II 
 
 aal 
 
 y
 
 .
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY. 
 
 HEINE IN ART AND LETTERS.
 
 Uniform with this Volume. 
 
 HEINE'S ITALIAN TRAVEL SKETCHES, Etc. 
 
 Translated by ELIZABETH A. SHARP. 
 
 " The one important thing for the English reader is to know that the 
 translation here given is, in the first place, faithful ; and, in the second, 
 flowing and readable. These qualities it possesses to a very exceptional 
 degree. " The Glasgow Herald. 
 
 "These .translations, excellent in themselves, are doubly valuable from 
 the encouragement they offer to the increased study of Heine by English 
 readers." Morning Leader. 
 
 " Heine's most characteristic qualities . . . come out with all the force 
 of the original text in Mrs. Sharp's translation. Indeed, it is difficult to 
 believe that her supple, vigorous English, everywhere fresh and vivid, is 
 not the actual form in which the ideas first took shape." Yorkshire 
 Herald. 
 
 "Mrs. Sharp's translation strikes me as quite excellent." Black and 
 White. 
 
 " It is needless to commend to the reader a book which contains some of 
 Heine's brightest prose : we have only to mention that the translation has 
 been accurately and intelligently done, and that it has as preface the essay 
 on the author by The"ophile Gautier." St. James' Budget. 
 
 "As a translator of Heine, Mrs. Sharp's work is not, on the whole, 
 inferior so far as we are aware to that of any previous labourer in the 
 same field." The Academy. 
 
 " The public is under no small debt of gratitude to Mrs. Sharp. She has 
 absorbed Heine and given him back to English readers without, as is the 
 case with so many translators, imposing upon them anything of her own 
 subjectivity." The Library Review. 
 
 "The volume of translations from Heine, under the head of Travel 
 Sketches, etc., is a collection of well chosen and well translated essays 
 on a variety of topics. Many of the essays especially those on 'The 
 French Stage ' are in Heine's brightest vein ; sympathetic and playful, 
 even when most mordant in their satire. The critical essay oil George 
 Sand, (I propos of the production of her play of Lelia at the Theatre 
 Francais in 1840, is in a tone of delicate and discriminating eulogy. The 
 ' Prefatory Study of Heine,' by Theophile Gautier, is in itself enough to 
 win favour for the little volume from all who can appreciate fine literary 
 criticism." The Westinuwler Revieio. 
 
 * FOR FULL LIST OF THE VOLUMES IN THIS SEKIKS, 
 SEE CATALOGUE AT END OF BOOK.
 
 , HEINE IN ART AND LETTERS. 
 
 TRANSLATED, WITH A PREFATORY 
 NOTE, BY ELIZABETH A. SHARP. 
 
 LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, LTD. 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
 
 9T 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ROSSINI AND MEYERBEER, 1837 . . . i 
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN, 1837 . . .17 
 
 THE SALON, 1831 . 30 
 
 THE SALON, 1833 ... . .82 
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN, 1822 . . . .98 
 
 THE OLD REGIME, 1831 (BEING "THE INTRODUC- 
 TION TO KAHLDORF ON THE NOBLES") . . 171 
 
 JUNE DAYS, 1832 ... 187 
 
 LETTERS FROM NORMANDY, 1832 . 217 
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES, 1846 . . .236 
 
 86108 f
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 OF the several papers collected in this volume, the 
 earliest dates back to 1822, and is the first important 
 prose essay published by Heinrich Heine : the most 
 recent bears the date 1846, and so was written 
 by him ten years before his death. Between these 
 dates is comprised the whole of Heine's active career; 
 for although, even before 1846, he had endured 
 severe bodily suffering, it was not till subsequently 
 that he became the confirmed invalid " nailed to his 
 mattress grave." 
 
 The Selections are drawn from his prose writings 
 exclusively. They represent Heine in very distinc- 
 tive mental phases, and thus afford diverse as well as 
 always interesting glimpses of his complex person- 
 ality. 
 
 I have divided the book into two sections, each 
 arranged chronologically. These comprise selections 
 from Heine's brilliant Letters on Art and Music, and 
 from that part of his correspondence which is occupied 
 with political topics and events in the France of his 
 day. Only two of the papers are concerned with
 
 viii PREFA TOR Y NOTE. 
 
 Germany: "The Old Regime" (" Kahldorf"), which 
 gives an idea of the curious social conditions in 
 Germany prior to the Revolution of 1848, and " Berlin 
 Sketches." It is of interest to note the difference of 
 style in the early and the later writings. The " Berlin 
 Sketches " were written when the author was twenty- 
 two years of age. They were addressed to Dr. Schulz, 
 the editor of the Rhein and Westphalian Journal > who 
 printed them in the literary portion of his newspaper. 
 They give a vivid picture of Berlin in the early part 
 of the nineteenth century. Though but " a city of 
 Prussia," it was even then the centre of intellectual life 
 in Germany. True, Goethe held his court elsewhere, 
 for he detested Berlin. With many eminent men of 
 letters, scientists, and philosophers, Heine associated. 
 In the salon of Varnhagen von Ense he met and 
 talked with Hegel, Franz Bopp, Chamisso, Fouque'; 
 occasionally, too, he encountered noted foreigners, 
 among others a son of Sir Walter Scott, whom he 
 first saw in Highland costume at a masked ball. 
 Heine's descriptions give a keen impression of the 
 social life of a capital, with its interests, its squabbles, 
 its prejudices. He is brilliant, though his wit is not 
 always spontaneous ; he is sarcastic, but his irony is 
 not tipped with flame, as in his later writings. 
 
 In 1831 Heine crossed the Rhine and entered the 
 country of his adoption. He reached Paris in May. 
 There he found the Salon opened in the Louvre ; and 
 straightway he began the series of letters on the 
 Art, Music, and Drama of the day, which were pub- 
 lished in divers German newspapers in Stuttgart,
 
 PREFA TOR Y NO TE. ix 
 
 Augsburg, and elsewhere. " Works of genius are 
 immutable, and immortal. Criticism expresses the 
 current views of the time being, and appeals only to 
 that time; and unless it is itself in some measure a 
 work of art, it dies with its age." This remark of 
 Heine's cannot be applied without qualification to his 
 own critical writings on aesthetics. His appreciations 
 of contemporary art and music are written by a man 
 of genius, but, so to speak, too often as a man of 
 genius in undress uniform. In a word, the journalist 
 too often obscures the man of letters. Again, 
 particularly as a critic of art and of music, Heine 
 habitually wrote from the literary standpoint, rather 
 than from that of the musician or painter. On the 
 other hand, these letters have the value of individual 
 and unconventional conviction. Their critical acumen 
 is often acute ; and ever and again he is, as an 
 interpreter, singularly illuminative, while, as might be 
 expected, he is continually suggestive. 
 
 The daily notes sent to Augsburg from Paris 
 during the June days of 1832 were jotted down in 
 the midst of the short-lived Revolution, as were 
 the " Letters from Normandy," which describe in like 
 manner events in the early part of the reign of 
 Louis Philippe. 
 
 Early in January 1846 Heine wrote of himself: 
 "If the paralysis, which like an iron band constricts 
 my chest, should decrease, my old energy will again 
 bestir itself. . . . Yes, I am sick to death; but 
 my soul has not suffered mortal hurt. It is a 
 drooping and an athirst, but not yet withered flower,
 
 x PREFA TOR Y NO TE. 
 
 and still has its roots firmly planted in the ground 
 of Truth and Love." He sought relief at Bareges; 
 but the visit to those baths was fraught with ennui 
 and discomfort, and, in truth, was productive of little 
 gain to the sufferer. In the following September he 
 wrote the first of his three wills, that which ends with 
 the pathetic farewells to his native land, and to the 
 country of his adoption. " Farewell, thou German 
 fatherland, land of mysteries and of sorrows ! Be 
 prosperous and happy. Farewell, ye kindly French 
 people, whom I have loved so much ! I thank you 
 for your cordial hospitality." 
 
 The cosmopolitan Heine, whose artistic sympathies, 
 however, were so essentially French, preserved through 
 all vicissitudes an undying love for his fatherland. In 
 his last will, dated November 1851, he affirms that the 
 " sustained aim of his later life was an effort towards 
 a sympathetic reconciliation between France and 
 Germany, a persistent attempt to frustrate the arti- 
 fices of the enemies of Democracy, who, for their own 
 profit, exploited international prejudices and animosi- 
 ties." Heine lived in Paris twenty-five years, and 
 during the last years of his life received a small 
 pension from the French Government. His accept- 
 ance of this brought very severe censure upon him 
 from his enemies, who concluded that he was a 
 naturalised Frenchman. In 1848 he published in the 
 Augsburg Gazette an explanation of his action: 
 
 " No, the subsidies that I received from Guizot were no 
 tribute. The pension was merely an assistance, it was
 
 PREFA TOR Y NO TE. xi 
 
 I call the thing by its name a dole of the great charity 
 accorded by the French people to aliens or exiles, who, 
 through their zeal for the cause of the Revolution, had 
 become more or less gloriously compromised in their own 
 country, and had sought refuge by the side of the hospit- 
 able French hearth. I sought this monetary assistance 
 shortly after the appearance (in Germany) of the regret- 
 table decrees of the Confederation, whose aim was to ruin 
 me financially, as the Coryphaeus of the so-called Young 
 Germany, by antedating an interdict not only on my 
 existing writings, but also on all those which might later 
 be produced by my pen with intent to despoil me, 
 without right and without trial, of my fortune and of my 
 resources." 
 
 In 1843 Heine wrote a lengthy article on his 
 " Pension and Pretended Naturalisation in France," 
 from which I excerpt the following important and 
 interesting and, in its mingled humour, pathos, and 
 satire thoroughly characteristic biographical frag- 
 ment; with which, moreover, I may fittingly end this 
 brief introductory note : 
 
 "... I have a confession to make, concerning which 
 prudence perchance would enjoin silence. But it is long 
 since prudence and I have shared the same bowl. And 
 to-day I desire definitely to assert that I never became 
 naturalised in France ; and that my naturalisation, which 
 has been tacitly accepted as a legal fact, is nevertheless 
 merely a German fiction. I do not know what lazy or 
 cunning brain invented it. Many compatriots have pre- 
 tended, it is true, to have traced this rumour of naturalisa- 
 tion to an authentic source; they point to the statements in
 
 xii PREFA TOR Y NO TE. 
 
 the German newspapers, and my silence confirmed the 
 error. My amiable literary and political adversaries in my 
 own country, and many very influential intimate enemies 
 here, in Paris, were also deceived ; they believed that a 
 right of French citizenship protected me against all sorts 
 of vexations and machinations, such as readily beset the 
 stranger, here subjected to a special jurisdiction. 
 
 " This fortunate misapprehension saved me from much ill- 
 will, also from endless exploiting of self-seekers, who, in the 
 conflict of affairs, would have used their privileged position 
 to their own profit. In the long run, the position of the 
 non-naturalised stranger becomes, in Paris, as disagreeable 
 as it is costly. He is duped and worried, especially by 
 naturalised strangers, who with sordid eagerness abuse the 
 rights they have acquired. As a wise precaution, I decided 
 one day to fulfil the formalities, which really engaged me 
 to nothing, but, nevertheless, put me in the way, in case of 
 necessity, to obtain without delay the rights of citizenship. 
 But I ever shrank, in secret terror, from the definite act. 
 These hesitations, this deeply-rooted repugnance against 
 naturalisation, placed me in a false situation, a position I am 
 now forced to consider as the cause of all my cares, of all my 
 slights, during my twenty-three years of residence in Paris. 
 The revenue of a good post would have sufficed here to 
 defray the heavy expenses of my household, and the needs 
 of an existence, free and humane rather than agreeable 
 and easy. But, without previous naturalisation, the State 
 service was closed to me. My friends dangled many a 
 dignity and fat sinecure before my eyes; nor was I without 
 examples of other aliens who in France have reached to the 
 highest degrees of power and honour. And I dare assert 
 that I, less than others, would have had to struggle against 
 native jealousy; for no other German has ever enlisted to
 
 PREFA TOR Y NOTE. xiii 
 
 so great an extent the sympathies of the French, either in 
 the literary world or in society, where the most prominent 
 men have ever sought to enter into relations with me, not 
 as patrons but as comrades. The chivalric prince, the 
 nearest to the throne, who was not only a general and 
 distinguished statesman, but had also read Der Buck der 
 Lieder in the original, would have willingly seen me in the 
 service of France, and his influence would have been great 
 enough to push me in that career. I cannot forget the 
 amiability with which, one day, in the castle garden of a 
 princely friend, the great historian of the French Revolution 
 and of the Empire who was then the all-powerful President 
 of the Council took my arm, and, walking with me, urged 
 me insistently to tell him the desire of my heart, with a 
 promise to procure me anything. The flattering tones of 
 his voice still resound in my ear; I still smell the perfume 
 of the great magnolia in flower, before which we strolled, 
 that magnolia with its beautiful alabaster blossoms, which 
 rose into the azure air, as magnificent, as proud as the heart 
 of the German poet in the days of his happiness. 
 
