeing these noble collections; for if they be all that I have heard them represented, I think that an Italian tour to see pictures might almost expose one to that line of
Milton about the Crusaders,
that strayed so far to seek
In Golgotha Him dead, who lives in Heaven.
And you are still firmer in office than ever,—therefore, farther from
Washington and
Athens.
I have read the last debate carefully, and think the ministers came out of it most gallantly.
Your own speech was all that I could wish,—fair, dignified, and bland, and most satisfactorily dealing with the points.
Fox Maule's
45 read capitally; it was powerful from its business detail, and seemed to come from a gentlemanly and accomplished mind.
Allow me to present compliments to
Lord and
Lady Carlisle, whose unaffected kindness to me the few times I had the pleasure of seeing them at
Rome I shall not forget.
I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you in
London—that great World's Forum—before I leave for home.
And when I am fairly on the other side, I trust that you will let me hear from you. Your character and movements are now public property, so that I shall always know about you from the public prints; but this will be a barren pleasure compared with a few lines from yourself.
Ever and ever yours,