Chapter 21: Germany.—October, 1839, to March, 1840.—Age, 28-29.Leaving Milan Oct. 6, Sumner reached Santa Maria at midnight, bade farewell to Italy the next morning at sunrise, as he stood on the frontier line, and reached Innsbruck on the morning of the ninth. After a week at Munich, he went to Passau, thence in a small boat down the Danube to Linz, and by carriage from Linz to Vienna, 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 salon. Thence, after brief pauses at Prague, Dresden, and Leipsic,1 he visited Berlin, where he remained five weeks. Here he saw much of society, and conversed with the celebrated savans,Humboldt, Savigny,2 Ranke, and Raumer. Mr. Wheaton, the American Minister, was absent from his post, but Sumner formed a lasting friendship with the Secretary of Legation, Theodore S. Fay.3 Fay wrote to Sumner from Berlin, Jan. 14, 1840, warm with affection: ‘Your departure,’ he said, ‘has thrown a shade over our little circle and haunts. The Hotel de Rome looks desolate, and the crowded rooms of——are stupider than ever. Many persons spoke of your p. p. c. cards with very complimentary expressions of regret; but none of them like me has lost a faithful ally and a sympathizing companion.’ Leaving Berlin, Jan. 9, 1840, he went by the way of Leipsic, Weimar, Gotha, and Frankfort to Heidelberg, where he remained five weeks, enjoying the society of its celebrated professors,  particularly of Mittermaier, who awaited with much interest his arrival. With Thibaut, then near his end, he discussed, as with Savigny at Berlin, the codification of the law. Here, as elsewhere in Germany, he studied with great earnestness the language of the country. Dr. Franz Mittermaier writes:—
I think the letters of Mr. Sumner to my father will be of great interest, as they are not only a testimonial of his eminent mental activity, but also of his warm feelings and sincere friendship for my father. They show that he loved to remember the days he passed at Heidelberg in the company of my father and other eminent jurists; that he understood the works of our great poets and expressed his feelings in their words. The last of the letters written here in Heidelberg in 1857, when taking leave, when he would say with Faust to the moment, ‘Verweile, du bist so schon,’ seems particularly significant. I remember Mr. Sumner very well, both when he came to Heidelberg for the first time, in the beginning of 1840, and for the second and last time, in the autumn of 1857. The first time I was still a boy: but I remember, even at that time, his earnest and expressive features, and how my father liked to converse with him long evenings in our house. We sat silently around and listened to the discourse. Very often, the eminent Professor of Roman Law, Mr. Thibaut, the head of the philosophical school of jurists, was present, and liked to converse with the eminent American. I remember very well the evening when Mr. Sumner, taking leave of my father and Mr. Thibaut (it must have been a very short time before the death of Thibaut, March 28, 1840), presented to Mr. Thibaut a lithograph portrait of the latter, requesting him as a favor to write under it some words. Thibaut (who had a beautiful head) took the pen and, smiling, wrote the words, ‘Bin ich's’ (Is it myself?)? Mr. Sumner alludes to this in his letter of Nov. 30, 1840. My elder brother, Martin,4 a young lawyer, who unfortunately died soon afterwards (Nov. 11, 1840), conversed very often with Mr. Sumner, who much esteemed him, as his letter of June 30, 1841, shows.He had consumed so much time in his journeys that he was obliged to forego a visit to Dr. Julius at Hamburg, who had followed him with urgent letters of invitation: and from Heidelberg he went to the Rhine, thence to Cologne, Brussels,5 and Antwerp, and crossed to London, where he arrived, March 17, after a year's absence from England. His letters from Germany (and the remark is true also of his letters from Italy) are a less  complete record of his life abroad than those which he wrote from England and France. 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 Vienna he wrote to his mother, urging that his brother Horace, a boy of fifteen, should be sent to a school at Geneva, then attended by a son of Mr. Webster and other boys from Boston, 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 England on his way home. Judge Story wrote, Dec. 1, 1839:—
You must return soon, and take your place in the advanced and advancing corps.Hillard had already written, a few weeks earlier:—
You are coming back among us soon. You will be caressed, feted, and feasted. You will be the lion of the season. . . . You come back to us hung all over with glittering badges of distinction; and, of course, you will be the more shining mark for vacuity and detraction to aim their arrows at. But let none of your blood stain their points. A life of happiness, distinction, and success is before you. Eminently fortunate you have been, and eminently fortunate you are destined to be. . . . You say you shall be at home in January; but I shall be agreeably disappointed if you arrive so soon. You will be most cordially and heartily welcomed by all. Boston takes a sort of pride in you, and feels that you have done her honor abroad.
Munich, Oct. 18, 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  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.’ 
Vienna, Oct. 26.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 Morpeth8 (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,  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
To George W. Greene, Rome.Munich, Oct. 18, 1839.12 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  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,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.
Vienna, Nov. 6.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.
Vienna, Nov. 10, 1839.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,
Berlin, Dec. 25, 1839.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.17Dead ere his prime,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  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  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  ‘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,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.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.
To George W. Greene.Berlin, Dec. 30, 1839.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  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. Mai28 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  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, Vienna? Always acknowledge the receipt of letters by the date. See Madame de Sevigne, ‘J'ai recu la votre,’ &c.
To his brother George.Berlin, Jan. 8, 1840.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  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,Chas.
Heidelberg, Feb. 8, 1840.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  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.
To Judge Story.Heidelberg, Feb. 10, 1840.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,  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, 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.
Heidelberg, Feb. 26, 1840.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  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  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 article43 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.
To Lord Morpeth.Heidelberg, Feb. 27, 1840.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 seekAnd 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's45 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,
In Golgotha Him dead, who lives in Heaven.