 "Yes, I have uttered the true word. It was the lofty pride 
 of the German poet that prevented me, even for form's sake, 
 from becoming French. It was an ideal chimera, of which 
 I could not free myself. Compared with what is usually 
 termed patriotism, I was always a renegade ; but I could 
 never protect myself against a feeling of anguish whenever 
 a project seemed, however distantly, to point to a divorce 
 from my country. Even in the souls of the most en- 
 lightened men there lingers a little root of the mandragora 
 of old superstition, that cannot be extirpated. It is spoken 
 of but rarely, but nevertheless it puts forth its imprudent 
 sprouts in the most mysterious byways of our soul. The 
 marriage that I contracted with Our Lady of Germany, our
 
 xiv PREFA TOR Y NOTE. 
 
 dear Germania, the fair guardian of the bears, 1 was never 
 a happy one. I remember certain beautiful moonlit nights 
 when she pressed me tenderly to her ample bosom, that 
 virtuous breast ; but those sentimental nights can be 
 counted, and ever towards morning there came a sadden- 
 ing coolness, accompanied by yawns and endless scoldings. 
 Thus we finished our union with a separation. But matters 
 did not proceed so far as a formal divorce. I could never 
 persuade myself to separate from my faithful servant. An 
 apostasy is hateful to me, and I would never have forsaken 
 even a German pussy-cat, not even a German dog, however 
 insupportable his flea-abundant fidelity might have become. 
 " In this respect the smallest pigling could lay no com- 
 plaint against me. Among the elegant and spirituel boars 
 of Pe"rigord, who unearthed truffles and fattened thereupon, 
 I never denied the modest hogs who, in Teutoburgundian 
 forests, or in simple wooden styes, gorged upon the fruits of 
 the paternal oak, as did their pious forefathers in the days 
 when Arminius fought with Varus. Neither have I lost 
 a single thread of my Germanism, a single bell from my 
 German cap, and I have preserved the right to attach to 
 it the black, red, and gold cockade. I can still say to 
 Massmann, 'We German donkeys ! ' If I were a naturalised 
 .Frenchman Massmann might answer me, I, only I, am 
 a German donkey; you are one no longer.' And there- 
 upon he would turn a mocking somersault, that would break 
 my heart. No, I have not exposed myself to such reproach. 
 Naturalisation may suit others ! A drunken lawyer from 
 Deux-Ponts, a head of straw with a brazen forehead and a 
 copper nose, may, in order to snatch the post of school- 
 master, renounce a country which knows nothing about him, 
 
 1 A play upon the word. The civic nickname of the Berlinese is 
 "the bear*."
 
 PREFA TOR Y NOTE. xv 
 
 and never will know anything; but such a proceeding would 
 never suit a poet who has written the most beautiful of 
 German lyrics. It would be a horrible thought to me, a 
 maddening thought, to have to say that I am a German 
 poet and at the same time a naturalised Frenchman. I 
 should seem to myself like one of those monsters with 
 two heads that are exhibited in the booths of a fair. If 
 I were composing, it would be an insufferable annoyance 
 to think that one of the heads would begin to scan the most 
 artificial alexandrines, in the patois of a French turkey, while 
 the other expressed his sentiments in the true classical metre 
 of the German language. Alas ! French verse, that scented 
 curds, is as insupportable to me as its metre! I can 
 scarcely stomach .their best, perfectly odourless poets. 
 When I consider the so-called lyrical poetry of the French, 
 it is then I recognise the splendid beauty of German 
 poetry. In those moments I can easily make myself believe 
 that there only I have gathered my laurels. No : we will 
 not renounce one single leaf; and the stone-cutter, who 
 shall decorate the place of our last sleep, will be contradicted 
 by no one if he carve on the tomb these words : 'Here lies 
 a German poet? "
 
 HEINE. 
 
 ROSSINI AND MEYERBEER. 
 
 WHAT is music? This question occupied my mind for 
 hours last night before I fell asleep. The very existence 
 of music is wonderful ; I might even say miraculous. Its 
 domain is between thought and phenomena. Like a twi- 
 light mediator it hovers between spirit and matter, related 
 to both, yet differing from each; it is spirit, but spirit 
 subject to the measurement of time; it is matter, but 
 matter that can dispense with space. 
 
 We do not know what music is. But we know what is 
 good music, and still better do we know what is bad music ; 
 for our ears are greeted by the latter with greater frequency. 
 Musical criticism can base itself upon experience alone, and 
 not upon synthesis ; it should classify musical works only 
 by their analogies, and should take as criterion the collective 
 impression produced. 
 
 Nothing is more inadequate than the theory of Music. 
 Undeniably it has laws, laws mathematically determined. 
 These laws, however, are not music, but the conditions 
 thereof; just as the art of design and the theory of colours, 
 or even the palette and the pencil, are not painting but the 
 means necessary thereto. The essence of music is revela- 
 tion ; it permits of no analysis, and true musical criticism 
 is an experimental science. 
 
 i
 
 2 HEINE. 
 
 I know nothing less edifying than a criticism by Mr. Fetis 
 or by his son Mr. Foetus, wherein the merits and demerits 
 of a musical work are demonstrated & priori. Such 
 criticism, written in a certain argot, interlarded with 
 technical expressions familiar only to the executant artist 
 and not at all to the general educated world, gives to 
 empty verbiage a certain authority in the eyes of the mass 
 of people. Just as my friend Detmold has written a 
 handbook upon painting, which enables one to acquire a 
 knowledge of the art in two hours, so ought some one 
 to write a handbook upon music, and, by means of an 
 ironical vocabulary, of critical phrases and of orchestral 
 jargon, put an end to the feeble handiwork of a Fetis and 
 a Foetus. The best musical criticism I ever listened to, 
 and perhaps the most convincing criticism possible, I over- 
 heard at Marseilles last year, during a table d'hote. Two 
 commercial travellers were discussing the topic of the day, 
 whether Rossini or Meyerbeer be the greater master. As 
 soon as one had attributed the higher excellence to 
 the Italian master, the other demurred; not with dry 
 words, however, for he trilled some of the especially 
 beautiful melodies from Robert le Diable. Thereupon 
 the first could find no more convincing repartee than 
 zealously to sing counter passages from Le Barbier de 
 Seville^ and thus did they both continue throughout 
 the repast. Instead of a noisy exchange of insignificant 
 phrases, they gave us most exquisite table music, and 
 finally I had to admit that people either should not dis- 
 pute at all concerning music, or should do so in this 
 charmingly realistic fashion. 
 
 Take note, dear friend, that I have no intent to weary you 
 with any conventional tirade upon the Opera. Neither have 
 you to fear a discussion of comparisons, such as are usually
 
 ROSSINI AND ME YERBEER. 3 
 
 made between Rossini and Meyerbeer. I content myself with 
 loving both, not the one at the expense of the other. Even 
 if I perhaps sympathise more with the first than with the 
 second, that is merely from a personal sentiment, and in no 
 sense involves an attribution to him of superior merit. Per- 
 haps there are imperfections in him that have a close affinity 
 to corresponding imperfections in me. I incline by nature 
 to a certain do Ice far niente; willingly I stretch my length 
 on a flowering mead, thus to contemplate the quiet pro- 
 cession of the clouds and revel in their lights and shadows. 
 Chance has often willed that I should be roused from this 
 delightful dreamland by a hard dig in the ribs from Fate. 
 I have been constrained to take part in the sufferings and 
 struggles of my time: my participation therein was honour- 
 able; I fought with the bravest . . . but I don't know 
 how to explain myself my sensations always retained a 
 certain dissimilarity from those of other people; I knew what 
 my neighbours were feeling, but I experienced emotions 
 remote from theirs. Although I urged my battle charger 
 not less impetuously, and fell on the enemy as merci- 
 lessly with my sword, neither the fever, nor the lust, 
 nor the agony of war took possession of me. My mind was 
 oftentimes disturbed because of this inner serenity; I found 
 that my thoughts often tarried elsewhere while I threw 
 myself into the thickest press of the party fight. Thus to 
 myself I seemed like Ogier the Dane, who fought against the 
 Saracens in his dream wanderings. Such an one as myself 
 would naturally prefer Rossini to Meyerbeer, though at certain 
 times he would render enthusiastic homage to the music 
 of the latter without yielding undivided allegiance to it. 
 For it is on the waves of Rossini's music that the distinc- 
 tive joys and sorrows of individual man are rocked most 
 gently: love and hatred, tenderness and longing, jealousy
 
 4 HEINE. 
 
 and poutings, all the isolated emotions of the solitary 
 soul. Rossini's music is characterised by a predominance 
 of melody, always the direct expression of an isolated 
 sentiment. With Meyerbeer, on the contrary, harmony 
 preponderates. In the stream of harmonic measures the 
 melodies are engulfed, just as the particular impressions 
 of the individual are lost in the collective sentiment of a 
 whole people. On this harmonious stream our soul 
 launches itself joyfully, when absorbed in the sufferings 
 and joys of the whole human race, and in touch with the 
 great social questions. Meyerbeer's music is social rather 
 than personal. The grateful Present finds its internal and 
 external struggles revealed in this music, its soul's dissen- 
 sions, the warring of its will, its agonies, and its hopes ; in 
 applauding the great maestro it celebrates its own sorrows 
 and ecstasies. Rossini's music was better adapted to the 
 spirit of the Restoration ; when, after terrible struggles and 
 manifold disillusionments, the idea of their great collec- 
 tive interests had dwindled into the background in the 
 blase minds of men, and of the ego was enabled once 
 again to assert its legitimate claims. Rossini would 
 never have gained his great popularity during the Revolu- 
 tion : Robespierre would perhaps have accused him of 
 antipatriotic melodies, and Napoleon would not have ap- 
 pointed him bandmaster to the grand army, a post for which 
 communal enthusiasm was a first necessity. . . . Poor swan 
 of Pesaro 1 the Gallic cock and the imperial eagle would 
 probably have torn thee to pieces. More suitable to thee 
 than fields of battle or than civic virtue, were a quiet lake 
 from whose banks the gentle lilies softly called to thee, 
 where thou couldst swim hither and thither, grace and 
 beauty in every movement ! The Restoration \\as Rossini's 
 time of triumph. Even the stars in the heavens, then
 
 AVAS\S7A7 A.VD MEYERBEER. 5 
 
 doubtless celebrating those reposeful hours, and no longer 
 preoccupied with the condition of the people, they too 
 listened with delight. The July Revolution had produced 
 a great commotion in heaven and on earth ; stars and men, 
 angels and kings yes, even the good God himself were 
 roused from their wonted tranquillity and had a host of 
 matters to attend to, so that they had neither the leisure 
 nor the repose of mind necessary to enjoy the melodies of 
 private sentiment. It was only when the grand choruses of 
 Robert le Diable, and even of Lts Huguenots burst forth 
 in harmonies of anger, of jubilation, of sobs, that their hearts 
 listened and wept, rejoiced and groaned in enthusiastic 
 accord. 
 
 This is perhaps the real reason of the unprecedented, 
 colossal success which has everywhere followed these two 
 great operas of Meyerbeer. He is the man of his time; 
 and time, who always knows how to choose its own, raised 
 him amid tumultuous sound upon the shield, proclaimed 
 his reign and celebrated his triumphal entry. It is 
 not a wholly comfortable position thus to be carried in 
 triumph. For, by the misfortune or awkwardness of 
 a single shield-bearer, one may find oneself perilously 
 balanced if not seriously injured; the crowns of flowers 
 that fly at one's head may sometimes hurt more . than 
 gratify, if indeed they do not soil when they come 
 from dirty hands; the surcharge of laurels may produce 
 a sweat of agony. . . . Rossini, when he meets such a 
 procession, smiles ironically with his fine Italian lips; then 
 he complains about his stomach, whose condition grows 
 daily worse, so that he really can eat nothing. 
 
 This is a sorry state of affairs, for Rossini has ever been 
 a great gourmand. Meyerbeer is exactly the contrary: as 
 with his outward appearance, so in his pleasures he is dis-
 
 6 HEINE. 
 
 cretion itself. A good table is to be found in his house 
 only when he has invited friends. One day when I went to 
 dine with him, to take "pot luck," I found him before a 
 meagre dish of stock fish; naturally, I assured him I had 
 already dined. 
 
 Many have pretended that he is miserly. This is not the 
 case. He is miserly only in outlay upon himself. To others 
 he is generosity incarnate ; unfortunate compatriots, in par- 
 ticular, have benefited by him almost beyond reason. Charity 
 is a domestic virtue of the Meyerbeer family, of his mother 
 in particular, round whose neck I hang all help-seekers, and 
 not in vain. It is true that this woman is the happiest 
 mother in the world. Everywhere the rumour of her 
 son's renown greets her; wherever she goes, snatches of his 
 music flatter her ear; everywhere his glory radiates about 
 her; in the opera especially, where a whole public ex- 
 presses its enthusiasm for Giacomo with frantic applause, 
 her mother's heart throbs with a delight which we can 
 hardly realise. In the whole world's history I know only 
 one mother who can be compared to her, the mother of 
 Saint Borromeo, who in her lifetime saw her son canonised, 
 and could, with thousands of believers, kneel before him in 
 church and pray to him. 
 
 Meyerbeer is now writing a new opera, which I await 
 with great curiosity. The development of this genius is, for 
 me, a most remarkable spectacle. I follow with interest the 
 phases of his musical and of his personal life, and watch the 
 reciprocal attitude between him and his European public. 
 It is now ten years since I first met him in Berlin, between 
 the University buildings and the Watch-house, between 
 science and the drum, and he seemed to feel himself 
 ill at ease in that spot. I met him, I remember, in the 
 company of Dr. Marx, who in those days belonged to
 
 XOSSINJ AND MEYERBEER. ^ 
 
 a sort of musical regency which, during the minority of 
 a certain young genius who was considered to be the 
 legitimate successor to the throne of Mozart, paid constant 
 homage to Sebastian Bach. This enthusiasm was not 
 merely to fill up an interregnum, but also to blast the 
 reputation of Rossini, whom the regency especially feared, 
 and consequently especially hated. Meyerbeer, in those 
 days, passed for an imitator of Rossini; and Dr. Marx 
 treated him with a sort of condescension, with an air 
 of ineffable superiority, which I now perforce laugh over 
 heartily. 
 
 Rossinism was then Meyerbeer's great crime; he had 
 not attained to the honour of being attacked on his own 
 account. He prudently refrained from all pretension, and 
 when I related to him with what enthusiasm I had recently 
 seen his Crociato performed in Italy, he said with a mourn- 
 ful smile : "You compromise yourself when you praise me, 
 a poor Italian, here in Berlin, in the capital of Sebastian 
 Bach." 
 
 Meyerbeer was at that period a devoted follower of 
 the Italian school. Discontent against the humidly cold, 
 intellectually spiritual, colourless Berlinism had early brought 
 about a natural reaction in him. He escaped to Italy, 
 rejoiced gaily in the sunny life, gave himself up entirely to 
 his personal inclinations, and composed those exquisite 
 operas wherein Rossinism is pushed to its sweetest 
 exaggeration, wherein gold is gilded over anew, and 
 flowers are perfumed with stronger scents. This was 
 Meyerbeer's happiest time. He wrote in the gentle in- 
 toxication of Italian sensuousness; in life as in art he 
 culled the lightest flowers. 
 
 But all this could not long suffice a German nature. A 
 sort of home-sickness awoke in him for the earnestness of
 
 8 HEINE. 
 
 his country. While he lay under Italian myrtles, the 
 memory of the mysterious rustle of the oak forests stole 
 over him; while the zephyrs of the south wafted about him, 
 he thought of the dark chorale of the north wind. It 
 happened with him perhaps as with Madame de Se'vigne', 
 who while she lived by the side of an orangery and 
 breathed only the scent of the orange blossoms, ended 
 by longing for the rank but wholesome smell of a manure 
 cart. . . . 
 
 In short, a new reaction took place, Signer Giacomo 
 suddenly became German again. He attached himself 
 once again to Germany; not to the old worm-eaten 
 Germany with its short-winded, pike-bearing citizens, but 
 to the new, big-hearted, free Germany of a new generation, 
 which has made all humanitarian questions its own, and 
 carries these great questions of humanity, if not always on 
 its banners, so much the more ineffaceably in its heart. 
 
 Shortly after the July Revolution Meyerbeer appeared 
 before the public with a new work, which had germinated 
 in his mind during the horrors of that period. Robert 
 le Diable, the hero who does not exactly know what he 
 wants and is perpetually at strife with himself, is a faithful 
 picture of the moral fluctuations of that time, a time wherein 
 virtue and vice oscillated painfully, an era which fretted itself 
 with endeavours and obstacles, and had not always sufficient 
 strength to withstand the attacks of Satan ! 1 do not at 
 all like this opera, this masterpiece of cowardice. I say 
 cowardice, not only from the point of view of the subject- 
 matter, but also that of the execution. For the 
 composer does not trust fully to his genius, dares not 
 give free rein to his impulses, and is the trembling servitor 
 of the masses, instead of the dominating master. It was 
 with good reason that Meyerbeer was formerly called a
 
 XOSS/NJ AND ME YERBF.ER. 9 
 
 timid genius. He lacked the compulsion of belief in 
 himself, he bowed to public opinion. The slightest censure 
 frightened him. He flattered every caprice of the people, 
 gave the heartiest hand-shakes indiscriminately right and 
 left, as though he recognised the sovereignty of the people 
 in music, and based his rule upon the majority of votes: 
 all this in contradistinction to Rossini, who reigned as 
 king absolute in the empire of music by the grace of God. 
 He has not wholly freed himself from anxiety in the affairs 
 of private life; but the success of Robert le Diablc has at 
 least had this salutary result, that he is no longer hampered 
 by those cares while he is at work, that he composes with 
 much greater confidence, that he allows the strong bent of 
 his soul to find expression in his creations. And it was in 
 this freer condition of mind that he composed Les ffuguenofs, 
 wherein all uncertainty has vanished, and the inner self com- 
 bat has ceased, wherein the exterior duel has commenced 
 which astounds us by its colossal dimensions. By this 
 work Meyerbeer has won, never again to lose, his 
 citizenship in the eternal city of fine minds, in the 
 Jerusalem of celestial art. For in Les Huguenots he 
 at last manifests himself fearlessly; he has drawn all his 
 thoughts in firm, bold outlines; has dared to express the 
 agitation of his heart in unrestrained tones. 
 
 The distinguishing mark of this work is its equilibrium, 
 the balance between enthusiasm and artistic perfection, or, 
 to express it better, the equal height to which art and passion 
 rise. The man and the artist are in close rivalry; when 
 the one peah the tocsin of wildest passion, the other 
 knows how to tune these rude accents of nature to sweetest, 
 most penetrating harmonies. While the mass of the 
 audience is struck by the interior power, by the passion 
 of Les Huguenots, the art lover admires the masterly hand-
 
 TO HEINE. 
 
 ling of which the whole form is witness. This work is like 
 a Gothic cathedral whose heaven-soaring spire and colossal 
 cupolas seems to have been planted there by the sure hand 
 of a giant; whereas the innumerable festoons, the rosettes, 
 and arabesques that are spread there over it everywhere like 
 a lace-work of stone, witness to the indefatigable patience 
 of a dwarf. A giant in the conception and design of the 
 whole, a dwarf in the fatiguing execution of details, the 
 architect of Les Huguenots is as incomprehensible to us as 
 the builders of the old cathedrals. 
 
 When, recently, I stood before the Cathedral at Amiens 
 with a friend, and my friend contemplated with amazement 
 this monument whose rock-like towers were the expression 
 of gigantic strength, and the little carved stone figures of 
 dwarf-like endless patience, he asked me at last why it is 
 that we, to-day, are incapable of building such edifices, I 
 answered him, " Dear Alphonse, the men of olden times 
 had convictions; we modern men have only opinions, and 
 more than these are needed to raise cathedrals." 
 
 That is it. Meyerbeer is a man of convictions. Properly 
 speaking, however, these do not ern brace the social ques- 
 tions of the day, although with regard to these questions the 
 ideas of Meyerbeer are more firmly grounded than those of 
 other artists. 
 
 Meyerbeer, upon whom the united praises of the earth 
 shower all possible marks of honour, and who, moreover, 
 relishes these distinctions greatly, Meyerbeer, nevertheless, 
 carries in his breast a heart which beats in the sacred interests 
 of humanity, and he unswervingly confesses his devotion 
 to the heroes of the Revolution. 
 
 It is lucky for him that so many of the governments of 
 the north do not understand music, otherwise they would 
 discern more than a party struggle between Protestants
 
 XOSSINI AND ME VERB ERR. \ i 
 
 and Catholics in Les Huguenols. However, these artistic 
 convictions are not precisely political, still less reli- 
 gious convictions. His religion is merely negative. 
 Unlike other artists, perhaps out of pride, he will never 
 soil his lips with a lie; he declines certain importunate 
 benedictions which could not be accepted without com- 
 mitting an equivocal action, or one certainly the reverse of 
 magnanimous. Meyerbeer's real religion is that of Mozart, 
 Gluck, Beethoven, music; in this alone he believes, in 
 this faith only does he find happiness, and he lives in a con- 
 viction not inferior to that of antecedent centuries in its 
 depth, passion, and duration. Yes, I might truthfully say 
 that he is the apostle of this religion. He treats everything 
 that concerns his music with truly apostolic zeal and ardour. 
 Whereas other artists are content when they have created 
 something beautiful and not unfrequently lose all interest in 
 their work as soon as it is completed, Meyerbeer, on the 
 contrary, gives the greatest care to his children after their 
 birth. He gives himself no rest till the creation of his 
 mind reveals itself with equal clearness to the rest of 
 mankind, till the whole public is edified by his music, till his 
 operas have poured into every heart the sentiments which 
 he wishes to preach to the whole world ; in short, till he has 
 put himself in touch with the whole of humanity. As with 
 an apostle who, in order to save one lost soul, fears neither 
 weariness nor pain, so also Meyerbeer, if he learn that some 
 one denies his music, will unweariedly waylay the renegade 
 until he has converted him. And this single saved lamb, 
 be he the most insignificant bookworm-soul, becomes dearer 
 to him than whole troops of believers who have always 
 revered him with orthodox fidelity. 
 
 Music is Meyerbeer's religion, and this is perhaps the 
 cause of all those anxieties and cares which the great master
 
 12 HEINE. 
 
 so often allows to come to light, and sometimes provoke 
 a smile. When a new opera is under study, he is the 
 plague of all the musicians and singers, whom he torments 
 with incessant rehearsals. He is never perfectly satisfied. 
 A single false note in the orchestra is a dagger-thrust 
 from which he thinks he will die. This disquietude con- 
 tinues long after the opera has been represented and 
 received with storms of applause. He still torments him- 
 self, and I believe he will never be contented until a few of 
 the thousands of men who have listened to and admired his 
 opera, are dead and buried ; from those at any rate he need 
 fear no apostasy, of those souls he can be sure. The day 
 his opera is performed, the good God even can do nothing 
 to his liking; if it rains or is cold he fears that Mademoiselle 
 Falcon will catch cold; if, however, the evening is warm 
 and clear, he trembles lest the fine weather should tempt 
 people out of doors and the theatre thus be deserted. 
 
 Nothing equals the anxiety with which Meyerbeer, when 
 at last the music is printed, watches over the correc- 
 tions. This indefatigable desire to improve during the 
 correction of proofs has become a proverb among Parisian 
 artists. But it must be remembered that music is dear to 
 him above all things, assuredly dearer than life. When the 
 cholera began to rage in Paris, I counselled Meyerbeer to 
 quit as soon as possible ; but he had business to attend to 
 for a few days more, which he could not forego; he had 
 to arrange with an Italian for the Italian libretto of Robert 
 le Diable. Les Huguenots, still more than Robert le Diable, 
 is a work of conviction, with regard to subject-matter, 
 and also form. As I have already remarked, while the 
 mass of his audiences is enchanted by the subject-matter, 
 the attentive observer admires the immense art progress, 
 the new forms which herein appear. In the opinion of
 
 ROSSINI AND MEYERBEER. 13 
 
 the most competent judges, all musicians who intend to 
 write for the opera must henceforth first of all study 
 Les Huguenots. It is in instrumentation that Meyerbeer 
 has gone furthest. The choruses are written in an un- 
 precedented manner, they express themselves like indi- 
 viduals, and have overstepped all previous traditions of 
 the opera. Since Don Giovanni there has certainly been 
 no phenomenon in music so great as the fourth act of 
 Les Huguenots, where the terrible and moving scene of the 
 blessing of the swords the consecration of murder is 
 followed by a duet which surpasses the first effect; a 
 colossal stroke which was hardly to be expected of this 
 anxious genius, whose success excites our surprise as much 
 as our delight. For my own part, I believe that Meyer- 
 beer accomplished this last not by artistic means but by 
 natural means, inasmuch as that famous duet expresses 
 a series of sentiments which perhaps have never been re- 
 produced, certainly never with such verisimilitude, in an 
 opera, but with which, nevertheless, the most ardent and 
 turbulent spirits of our time are in sympathy. For myself, 
 I confess that never before has music made my heart beat as 
 impetuously as during the fourth act of Les Huguenots, yet 
 I can turn away from this act and its emotions to listen 
 with infinitely greater pleasure to the second act. This 
 is an idyll whose grace and charm recall the romantic 
 comedies of Shakespeare, and still more perhaps the 
 Aminta of Tasso. Indeed, under the roses of joy there 
 smiles a gentle sadness akin to that of the unfortunate 
 poet of the court of Ferrara. It is more the desire for joy 
 itself; it is no whole-hearted laughter, but a smile from the 
 heart, from a heart that is secretly ill, and can dream only 
 of health. How comes it that an artist, who from his 
 cradle has been spared all the blood-sucking cares of life,
 
 14 HEINE. 
 
 born in the lap of riches, tended by his whole family - 
 that readily, nay with enthusiasm, gratified all his longings, 
 who seems prepared for happiness as no other mortal 
 artist has been, how comes it that this man has never- 
 theless experienced these terrible sufferings which sob and 
 sigh through his music? For what he has not himself 
 experienced, the musician could not reproduce with so 
 much power and emotion. It is strange that this artist, 
 whose material needs are satisfied, should be preyed upon 
 by such unbearable mortal agonies ! But it is good fortune 
 for the public, which owes its most ideal joys to the sorrows 
 of the artist. The artist is that child of whom fairy 
 tales relate that his falling tears were pearls. Alas ! the 
 wicked stepmother, the world, beats the poor child 
 most pitilessly, in order that he may weep as many pearls 
 as possible. 
 
 Les Huguenots, still more than Robert le Diable> has been 
 censured for lack of melody. This reproach proceeds from 
 an error. The trees are not seen on account of the forest. 
 Melody is here subordinate to the harmony. When com- 
 pared with Rossini's music, in which the reverse is the case, 
 I have already pointed out that it is this predominance 
 of harmony which characterises Meyerbeer's music as the 
 emotional music of humanity, of modern society. As a 
 matter of fact there is no lack of melodies; only they 
 are not allowed to stand out crudely, I might even say 
 egotistically; they must subserve the whole. They are 
 disciplined; whereas with the Italians they appear isolated, 
 I might almost say outside the pale of the law, and they 
 impose themselves somewhat after the manner of their 
 illustrious bandits. How many soldiers, in a great battle, 
 fight unnoticed but just as well as Kalabrais, the solitary 
 bandit whose personal bravery would have impressed us
 
 ROSSINI AND ME YERBEER. 1 5 
 
 less had he fought in the rank of regular troops. I will 
 not contest the value of a certain predominance of melody. 
 But I must observe that one of the results of it in Italy is 
 the indifference shown for the opera as an ensemble, for 
 the opera as a complete work of art ; an indifference which 
 manifests itself so naively, that, when no aria is being sung, 
 the occupants of the boxes hold receptions and talk, if they 
 do not even play at cards. 
 
 The predominance of harmony in the creations of 
 Meyerbeer is perhaps a necessary consequence of a 
 wide culture that embraces the world of thought and of 
 phenomena. Whole treasures were disbursed upon his 
 education, and he had a very susceptible mind. He was 
 initiated into all the sciences at an early age, and is 
 distinguished in this respect from most masters of music, 
 whose brilliant ignorance is to a certain extent pardon- 
 able, since usually they have lacked time and oppor- 
 tunity wherein to acquire much knowledge apart from their 
 art. Whatever he learnt became a part of his nature, and 
 the school of the world gave him the highest development. 
 He belonged to that small number of Germans whom even 
 France has recognised as models of urbanity. So high a 
 culture was perhaps necessary in order to gather together 
 the material and shape it with the sure hand that a crea- 
 tion such as Les Huguenots required. But it is a question 
 whether or not the gain in breadth of conception and clear- 
 ness of vision did not involve the loss of other points of view. 
 
 Culture destroys in the artist that fresh accentuation, 
 that vivid colouring, that impulsiveness of thought, that 
 directness of feeling, so often to be admired in circumscribed 
 and uncultured natures. 
 
 Culture, indeed, can only be bought dearly, and little 
 Bianca Meyerbeer is right. This little eight-year-old
 
 1 6 HEINE. 
 
 daughter of Meyerbeer, envies the idleness of the little 
 boys and girls she sees playing in the streets, and 
 expressed herself recently as follows: 
 
 " How unlucky that I have educated parents ! From 
 morning to night I have to learn by heart all sort of 
 things; I must sit still and be good while the uneducated 
 children down there run about happily the whole day and 
 amuse themselves as they please 1 "
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 
 
 WITH the exception of Meyerbeer, L? Academic royale de 
 rnusique possesses few " tone-poets " of whom it is worth while 
 to speak in detail. And yet the French Opera has never been 
 in a more flourishing condition, or, to speak with more 
 exactitude, has never taken better receipts. This prosper- 
 ous era commenced six years ago under the direction of 
 the celebrated M. Veron, whose principles have since 
 been applied with similar success by the new director, M. 
 Duponchel. I say principles, for as a matter of fact M. 
 Ve>on had definite principles, the result of his reflections 
 upon art and science; and in the same way that, as apothecary, 
 he discovered an excellent cough mixture, he as director of 
 the opera invented a preservative against music. That is to 
 say, he had observed in himself that a spectacular piece by 
 Franconi gave him more pleasure than the best opera ; he 
 therefore convinced himself that the greater majority of the 
 public was animated by the same feeling; that most people 
 go to the grand opera from custom, and even then only 
 find enjoyment when beautiful decorations, costumes, and 
 dances absorb their attention, so that they hear absolutely 
 nothing of the terrible music. 
 
 The great Ve"ron conceived the genial idea of indulging 
 to the highest degree, the popular liking for spectacular 
 performances, so that the music should irk them no longer, 
 
 2
 
 1 8 HEINE. 
 
 and they should find as much pleasure at the Grand Opera as 
 at Franconi's. The great Ve'ron and the great public under- 
 stood one another: the one knew how to make the music 
 unobtrusive, and under the name of Opera gave only spec- 
 tacular pieces; the other, the public, could now go with 
 wife and daughters to the Opera as behoved educated people, 
 without being obliged to die of ennui. America was 
 discovered : the egg stood on its pointed end : the opera- 
 house filled daily, Franconi was deserted and became 
 bankrupt, and M. Ve'ron is a rich man. The name of 
 Veron will live eternally in the annals of music ; he has 
 embellished the temple of the goddess, but the door has 
 been shut upon the goddess herself. Nothing equals the 
 luxury that has taken the upperhand at the Grand Opera; 
 it is now the paradise for all who are hard of hearing. 
 
 The present manager follows the principles of his pre- 
 decessor, although his personality offers the most marked 
 contrast. Have you ever seen M. Ve'ron? At the Cafe 
 de Paris, or on the Boulevard de Coblence, you cannot 
 have failed to meet that fat caricature of a figure, with 
 hat on one side of a head quite buried in an enor- 
 mous white cravat, and a collar well up over his ears to 
 conceal a conspicuous mark on his neck, so that the red 
 jovial face and small blinking eyes are hardly discernible. 
 He hugs himself complacently in the consciousness of his 
 knowledge of men and of his prosperity, and with insolent 
 complacency sees himself surrounded by a court of young, 
 middle-aged, and alsomore elderly dandies of literature, whom 
 he willingly regales with champagne or pretty figurantes I 
 He is the god of materialism, and his look, devoid of mind, 
 has often pierced my heart like a spear of steel when I have 
 met him: sometimes, even, it has seemed to me as though a 
 swarm of glittering viscous little worms crawled from his eyes.
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 19 
 
 M. Duponchel is a haggard, pale, yellow man, with, if not a 
 noble, at least a distinguished air, a sad funereal expression; 
 some one has appropriately nicknamed him " un deuil 
 perpctuel" From his outward appearance one would take 
 him to be the inspector of Pere-Lachaise rather than the 
 manager of the Grand Opera. He reminds me always of 
 a melancholy court fool of Louis XIII. This knight of the 
 sad face is to-day "Master of pleasures" to the Parisians; 
 and I would much like from time to time to watch him 
 when, alone in his dwelling, he cogitates over some new 
 buffoonery wherewith he may rejoice his sovereign, the 
 French public ; when he mournfully shakes his sad head, so 
 that the bells of his black cap ring with sighs, or when he 
 colours the design of a new costume for the "Falcon," or 
 when he seizes the red book to see if Taglioni ... or ... 
 
 The preceding remarks will have made you understand 
 the actual importance of the Grand French Opera. It has 
 effected a reconciliation with the enemies of Music ; and, as 
 at the Tuileries, the well-to-do bourgeoisie has also pushed 
 its entrance into the Academy of Music, while the more 
 distinguished "Society" has quitted the field. The fine 
 aristocracy, that elite distinguished by rank, education, 
 birth, fashion, and leisure, has taken refuge at the Italian 
 Opera, the musical oasis where the renowned nightingales 
 of art still trill their fiorilura, where the enchanted rills of 
 melody still flow, where the palms of beauty with proud 
 fans still give the signal of applause . . . while all around 
 stretches a colourless desert of sand, a Sahara of Music. 
 Now and again, however, a few good concerts resound in this 
 desert and bestow an unwonted refreshment on the music- 
 lover. This winter there were Sundays at the Conserva- 
 toire, and a few select parties at the Rue de Bondy, and,
 
 20 HEINE. 
 
 in particular, concerts given by Berlioz and Liszt. These 
 two last are quite the most remarkable phenomena of the 
 Parisian musical world. I say remarkable, not the most 
 beautiful, nor the most agreeable. From Berlioz we shall 
 soon have an opera. The subject is an episode in the life 
 of Benvenuto Cellini, the casting of "Perseus." Something 
 very much out of the common is expected, for this com- 
 poser has already produced uncommon things. The bent 
 of his mind is towards the fantastic, blent not with sentiment 
 but with sentimentality; there are marked analogies be- 
 tween him and Callot, Gozzi, and Hoffman. It is even 
 apparent in his outward appearance. What a pity it is 
 that he has cut his great antediluvian locks, the bristling 
 hair that rose from his forehead like a forest about a steep 
 escarpment of rocks ! It was thus I saw him for the first time, 
 six years ago, and thus he will always remain in my memory. 
 It was at the Conservatoire de Musigue, when a big symphony 
 of his was given, a bizarre nocturne, only here and there 
 relieved by the gleam of a woman's dress, sentimentally white, 
 fluttering to and fro or by a flash of irony, sulphur yellow. 
 The best thing in the composition is aWitches' Sabbath where- 
 in the devil reads the mass, and church music is parodied 
 with the most terrible and savage buffoonery. It is a farce 
 wherein all the hidden vipers we carry in our hearts hiss 
 joyously aloud. My neighbour in my box, a communica- 
 tive young man, pointed out to me the composer, who was 
 sitting at the extremity of the hall in a corner of the 
 orchestra, playing the kettle-drum. For the kettle-drum is 
 his instrument. " Do you see that stout Englishwoman in 
 the proscenium? That is Miss Smithson ; for nearly three 
 years Berlioz has been madly in love with her, and it is 
 this passion that we have to thank for the wild symphony 
 to which we are listening to-day."
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 21 
 
 There, in one of the stage-boxes, sat the celebrated 
 Covent Garden actress; Berlioz had his eyes fixed on her, and 
 every time that her look met his, he struck his kettle-drum 
 like a maniac. Since then Miss Smithson has become 
 Madame Berlioz, and it is also since then that her husband 
 has allowed his hair to be cut. When at the Conservatoire 
 this winter I again listened to his symphony, he again sat 
 as kettle-drum player at the back of the orchestra, the 
 stout Englishwoman was again in the stage-box, again 
 their looks met, . . . but he no longer struck his kettle- 
 drum with mad fury. 
 
 It is Liszt who of all composers has the most elective 
 affinity with Berlioz, and it is he also who is the best 
 executant of his music. I need not discourse to you 
 about his talent : his fame is European. He is incon- 
 testably the artist who found the greatest number of 
 enthusiasts in Paris, if, also, the most vehement de- 
 tractors. It is a significant sign that no one speaks of 
 him with indifference. Without a positive value it is 
 impossible in this world to evoke either partisan or 
 hostile passions. Fire is needed to enflame men, whether to 
 love or to hatred. The best witness in Liszt's favour is the 
 personal esteem in which friends and foes alike hold him. 
 He is a man of eccentric character, but noble, disinterested 
 and guileless. The tendencies of his mind are most remark- 
 able. Speculation has the greatest fascination for him ; 
 and still more than with the interests of his art he is en- 
 grossed with all manner of rival philosophical investigations 
 which are occupied with the solution of all the great ques- 
 tions of heaven and the earth. For long he was an ardent 
 upholder of the beautiful Saint-Simonian idea of the 
 world. Later the spiritualistic or rather vaporous thoughts 
 of Ballanche enveloped him in their mist; now he is
 
 22 HEINE. 
 
 enthusiastic over the Republican-Catholic dogmas of a 
 Lamennais who has hoisted his Jacobin cap on the cross. , . 
 Heavens knows in what mental stall he will find his next 
 hobby-horse ! 
 
 But this unquenchable thirst for light, for the divine, is 
 ever laudable, and is a witness to his leanings towards holi- 
 ness, towards religion. That so restless a brain, driven dis- 
 tracted by all the sufferings and all the doctrines of the day, 
 impelled to concern itself with all the needs of mankind, 
 inclined to poke its nose into every pot wherein the 
 good God cooks the future : that Franz Liszt cannot be a 
 placid player of the piano to peaceable citizens in com- 
 fortable nightcaps, is easily understood. When he sits 
 down to the piano, when, after having stroked back 
 his hair from his forehead several times, he begins to 
 improvise, it often happens that he storms all too madly 
 over the ivory keys, and there resounds a chaos of 
 heaven-high thoughts whence here and there the sweetest 
 flowers breathe out their perfume ; so that the hearer is at 
 once agonised and enchanted, yet none the less agonised. 
 
 I confess to you that, much as I like Liszt, his music 
 does not affect my inner self pleasantly, more especially as I 
 am a Sunday child, and so see the spectres that other people 
 hear only. For, as you know, at each tone drawn forth by 
 his hand, the corresponding figure is evoked in my mind, 
 and becomes visible to my inner vision. My brain still 
 trembles at the recollection of the last time I heard Liszt 
 play at a concert. It was a concert in aid of the unfortu- 
 nate Italians at the hotel of that beautiful, noble, and 
 suffering princess who so beautifully represents the country 
 of her body and that of her spirit, Italy and heaven . . . 
 (you certainly must have seen her in Paris, that ideal figure, 
 which nevertheless is only the prison-house wherein the
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 23 
 
 holy angel soul is confined. . . . But the prison-wall is so 
 beautiful, that whosoever stands before it and gazes is as 
 one bewitched. . . .) It was at the concert in aid of the 
 most deserving of the unfortunate Italians that one day, 
 during the bygone winter, I last heard Liszt p'ay. I no 
 longer know what he played, but I could swear that it was 
 variations on a theme out of the Apocalypse. At first I 
 could not see them distinctly, those four mystic animals, 
 I could hear their voices only, especially the roaring of the 
 lion, and the screeching of the eagle. The ox with the book 
 in his hand I saw distinctly enough. What Liszt played 
 best of all was his rendering the Valley of Jehoshaphat. 
 There were lists as at a tournament, and around the im- 
 mense enclosure the people pressed as spectators, deathly 
 white and trembling. First, Satan galloped into the lists, 
 in black armour, mounted on a milk-white horse. Slowly 
 behind him, Death caracolled on his pale horse. Last of 
 all rode Christ in armour of gold on a black horse. With his 
 sacred spear he straightway thrust Satan to earth, and there- 
 after Death, and the onlookers shouted with joy. . . A storm 
 of applause was awarded to this performance of the valiant 
 Liszf, who rose from the piano exhausted, and bowed to the 
 ladies. On the lips of the most beautiful among them 
 there dawned the sweet mournful smile at once reminis- 
 cent of Italy, and a presage of heaven. 
 
 This same concert had another interest for the public. 
 You doubtless know to satiety, from the newspapers, of 
 the unfortunate estrangement which exists between Liszt 
 and the Viennese pianist Thalberg, and of the commotion 
 which an article by Liszt against Thalberg created in the 
 musical world, also of the role which lurking enmities 
 and gossipings have played alike to the detriment of 
 the critic and the criticised At the very height of
 
 24 HEINE. 
 
 this scandalous strife the two heroes of the day deter- 
 mined to play at the same concert, one after the other. 
 They both set aside their wounded private feelings in the 
 furtherance of a scheme of benevolence; and the public, 
 to whom they thus gave the opportunity of contemporan- 
 eously recognising and appreciating their particular diver- 
 sities, accorded to them a generous and merited approbation. 
 
 It is, indeed, sufficient to make a single comparison 
 between the musical temperament of each composer, to be 
 convinced that there is as much of hidden malice as 
 of narrowness of mind in the endeavour to praise one at 
 the expense of the other. Their technical proficiencies 
 counterbalance one another; and as regards their spiritual 
 character, no more striking contrast could be imagined 
 than the noble, soulful, intelligent, good-natured German, 
 or, rather, Austrian Thalberg, face to face with the wild, 
 lightning-flashing, volcanic, heaven-storming Liszt ! 
 
 Comparison between two virtuosi is usually based upon 
 a mistake, such as once also flourished in the domain of 
 poetry, that is to say, comparison based on the principle of 
 difficulties overcome. But now it is generally admitted that 
 metrical form has quite another importance than merely to 
 demonstrate the artistic skill with which a poet can mani- 
 pulate language, nor do we admire a beautiful poem 
 merely because its production is at the cost of much 
 labour. In the same manner it will soon be perceived that 
 it suffices if a musician can communicate by means of his 
 instrument all that he feels and thinks, or what others have 
 felt and thought; and that all the tours de force of the 
 virtuoso, which testify merely to difficulties vanquished, 
 ought to be proscribed as useless noise, and relegated to 
 the domain of conjurers, of tumblers, of sword-swallowers, 
 and dancers on tight ropes and on eggs.
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 25 
 
 It suffices, in a word, that a musician be absolute master 
 of his instrument in order that the listener may wholly 
 forget the mechanical means, and that the spirit alone is 
 made audible. Moreover, since Kalkbrenner carried the 
 art of playing to its highest perfection, musicians should 
 not lay stress on the further development of technical 
 dexterity. Only infatuation or maliciousness can speak 
 pedantically of the revolution which Thalberg has accom- 
 plished with his piano. A bad service was rendered this 
 great and excellent master when, instead of praising the 
 youthful beauty, the tenderness and charm of his playing, 
 he was represented as a Columbus who has discovered 
 an America on the piano, while hitherto others have had to 
 toil round the Cape of Good Hope whenever they desired 
 to regale their audience with musical spices. How Kalk- 
 brenner must have laughed when he heard the new 
 discovery talked about ! 
 
 It would be an injustice on my part were I on this 
 occasion to omit mention of a pianist who, with Liszt, 
 is at present more fted than any other. I allude to 
 Chopin, 1 who shines as virtuoso, not merely on account 
 of his technical perfection, but also as a composer of the 
 highest order. He is a man of the first rank. Chopin 
 is the favourite of the Mites who in music seek the highest 
 spiritual enjoyment His fame is of an aristocratic kind, 
 
 1 In the original edition this sentence reads as follows: " I allude 
 to Chopin, and he serves well as an example to show how it cannot 
 possibly suffice an extraordinary man to enter into rivalry with the 
 best of his profession concerning the perfection of his technical 
 possibilities. Chopin is not therewith contented, though his hands 
 or his dexterity be applauded by the clapping of other hands. He 
 strives after more worthy laurels. His ringers are merely his soul's 
 servants, and are applauded by people who hear not only with their 
 ears, but also with their souls. He is the favourite of the titles" etc.
 
 26 HEINE. 
 
 perfumed with the praises of good society; it is as dis- 
 tinguished as his personality. 
 
 Chopin was born in Poland of French parents, but 
 received part of his education in Germany. The influ- 
 ences of the three nationalities affect his personality to 
 an extent that is very remarkable. He has, in short, 
 appropriated the best characteristics of each: Poland 
 has bequeathed to him chivalrous tendencies, her his- 
 torical sorrows; France, her delicate grace, her charm; 
 Germany, her profound romanticism. . . . For the rest, 
 nature has given him a slender elegant figure, somewhat 
 fragile, a noble heart, and genius. Yes, genius, in the full 
 acceptation of the term, must be allowed to Chopin. He 
 is not virtuoso only, he is also a poet, he can make us 
 apprehend the poetry which lives in his heart, he is a 
 "tone-poet," and no enjoyment is equal to that which 
 he bestows upon us when he sits down at the piano and 
 improvises. Then, he is neither Polish, nor French, nor 
 German; he betrays a higher origin, he is of the 
 kindred of Mozart, of Raphael, of Goethe; his true 
 fatherland is the dream kingdom of Poetry. When he 
 is seated at the piano and improvises, it seems to me 
 as though a compatriot had come from our well-beloved 
 country and told me of the strange things which had 
 happened there during my absence . . . sometimes I 
 would fain interrupt him with the question, " How fares 
 the beautiful Nixey who knew how to wind the silvern 
 veil so coquettishly in her green locks ? Does the old 
 white-bearded sea-god still pursue his foolish loves ? Are 
 the roses there still so inflamed with pride ? The trees, 
 do they still sing so beautifully in the moonlight? ..." 
 
 Alas ! I have now lived long in a strange land, and some- 
 times to myself, with my innate home-sickness, I seem like
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 27 
 
 the Flying Dutchman and his shipmates, who are rocked 
 eternally on the cold waves, and sigh vain longings after 
 the peaceful quays, the tulips, the myfrowen, the clay pipes, 
 and china cups of Holland. . . . "Amsterdam! Amsterdam! 
 when shall we touch once more at Amsterdam ? " they sigh 
 in the tempest, while the howling winds toss them incessantly 
 hither and thither, upon the cursed billows of their aquatic 
 hell. How well I understand the woe with which the captain 
 of the accursed ship exclaimed one day, " If ever I reach 
 Amsterdam, I would rather be a stone at the corner of 
 a street than ever quit the town again ! " Poor Vander- 
 decken ! 
 
 I hope, dear friend, that these letters will find you cheerful 
 and happy, in the roseate flush of life, and that it will not 
 happen to me as to the Flying Dutchman, whose home 
 letters are usually addressed to those who, during his 
 absence, have been dead long years. 
 
 Ah ! how many of those whom I love have passed away 
 while my life's barque has been driven hither and thither by 
 direst tempests ! I grow giddy, till at last I think that the 
 stars are no longer fixed in the heavens, but move in 
 passionate circles. I shut my eyes ; then the mad 
 dreams seize me in their long arms and drag me to 
 unheard-of countries, and to terrible anguish. . . . You 
 have no conception, dear friend, how strange, yet how 
 wonderful and adventuresome, are the countries I visit in 
 my dreams, and how horrible are the sufferings which 
 assail me in my sleep. . . . 
 
 Last night I found myself in a huge cathedral. A dim 
 twilight brooded therein . . . only, in the topmost spaces, 
 through the galleries supported by the first row of columns, 
 the flickering torches of a procession threaded its way: first 
 the choir-boys clad in red, carrying tapers and banners-of-
 
 28 HEINE. 
 
 the-cross, then monks in brown garments, and, finally, 
 priests in bright-coloured robes. The procession moved 
 in the heights round the dome in a terrible and mysteri- 
 ous way, but descended little by little, while I below, 
 with the unfortunate woman on my arm, concealed my- 
 myself, now here, now there, in the nave of the church. I 
 no longer know what it was that terrified us; we fled with 
 hearts palpitating with anguish, endeavouring at times to hide 
 behind one of the giant pillars, but in vain; we fled in ever- 
 increasing terror, for the procession wound down the spiral 
 staircase, and approached ever nearer to us. , . . The chant 
 was inexpressibly mournful, and, what was still more mysteri- 
 ous, a tall, pale woman marched in front, no longer young, 
 whose face still bore the signs of a great beauty. She 
 directed her measured steps towards us, almost like an 
 opera-dancer. In her hands she carried a bouquet of 
 black flowers, which she presented to us with a theatrical 
 gesture, while a real, terrible anguish seemed to weep from 
 her great shining eyes. . . . Then, all of a sudden, the 
 scene changed, and instead of the dim cathedral, we found 
 ourselves in a wild country where the mountains seemed 
 to move and to writhe in all imaginable postures, like 
 dying men; and where the trees, bearing red flaming 
 leaves, seemed to burn, and burned in reality. . . . Then 
 the mountains, after the maddest gyrations, suddenly 
 fell flat, the trees smouldered away and fell into 
 ashes. . . . And at last I found myself alone in a vast 
 desolate plain; beneath my feet nothing but yellow sand, 
 above me nothing but a dun-coloured mournful sky. 
 I was alone. My companion had vanished, and while 
 I anxiously sought for her, I found in the sand the statue 
 of a very beautiful woman, but with broken arms, like those 
 of the Venus of Milo, with the marble sadly mutilated. I
 
 BERLIOZ, LISZT, CHOPIN. 29 
 
 stood awhile before it in dolorous contemplation, when a 
 rider came up upon his charger. It was a great bird, an 
 ostrich riding upon a camel, an amusing sight. He, also, 
 made a halt before the broken statue, and we conversed 
 long together upon art. "What is art?" I asked him. 
 And he answered: "Ask that of the great stone Sphinx 
 which crouches at the entrance of the Museum at Paris." 
 
 Dear friend, do not laugh at my nocturnal visions. Or 
 do you also hold the usual prejudice against dreams ? 
 
 To-morrow I start for Paris 1 Fare you well 1
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 
 
 ARY SCHEFFER, HORACE VERNET, 
 DELACROIX, ETC. 
 
 THE Salon is now closed ; after the exhibition of the 
 pictures held there from the beginning of May. Scant 
 attention has for the most part been bestowed upon them, 
 for visitors' minds were preoccupied and filled with political 
 anxieties. With regard to myself, I visited the capital at 
 this date for the first time. Confused as I was with a 
 mass of new impressions, I was unable to wander through 
 the galleries of the Louvre with the appropriate mental 
 quietude. There they were ranged, these beautiful pictures, 
 one beside the other, in number about three thousand, 
 these poor children of art to whom the crowd threw only 
 the alms of indifferent glances. In vain they seemed to 
 beg in voiceless appeal for a little sympathy, or an 
 admission into a little corner of the heart; those hearts 
 were filled with sentiments purely personal or domestic, 
 and had neither hearth nor home for those strangelings. 
 The exhibition presented neither more nor less than the 
 appearance of an orphanage asylum, a collection of child- 
 ren, gathered together from all parts, left to their fate, 
 and in nowise related one to the other. My soul was 
 touched at this sight of defenceless innocence, of youth- 
 ful despair.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 31 
 
 What wholly different feelings possess us immediately on 
 entering one of those galleries of Italian pictures which are 
 not exposed like waifs at the mercy of a cold world, but 
 suckle at the breast of the great universal mother, contented 
 and united like one great family, and speaking, if not always 
 the same words, at any rate the same language. 
 
 The Catholic Church was once such a mother of all the 
 arts ; now she is impoverished and helpless. Each painter 
 works in his own manner and on his own account ; the 
 caprice of the moment, the vagaries of the wealthy or of his 
 own laggard heart give him his theme ; the palette affords 
 him the most brilliant colours, the canvas is long-suffering. 
 Moreover, misunderstood Romanticism has infected the 
 French painters ; so that each strives to paint quite differ- 
 ently from the other; or, to speak in the current phrase- 
 ology, to give expression to his own individuality. It is 
 not difficult to imagine what sort of pictures are thus 
 sometimes produced. 
 
 The French people, who undeniably possess sound judg- 
 ment, have not failed justly to censure these abortive efforts, 
 and at the same time to recognise genuine originality, to 
 fish the pearls out of this sea of coloured canvas. The 
 painters whose works have been most appreciated, most 
 highly prized, are Ary Scheffer, Horace Vernet, Delacroix, 
 Decamps, Lessore, Schnetz, De.laroche, and Robert. I 
 shall confine myself to the echo of public opinion; it 
 differs little from my own. And as much as practicable 
 I will avoid dwelling on mere technical qualities or 
 defects; which, indeed, would be out of place, i\ propos of 
 pictures exhibited temporarily in a public gallery, and 
 would certainly not edify the German reader who has no 
 opportunity of seeing these pictures. A glance at the 
 subject-matter and importance of the particular work will
 
 32 HEINE. 
 
 suffice. As a conscientious critic, then, I will make first 
 mention of 
 
 ARY SCHEFFER. 
 
 This painter's Faust and Marguerite were the chief attrac- 
 tion during the first months of the exhibition; that is, 
 before the works of Delaroche and Robert were hung. 
 Indeed, whoever has never seen any painting by Scheffer 
 would at once be struck by his style, a style which finds 
 expression in a peculiar scheme of colour. His enemies 
 declare that he paints exclusively with snuff and green 
 soap. I do not know how far they do him an injustice. 
 His brown shadows are not infrequently too artificial, and 
 fail to produce the intended Rembrandtesque effect of 
 light. Most of his faces are of that terrible colour which 
 has at times startled us, when, by chance, we have caught 
 sight of our own face, wearied with watching and out of 
 humour, reflected in one of those green glasses still to be 
 found in old inns where the diligence stops in the morning. 
 A closer and more careful scrutiny of Scheffer's pictures 
 reconciles one to his manner, and reveals the genuinely 
 poetic quality of his treatment ; a warmer feeling breaks 
 through these sombre tones, like sunrays through the 
 clouds of mist. That morose, solid brushwork, those 
 exhausted colours have nevertheless a good effect in the 
 Faust and Marguerite pictures. Both are life-size, three- 
 quarter lengths. Faust sits in a red mediaeval arm-chair 
 near a table strewn with parchment-covered books, on 
 which his left arm rests and serves as support to his un- 
 covered head. The right arm, with the open hand turned 
 outwards, falls the length of his thigh. His garments are the 
 colour of blue-green soap; his face, almost in profile, is fawn 
 coloured; the features are severe and noble. In spite of the
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 33 
 
 sickly false colour, the hollow cheeks and faded lips, the 
 decay imprinted everywhere, this face still preserves traces 
 of its former beauty, a mournfully tender light still beams 
 from the eyes ; it looks like a beautiful ruin irradiated by 
 moonlight. 
 
 Yes, this man is a beautiful human ruin ; in the furrows 
 over these weather-beaten eyebrows brood owls learned in 
 mystic lore, and behind that forehead lurk wicked ghosts ; 
 at midnight the graves of dead desires reopen, pale shadows 
 throng therefrom, and through the desolate cells of the 
 brain glides Marguerite in disarray. It is to the credit of the 
 painter that he has put on the canvas the head of a veritable 
 man, and that the mere aspect of it imparts to us the 
 feelings and thoughts which agitate the brain and heart of 
 this man. In the background, scarcely visible, and of a 
 repellent green, the head of Mephistopheles is recognisable, 
 the wicked spirit, the father of lies, the Evil One, the God 
 of the green soap. 
 
 Marguerite is equally well depicted. She, also, sits upon 
 a faded red arm-chair. Her spinning-wheel with full 
 distaff lies silent at her side; in her hand she holds an open 
 prayer-book, which she does not read, and in which is dis- 
 cernible the faded coloured picture of the Mother of God. 
 Her head is drooped in such a way that the greater part of 
 the face, of which only the profile can be seen, is peculiarly 
 shadowed. It is as though the tenebrous soul of Faust had 
 projected its shadow upon the features of the gentle girl. The 
 pictures hung side by side, and it is thus the more remark- 
 able that almost all effects of light are concentrated upon 
 Faust's face, whereas in Marguerite's picture the light is not 
 diffused on her face but on the contours of her figure. The 
 effect thus obtained is of indescribable magic. Gretchen's 
 bodice is one of soap green ; a little black cap barely covers 
 
 3
 
 34 HEINE. 
 
 the crown of her head, and from both sides hangs her shining 
 smooth golden hair. Her oval face is noble, touching, and 
 the features are of a beauty which would fain hide them- 
 selves out of modesty. She is modesty itself, with her 
 lovely blue eyes. A silent tear, a mute pearl of sorrow, 
 trickles down her cheek. She is indeed Wolfgang Goethe's 
 Marguerite; but she has read the whole of Frederick 
 Schiller, and she is more sentimental than naive, and much 
 more heavily idealistic than gracefully suave. 
 
 Perhaps she is too true and too earnest to be gracious; 
 for grace consists in movement. No doubt she thus gains 
 something as lasting, as solid, and as real as a good 
 louis d'or, which one clasps safely in one's pocket. In a 
 word, she is a German maiden; a deep gaze into the 
 melancholy violet eyes conjures dreams of Germany, of 
 the scented lindens, of the poetry of Hoelty, of the stone 
 effigy of Roland before the Rathhaus, of the old co-rector, 
 of his rosy niece, of the forester's house with its trophies of 
 the chase, of bad tobacco and good companions, of the 
 granddame's churchyard tales, of the honest night watch- 
 man, of friendship, of one's first love, and of many other 
 sweet trifles. ... In fact, Scheffer's Marguerite cannot be 
 described. She is more a sentiment than a figure. She is 
 a painted soul. Whenever I pass before her, I murmur to 
 her instinctively Liebes Kindt 
 
 Unfortunately, the same mannerism is to be found in 
 all Scheffer's pictures; and while it suits his Faust and 
 Marguerite it is wholly displeasing in subjects which 
 demand clear, warm, brilliant tones. There is, for ex- 
 ample, his little canvas in which is depicted a dance of 
 school children, who, owing to his dull, unsympathetic tones, 
 resemble a troop of gnomes. However remarkable his talent 
 for portraiture may be indeed, however much originality
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 35 
 
 of conception in this respect I must concede to him 
 his coloration is to me correspondingly repellent. There 
 was, however, one portrait in the Salon for which even the 
 Scheffer mannerism was eminently appropriate. Only with 
 these indefinite, deceptive, decayed, characterless colours 
 could the man be painted; to his credit be it said that 
 never a thought could be read in his face, and that 
 what was evident there was illusory. He is the man 
 whom we might kick from behind without the smile in 
 front wavering from off his lips. He is the man who 
 has perjured himself forty times, and whose talent for 
 lying has been profitably used by each succeeding French 
 government whenever any deadly perfidy was to be perpe- 
 trated. So he reminds us of that ancient user of poisons, 
 that Locustor, who dwelt in the house of Augustus like a 
 wanton heirloom, and silently and discreetly served one 
 Caesar after the other, and one against the other, with her 
 diplomatic little potions. When I stand before the picture 
 of this false man, whom Scheffer has limned so faithfully, on 
 whose face the artist has painted the forty false oaths with 
 his hemlock colours, then the thought shivers through me, 
 " For whom in London is his latest mixture intended ? " 
 Scheffer's Henry IV. and Louis Philippe, life-size equestrian 
 portraits, certainly merit especial mention. The first, le roi 
 par droit de conqutte et par droit de naissance (king by right 
 of conquest and by right of birth), lived before my time; I 
 know only that he wears a Henri-quatre beard, but I cannot 
 tell how far the resemblance goes. The other, le roi des 
 bar/icades, king by grace of the sovereign people, is my 
 contemporary, and I can judge whether his portrait is or is 
 not like him. I saw it before I had the pleasure of seeing 
 his Majesty the king himself, yet I did not recognise him at 
 the first glance. I saw him in perhaps too exalted a frame
 
 36 HEINE. 
 
 of soul, namely, on the first fete of the latest of the 
 Revolution festivities, when he rode through the streets of 
 Paris, in the middle of the cheering citizen-guards and 
 the July decorations; all, like mad people, shouted the 
 Parisian and Marseillaise hymn, and danced the Carmagnole 
 one with another. His Majesty the king sat high on his 
 horse, half like a constrained Triumvirate, half like a 
 voluntary prisoner carried along in a triumphal procession. 
 A dethroned emperor rode at his side, either symbolically 
 or prophetically; his two sons rode near him, like blossom- 
 ing hopes, his swollen cheeks glowed from out the forest 
 shades of his thick whiskers, and his sweet grey eyes 
 shone with pleasure and embarrassment. In Scheffer's 
 picture he looks less pleasant, indeed almost gloomy, as 
 though he rode through the Place de Greve where his 
 father was beheaded; his horse seems to stumble. I think 
 that in Scheffer's portrait the top of the head is not as 
 pointed as in the illustrious original, of whom this singular 
 formation always reminds me of the folk-song 
 
 " A fir tree stands in the deep valley, 
 It is broad below and small above. " 
 
 Otherwise the picture is fairly successful, a good likeness ; 
 though I was able to discover this resemblance only after I 
 had seen the king himself. This seems to me to reflect 
 gravely upon the value of the whole of Scheffer's portrait- 
 painting. 
 
 Portrait-painters may be divided into two classes. There 
 are those who have the wonderful talent of seizing and 
 rendering the feature$ so that to the unknown spec- 
 tator is given an exact idea of the face represented, and 
 he immediately understands the character of the original 
 so adequately that he recognises him at once if he chance
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 37 
 
 to meet him. We find this is a distinguishing merit 
 of the old masters, notably of Holbein, Titian, and Van 
 Dyck. In their portraits we are struck with that directness, 
 which is an unmistakable guarantee of their verisimilitude 
 to the long-deceased originals. "We could swear that 
 these portraits are good likenesses," we say involuntarily 
 in passing through the galleries. 
 
 We find the second manner of painting portraits among 
 French and English artists in particular, who concern 
 themselves only with superficial likeness, and throw only 
 those traits upon the canvas which recall to our memory 
 the face and character of the well-known original. These 
 portraits are especially beloved by well-born parents and 
 tender spouses who show us their family portraits after 
 dinner, and cannot sufficiently impress upon us how lovely 
 the little darling looked before he had worms, or what 
 a speaking likeness it is of the husband, whom we have not 
 the honour of knowing as yet, but whose immediate 
 acquaintance we are to make when he returns from 
 Brunswick. 
 
 In respect of colour, Scheffer's Leonore is much more 
 distinguished than any of his other works. The subject 
 is an episode of the time of the Crusades; it has given the 
 artist an opportunity for brilliancy of costume and especially 
 for the use of "romantic" coloration. The home-coming 
 army passes by, and Leonore fails to recognise her beloved. 
 A gentle melancholy pervades the whole picture : nothing 
 presages the horrible apparition of the following night. 
 I believe, however, that because of the episode being 
 in the pious time of the Crusades, that the widowed 
 Leonore would, in fact, not have blasphemed God, 
 and the dead knight would not have carried her off. 
 Burger's Leonore, however, lived in a Protestant sceptical
 
 38 HEINE. 
 
 age, and her beloved departed in the Seven Years' War 
 in order to conquer a portion of Silesia for the friend 
 of Voltaire. Scheffer's Leonore, on the contrary, belongs 
 to that bygone age of belief, when hundreds and thousands 
 of men, animated by religious thought, sewed a red cross 
 upon their coats, and wandered to the Orient as pilgrim 
 warriors, there to conquer a tomb. Marvellous age ! But 
 we men, are we not all knights of the cross, who, in 
 spite of all our weary righting, only at the last acquire 
 a grave for ourselves ? It is this thought that I read 
 reflected on the face of the knight, who, from his tall battle- 
 horse, looks down so pityingly upon the sorrowing Leonore. 
 She leans her head upon her mother's shoulder. She is 
 a drooping flower, who will wither, but who will not 
 blaspheme. Scheffer's picture is a beautiful, musical com- 
 position; the colour-tones therein are of such cheerful 
 melancholy, that they are like a sorrowful spring song. 
 
 Scheffer's other pieces merit our attention. Nevertheless, 
 they have been much praised while better pictures by less 
 distinguished artists remain unnoticed. Such is the magic 
 of a master's name. If a prince wear a Bohemian glass 
 stone on his finger, it will always be taken for a diamond; 
 should a beggar wear a genuine diamond ring, every one 
 will feel convinced that it is only glass. This consideration 
 brings me to 
 
 HORACE VERNET, 
 
 who has by no means invariably sent pure gems to decorate 
 the Salon. The most remarkable of his exhibited canvases 
 is a Judith in the act of killing Holofernes. She, a 
 slender blooming maiden, has just risen from her couch; 
 a violet robe, hastily knotted round her loins, falls in folds to 
 her feet. The upper part of her body is clad in an under-
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 39 
 
 garment of pale yellow; the sleeve, falling over the right 
 arm, is turned back with somewhat of a butcher's gesture, 
 yet with enchanting grace, by the left hand; for the right 
 hand holds the curved blade that threatens the sleeping 
 Holofernes. There she stands, an exquisite figure, on the 
 farther verge of maidenhood, divinely pure, yet spotted by 
 the world, like a violated hostage. Her head is wonder- 
 fully attractive, and of a strange charm ; her black locks are 
 like little serpents which writhe with terrifying grace. The 
 face is lightly shaded, and a sweet savagery, a sombre 
 loveliness, a sentimental anger is expressed by the noble 
 features of the beautiful murderess. Her eyes in particular 
 sparkle with sweet cruelty and the lust for revenge; for 
 she has the profanation of her own body also to avenge 
 on the hated heathen. In truth, he is not especially 
 attractive; nevertheless he seems to be bon enfant. He 
 sleeps so complacently in the after-beatitude of his bliss; 
 perhaps he snores, or, as Louisa says, he sleeps aloud ; his 
 lips still move as though they were bestowing kisses. 
 Intoxicated with happiness and certainly with wine, 
 without any interplay of suffering or illness, Death sends 
 him by the hand of this beautiful angel into the white 
 land of eternal annihilation. What an enviable fate ! 
 When my hour of dying comes, ye gods, let me die like 
 Holofernes 1 Is it irony on the part of Horace Vernet, that 
 the first rays of the rising sun stream in upon the sleeper, 
 while at the same time the night-lamp flickers low? 
 
 Another picture from the same hand represents the present 
 Pope. It recommends itself more by the daring of the 
 draughtsmanship and colour-scheme, than by its personal 
 quality. With head encircled by the triple crown, clad 
 in white garments embroidered with gold, and seated 
 on a golden chair, this servant of the servants of God
 
 40 HEINE. 
 
 is carried in procession round the church of St. Peter. 
 The Pope himself, though of ruddy colour, looks delicate, 
 and is almost obliterated in the white background of 
 white incense smoke and white feather fans held high 
 above him. But the crimson -liveried bearers of the ponti- 
 fical chair are sturdy figures, full of character, with their 
 tanned faces framed in falling black hair. The faces of 
 three of these men only are visible, but they are admir- 
 ably painted. The same praise may be given to the 
 capuchins whose heads, or rather the bent backs of whose 
 broadly-tonsured heads, are seen. But the fault of this 
 picture is in the vaporous insignificance of the principal 
 personage, and the forcible importance given to the acces- 
 sory figures. In facility of pose and in coloration they 
 remind me of Paolo Veronese. But the Venetian magic 
 is lacking, that poetry of colour which, like the shimmer of 
 the Lagunes, is only superficial, yet which appeals to the 
 emotions so marvellously. 
 
 A third picture by Horace Vernet has received much 
 applause on account of its bold conception and its colour- 
 scheme. It represents the arrests of the Princes of 
 Conde, of Conti, and of Longueville. The scene takes 
 place on the steps of the Palais-Royale, which the princes 
 descend, after having rendered up their swords by the 
 order of Anne of Austria. 
 
 The composition permits almost every figure to be re- 
 presented in unbroken outline. Conde stands first on the 
 lowest steps, he strokes his moustachios meditatively, and 
 I know of what he thinks. An officer comes down the first 
 steps bearing the princes' swords under his arm. There 
 are the three groups, posed naturally, and harmoniously 
 allied to one another. Only a man on the highest steps 
 of the staircase of Art could have such high-stepping ideas.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 41 
 
 Among Horace Vernet's less important pictures is a portrait 
 ol Canaille Desmoulins standing on a seat in the Palais-Royale 
 and haranguing the people. With his left hand he plucks a 
 green leaf off a tree, and in his right he holds a pistol Poor 
 Camille, your courage was not higher than that bench; you 
 would fain remain there, and you glance around. "Forwards, 
 ever forwards ! " is however the one magic word that has 
 power to hold our revolutionaries upright; if they remain 
 standing and looking around them they are lost, like 
 Kurydice, when following the music of her lover's lyre, 
 she glanced back at the horror of the underworld. Poor 
 Camille ! Poor fellow ! Those were the joyous green days 
 of Liberty, when you sprang upon the bench and threw 
 open the window to Despotism, and tore up the lantern- 
 posts. Later, the joke became very mournful; the foxes of 
 the Revolution became befogged leaders, whose hairs stood 
 up on end; you heard frightful cries resound, and voices of 
 the Gironde called to you out of the Kingdom of Shadows, 
 and you glanced fearfully around. 
 
 With regard to the costumes of 1789, this picture is of 
 considerable interest. There they are, the powdered hair, 
 the narrow garments of the women which widened slightly 
 below the hips, the striped coloured frock-coat, the coach- 
 man-looking overcoat with the little collarettes, the two 
 watch-chains which hung in parallel lines over the abdomen, 
 and those vests of the days of terror, with the broad over- 
 turned flaps, which have again come into fashion among 
 the republican youth of Paris, under the name of gilels 
 a la Robespierre. Robespierre himself appears in the 
 picture, prominent in his faultless attire and dandified 
 manners. As a matter of fact, his exterior was always 
 smart and polished, like the blade of a guillotine; his 
 interior, his heart, was also as disinterested, incorruptible,
 
 42 HEINE. 
 
 and invariable as the blade of the guillotine. This 
 inflexible strength did not proceed from lack of feeling, 
 but from rigid virtue, like that of Junius Brutus, which we 
 condemn with our hearts while with our reason we admire 
 unboundedly. Robespierre had an especial predilection for 
 Desmoulins, his schoolfellow, whom he allowed to be 
 executed when this Fanfaron de la liberte preached an 
 untimely moderation and encouraged a weakness that was 
 dangerous to the State. While Camille's blood flowed on 
 the Place de la Greve, it may be that Maximilian's tears fell 
 in a lonely room apart. This is no mere idle talk. Not 
 long ago a friend told me that Bourdon (de 1'Oise) had 
 related to him, that once, when he entered the workroom 
 of the Committee of Public Health, there sat Robespierre 
 over his "Acts," alone, with sunken head, weeping bitterly. 
 
 I will pass over less important pictures by Horace Vernet, 
 the many-sided artist who paints everything sacred sub- 
 jects, battle-pieces, still life, animals, landscapes, por- 
 traits, everything hastily, almost after the manner of a 
 maker of pamphlets. 
 
 I now turn to 
 
 DELACROIX, 
 
 who has exhibited one picture before which I, accordingly, 
 saw always such a concourse of people, that I rank it among 
 those canvases which have received the greatest share of 
 attention. The sacredness of the subject prohibits any 
 severe criticism of the colour, which might perhaps not pass 
 the ordeal. In spite of certain technical deficiencies, the 
 work is permeated with deep thought and is singularly 
 attractive. It represents a group of people during the July 
 days, prominent among whom is the symbolical figure of a 
 young woman. On her head she wears a red Phrygian cap; 
 in one hand she carries a gun, in the other a tricoloured flag.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 43 
 
 She strides forward over the dead bodies, and excites to 
 combat Her beautiful, impetuous body is nude to the waist, 
 her face is in bold profile, her features express an impudent 
 sorrow: she is a strange combination of a Phryne, of a 
 fishwife, and a goddess of Liberty. That she is intended 
 to represent the latter is not clearly indicated; this figure 
 seems rather to depict the brute force of the people 
 throwing off a hated yoke. I must confess that it 
 reminds me of those peripatetic female philosophers, of 
 those couriers of love, or rather those light lovers, who swarm 
 upon the boulevards in the evening. I confess that the 
 little chimney-sweep Cupid who, with a pistol in either hand, 
 accompanies this street Venus, is probably not soiled with 
 soot alone; that the Pantheon candidate, stretched dead upon 
 the ground, perhaps trafficked previously in counter-checks 
 outside the theatre -doors; that the hero who rushes forward 
 with his musket betrays in his face the galleys, and carries 
 on his disgusting coat the smell of the assize courts. 
 But that was exactly the one thing needful : a great 
 thought that should ennoble and sanctify the very dregs 
 of the people, of these crafule, and reawaken the slumbering 
 dignity in their souls. 
 
 Holy July-days of Paris ! they will bear eternal testimony 
 to the original, innate divinity of mankind, which can never 
 be completely destroyed. He who has lived through you 
 will never more lament over the graves of other days, but 
 rather joyfully believe in the resurrection of the people. 
 
 Holy July-days ! How bright was your sun, and how 
 great were the people of Paris ! The gods, who from 
 the heights of heaven looked down upon this great fight, 
 shouted with admiration; they would fain havt quitted 
 their golden seats and have descended to earth, in order 
 to become citizens of Paris ! But, jealous and anxious as
 
 44 HEINE. 
 
 they are, they feared lest at last men should reach too lordly 
 a height, therefore by means of their subservient priests 
 they sought " to blacken the brilliant and smite the lofty 
 to the dust." Therefore they incited that Potter cattle- 
 piece, the Belgian rebellion. Therefore it came about 
 that the tree of liberty in its growth did not reach to the 
 heavens. 
 
 In no other picture in the Salon has the colour sunk in 
 so much as in Delacroix's July Revolution. Nevertheless, 
 this very absence of varnish and of shining surface, together 
 with the smoke and dust which envelop the figures like a grey 
 cobweb, these sun-dried colours which seem to thirst for a 
 drop of water, all this seems to stamp the picture with truth- 
 fulness, reality, originality, in short, one finds therein the 
 veritable physiognomy of the "July days." 
 
 Among the visitors, there were many who had either taken 
 part in these very "days," or who at any rate had been spec- 
 tators of what had happened, and these critics could not 
 sufficiently praise the picture. " Matin" a shopkeeper called 
 out, " those gamins fought like giants ! " A young lady 
 observed that the Polytechnic scholars were omitted, 
 though they were to be seen in all the other representa- 
 tions of the July Revolution, of which very many, over 
 forty, paintings were exhibited. An Alsatian corporal 
 spoke in German to his comrade: "What a fine work 
 of art that painting is ! How truthfully all is depicted ! 
 How naturally the dead man who lies on the ground is 
 painted ! One might almost swear he is alive ! " 
 
 " Papa," exclaimed a little Carlist girl, " who is the dirty 
 woman with the red cap ? " " Well, certainly," sneered the 
 noble papa with a sweet smile of superiority, " certainly, 
 dear child, she has nothing in common with the purity 
 of the lily. She is the goddess of Liberty." " Papa, she
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 45 
 
 has not even got on a chemise.'' "A true goddess of 
 Liberty, dear child, usually has no chemise, and is there- 
 fore very bitter towards all people who wear white linen." 
 
 At these words the man drew his cuffs somewhat further 
 over his long leisurely hands and said to his neighbour: 
 " Your Eminence, should it happen to-day, among those re- 
 publicans of the Port St Denis, that an old woman were 
 shot dead by the National Guards, her sacred corpse would 
 be carried through the boulevards, the people would rise in 
 fury, and we would have a new revolution." 
 
 " Tant mieux!" whispered his Eminence, a haggard, 
 closely-buttoned man disguised in every-day garments, as 
 is now the case with all priests in Paris, from fear of 
 public insults, perhaps also on account of evil conscience?, 
 " Tant mieux, Marquis, if only many outrages could 
 happen so that the measure might be full ! The Revolution 
 would then swallow up its own creators, especially those 
 vainglorious bankers who have now, God be praised, almost 
 ruined themselves." " Yes, your Eminence, they wished to 
 abolish us at any cost because we refused to have them in 
 our salons. That is the secret of this July Revolution. 
 Money was distributed to suburban dwellers, workmen were 
 dismissed by heads of factories; wine-sellers were paid to 
 give wine mixed with powder gratis, so as to excite the 
 people and for the rest, it was the sun ! " 
 
 Perhaps the Marquis is right : it was the sun. 
 
 Especially in the month of July, the sun has always 
 enflamed the hearts of Parisians with its most powerful 
 beams. Whenever liberty was threatened, the people of 
 Paris, drunk with sun, rose up against the rotten Bastille 
 and the ordinances of serfdom. The sun and the city 
 understand each other wonderfully; they love one another. 
 Before the sun sinks towards the sea in the evening, its
 
 46 HEINE. 
 
 last looks linger with pleasure on the beautiful city 
 of Paris, with its last beams it kisses the tricoloured 
 standards on the towers of the beautiful city of Paris. The 
 French poet was right who proposed that the July festival 
 should be celebrated by a symbolical marriage. Long 
 ago the Doge of Venice went once a year, in the Bucen- 
 tauro, to wed the dominion of Venice to the Adriatic Sea ; 
 so should the city of Paris yearly marry herself to the 
 sun on the Place de la Bastille, to the great flaming lucky 
 star of her Freedom. Casimir Perier did not see this 
 realised. He feared the nuptial evening of such a wedding : 
 he feared the all-too-strong ardour of such a marriage, and 
 the most he could permit was a morganatic union between 
 the city of Paris and the sun. 
 
 But I forget that I am only the reporter of an exhibition. 
 
 As such, I now come to the consideration of a painter 
 who, while he excites general attention, appeals so pecu- 
 liarly to me, that his pictures are to me as coloured echoes 
 of the voices of my own heart ; or rather, as the sym- 
 pathetic colour-tones which are in accord with what is in 
 my heart. 
 
 DECAMPS 
 
 is the name of the artist who has thus bewitched me. 
 Unfortunately, I did not see one of his best works, " The 
 Dogs' Hospital," which had been removed before I visited 
 the Exhibition. I missed a few other works of his because 
 I could not discover them, on account of the crowd, before 
 they were withdrawn. 
 
 I at once recognised, however, that Decamps is a great 
 painter, when I studied a little picture by him (the first I had 
 seen) whose colour and simplicity impressed me greatly. It 
 is merely the study of a Turkish building, high and white, 
 with here and there little window-holes through which a
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 47 
 
 Turkish face looks out; below, lies a still pool, wherein 
 the chalk-white walls with their red shadows are mirrored, 
 sleepily quiet. 
 
 I learned afterwards that Decamps has been in Turkey. 
 It was not only his original colouring which struck me so 
 much, but the truth expressed by the faithful and unaffected 
 tones of his pictures of the East. This is particularly exem- 
 plified in his " Patrouille turque." In this picture we see the 
 supreme Chief of the Police in Smyrna, the great Hadji Bey, 
 who, surrounded by his myrmidons, makes the round of the 
 town. With protruding paunch, he sits upright upon a horse, 
 in all the majesty of his gross pride ; his insolently arrogant, 
 ignorant, swarthy face is overshadowed by a large white 
 turban. He holds in his hands the sceptre of his absolute 
 bastinadom, and near him, on foot, run nine faithful 
 executors of his will, or caprice, agile creatures with short 
 thin legs, and almost animal faces, cat-like, he-goatish, 
 apeish. Indeed, one of them is formed of a mosaic of a 
 dog's muzzle, pig's eyes, donkey's ears, calf's smile, and hare's 
 cowardice. In their hands they carry weapons carelessly, pikes, 
 guns with the butt end upwards; each, also, has the instru- 
 ments of his trade as hireling justice, namely, a spear and 
 a bundle of bamboo rods. The houses before which the 
 procession passes are chalky white, the earth is a loamy 
 yellow : the effect of these darkly-clad figures hurrying 
 through the bright foreground in strong relief against the 
 equally bright background, is somewhat like that of a 
 Chinese Shadowplay. In the evening twilight, the 
 strange shadows of the thin legs of men and horses 
 add to the weirdly magical effect. Moreover, these 
 rascals cut such absurd capers, they make such unheard- 
 of leaps; and the very horse itself shoots out its legs 
 with such comical swiftness that it seems half to creep on
 
 48 HEINE. 
 
 its belly and half to fly. Yet it is all these points that 
 certain Parisian critics have censured as unnatural and as 
 caricatures. 
 
 France, also, has its non-progressive art critics, who judge 
 every new work after obsolete conventions; master connois 
 seurs, who poke round about the studios, and smile their 
 approval wherever their fancy is tickled. These gentlemen 
 have not failed to pass judgment upon Decamps' picture. 
 
 One, a M. Jal, who publishes a pamphlet upon every 
 Exhibition, has sought to decry this very picture in a supple- 
 mentary note in Le Figaro. It is his intention to ridicule 
 the admirers of this work when he confesses with apparent 
 modesty that he is a man who decides according to the 
 dictates of his judgment only, and that his poor judgment 
 fails to see in this picture by Decamps the masterpiece 
 recognised as such by those great minds who do not form 
 their conviction by means of reason only. The dear man 
 with his judgment ! He little knows how correctly he has 
 described himself! 
 
 It is not fitting that the first voice to be heard estimating 
 works of art should be that of poor judgment, any more than 
 this same judgment should play a chief part in their incep- 
 'tion. The germinal idea of a work of art has birth in the 
 soul, and the soul draws upon the imagination for the power 
 of realisation. Phantasy then throws all her flowers over 
 and around the idea; and instead of vitalising it would 
 almost smother it, did not judgment limp along and push 
 aside the superfluous flowers, or prune them with naked 
 garden shears. Judgment maintains order merely; and, so 
 to speak, acts as police in the realm of art. In life judgment 
 is usually an impassive calculator which reckons up our 
 follies. Alas, it is too often merely the auditor of a broken 
 heart, and sums up the deficit with deliberate calm.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 49 
 
 The great error lies in the reiterated question of the 
 critic : " What ought the artist to do ? " 
 
 The question would be more correct thus : " What 
 will the artist do ? " or even " What must the artist 
 do?" 
 
 This question, " What ought the artist to do ? " is the 
 formula of those art-philosophers who, devoid of any 
 innate poetry, have tabulated for their own use the char- 
 acteristics of the different masterpieces of art; who have 
 laid down a rule for the future upon what already exists, 
 have determined classifications, devised definitions and 
 principles. They ignore that such abstractions can serve 
 only for the criticism of imitations; that every original 
 artist, every new genius, must be judged in accordance with 
 his own aesthetics. Ancient rules and precepts are still 
 less palatable to such minds. " There is no art of fighting," 
 Menzel has said, " for the young giant, for he cuts his way 
 through every parry." Each genius must be studied and 
 judged by his own intentions. Therefore, in such cases, 
 the question to be answered is, " Has he the means to 
 express his ideas? Were the fitting means employed ?" 
 
 Here we are on sure ground. We no longer measure an 
 unusual creation by our subjective requirements, but we 
 base ourselves upon the God-given means which the artist 
 has at his command for the manifestation of his idea. With 
 the recitative arts the means consist in sounds and words; 
 with the plastic arts they consist in colour and form. 
 Sounds and words, colour and form above all the visible 
 are, nevertheless, only the symbols of the idea, symbols 
 born in the inmost nature of the artist when moved by {he 
 Holy Spirit of the World. His works are only the symbols 
 with which he imparts his own ideas to other natures. He 
 who expresses the greatest number, and the most profound, 
 
 4
 
 So HEINE. 
 
 by the simplest and smallest number of symbols he is the 
 greatest artist. 
 
 To me it is of the highest importance that the symbol 
 the outward expression of the inward signification should 
 above all things charm the senses by and for itself: like the 
 flowers of a Selam, which, independently of their mysterious 
 language, bloom by and for themselves, and charm by the 
 simple grouping into a beautiful and fresh bouquet. But is 
 such accord always possible ? is the artist always wholly free 
 in the choice and disposition of his mysterious flowers? 
 or does he choose and blend them in obedience to an 
 inner impulse? 
 
 I answer this question of mystical dependence, in 
 the affirmative. The artist resembles the sleep-walking 
 princess who, in the gardens of Bagdad, plucked the 
 rarest flowers with the prescience of deep love, and bound 
 them into a Selam of whose significance she knew nothing 
 until she awoke. In the morning she reclined on her 
 divan, gazed at her bouquet gathered over night, pondered 
 thereon as over a forgotten dream, and finally sent it to 
 the beloved Kaliph. The sleek Eunuch who carried it 
 rejoiced in these beautiful flowers, without a suspicion of 
 their meaning. But Haroun-al-Raschid, the Protector of 
 the Faithful, the Follower of the Prophet, the Possessor 
 of Solomon's ring, understood instantly the language of 
 the bouquet. His heart bounded with joy, he kissed 
 each flower, and laughed till the tears trickled down his 
 long beard. 
 
 I am neither follower of the prophet, nor possessor of 
 Solomon's ring, neither have I a long beard ; yet I can affirm 
 that I have understood the beautiful Selam, which Decamps 
 has brought us from the land-of-the-morning, far better than 
 all the Eunuchs, together with their Kislar-Aga, the great
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 51 
 
 supreme connoisseur, the intermediary messenger of the 
 harem of art. The chattering of these emasculated con- 
 noisseurs is insupportable to me, especially the reiterated 
 formulas, the well-meaning good advice to young artists, the 
 pitiable references to nature, and again to dear nature. 
 
 In matters of art I am a supernaturalist. I believe that the 
 artist cannot find all his types in nature, but that the most 
 remarkable types are revealed to him in his soul, as the innate 
 symbolism of innate ideas, at one and the same moment 
 A modern professor of ^Esthetics, who has written ItaJidn- 
 jsche Forschungen, has endeavoured to reinstate the old 
 principle of imitation of nature, and maintains that the 
 plastic artist ought to find in nature all his types. This 
 professor, while extolling this, his supreme principle of 
 plastic art, has given no thought to one of the most 
 primeval of these arts, I mean to architecture, whose types 
 man has vainly sought to find in the leaves of the forest and 
 the grottoes of the rocks. These types do not lie in 
 external nature, their birthplace was in the human soul. 
 
 Decamps may console himself for the criticism which 
 complains of an absence of nature in his pictures, and of 
 the unnatural way in which the horse of Hadji Bey throws 
 his feet and his people run, with the answer that his paint- 
 ing is faithful to the truth of phantasy and to the intuitions 
 of a dream. As a matter of fact, when sombre figures are 
 painted on a bright background, they have a visionary aspect 
 and seem not to belong to earth, and in consequence are 
 perhaps to be treated in a more airy, more fanciful, and 
 less material manner. The blending of animal and human 
 characteristics in the figures of this painting is yet another 
 reason for an unusual rendering. In this very blending 
 lies the source of that ancient humour the Greeks and 
 Romans knew so well how to express in their innumerable
 
 52 HEINE. 
 
 chimerical representations, such as we delight to see 
 on the walls of Herculaneum, in the statues of satyrs, 
 centaurs, etc. Against the reproach of caricature, the 
 artist is sufficiently protected by the harmony of his work, 
 that delicious colour-music which resounds so comically 
 yet so harmoniously in short, by the magic of his coloration. 
 Painters of caricature are rarely good colourists, precisely on 
 account of that parcelling of their sentiments which is the 
 condition of their aptitude for caricature : the perfection of 
 the colour-sense is, on the contrary, born in the soul of the 
 artist, is dependent upon unity of sentiment. In Hogarth's 
 original pictures in the National Gallery, in London, I could 
 see only daubs, which swore at one another, veritable riots 
 of crude colours. 
 
 I have forgotten to remark that in these paintings of 
 Decamps, some young Grecian unveiled women are seated 
 at their window watching the passing of the droll procession. 
 Their quietude and their beauty form a very attractive con- 
 trast. They do not laugh : His Impertinence on horseback, 
 surrounded by doglike, obedient followers, is an everyday 
 spectacle to them ; we therefore feel the more thoroughly 
 transported into the land of absolutism. 
 
 Lest this canvas should detain me yet longer, I hasten to 
 the consideration of a painting by 
 
 LESSORE, 
 
 which attracted every one by its wonderful verisimilitude, and 
 by a very luxury of modesty and simplicity. Visitors stopped 
 involuntarily when they came to this canvas, named in 
 the catalogue " The Sick Brother." In a miserable garret, 
 on a miserable bed, lies a little sick lad whose suppliant 
 eyes are turned towards a rough wooden crucifix, nailed 
 to the bare wall. At his feet sits another boy, sad and
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 53 
 
 dejected, with downcast looks. His short jacket and 
 his little knickerbockers are clean, but well patched with 
 coarse material. The yellow woollen coverlet on the 
 bed and the scarcity of furniture or rather the lack of 
 it witness to great poverty. This subject is treated in 
 a manner which corresponds to, and recalls the pictures of 
 Mtirillo's beggar-boys. The sharply-defined shadows, the 
 powerful strokes, firm and appropriate, the colours laid on 
 deliberately in sober but not sombre tones, give to the 
 composition the character that Shakespeare describes as 
 " The modesty of Nature." Surrounded by brilliant pictures 
 with their glittering frames, this painting must have been all 
 the more of a surprise, inasmuch as its frame was old and the 
 gilding was blackened and wholly in accord with the artist's 
 manner and subject. Thus, by reason of these peculiarities, 
 and contrasted with its surroundings, this work produced a 
 deep and melancholy impression on the beholder, and filled 
 the soul with that indefinable pity which seizes one at times 
 when, on quitting a salon brilliant with light and well-being, 
 one suddenly emerges into an obscure street and is 
 accosted by a poor ragged creature who complains of cold 
 and hunger. This picture says much with few strokes, and 
 makes us think and feel still more. 
 
 SCHNETZ 
 
 is a name of repute. Nevertheless, 1 mention him with less 
 pleasure than the preceding artist, who is as yet little known 
 in the artistic world. Art-lovers who have, probably, seen 
 better earlier work by Schnetz, assign him a distinguished 
 position, therefore I cannot refuse him his reserved seat. 
 
 He paints well, but in my opinion he is not a great 
 painter. His large Salon picture of this year, representing 
 the Italian country-folk imploring the Madonna for miracu-
 
 54 HEINE. 
 
 lous healing, is excellent in parts : a young boy in convulsions 
 is especially well drawn, indeed the whole reveals the artist 
 to be a master of technique. Yet the picture as a whole is 
 pieced together rather than painted ; the figures are posed 
 in a declamatory manner; the underlying conception, the 
 original, uniting idea, is lacking. Schnetz makes use of too 
 many strokes to say what he wishes, and what he says is in 
 great part superfluous. Strenuous efforts, an obviously 
 adequate aim, may be praiseworthy in a mediocre artist, 
 but can never produce pleasurable emotion. It is the 
 security with which genius soars, that has power most to please 
 us : we rejoice in his high flight, we are convinced of the 
 power of his wing, and our soul allows itself confidently to 
 be borne away with him into the regions of the radiant light 
 of art. Quite contrary feelings are roused by these the- 
 atrical geniuses who allow us to see the strings which guide 
 them so distinctly, that we watch them with trembling dis- 
 comfort, apprehensive lest at any moment they may fall. 
 I do not say that the threads upon which Schnetz depends 
 are too thin, nor that his genius is too heavy; I can only 
 assert that instead of inspiring me, he depresses my spirit 
 to the level of the earth. 
 
 In the nature of his studies and choice of his sub- 
 jects Schnetz has certain analogies with a painter whose 
 name, on that account, is often mentioned with his, but who 
 in this year's exhibition has surpassed not only Schnetz, 
 but also the majority of his confreres, in public favour, 
 and has had the officer's cross of the Legion of Honour 
 bestowed upon him. 
 
 L. ROBERT 
 
 is the name of this painter. " Is he an historical painter, 
 or a genre painter?" I hear the German Masters of the 
 Guild ask. Alas! I cannot evade this question; I feel
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 55 
 
 constrained to explain these qualifications, so as once for 
 all to prevent grave misunderstandings. This separation 
 between history and genre is so bewildering that one is 
 tempted to think it was invented by the artists who worked 
 at the tower of Babel. Yet it is of more recent date. In 
 the first periods of art there was only historical painting r 
 namely, the depiction of sacred history. Later,. all pictures 
 were definitely named historical paintings whose subjects 
 were drawn not only from the Bible and from legends, but 
 also from ancient and profane history, including heathen 
 mythology. They were in direct opposition to those 
 representations of ordinary life which came into vogue 
 especially in the Netherlands, where the Protestant spirit 
 rejected both Catholic and heathen mythology subjects for 
 which they had perhaps neither models nor taste yet where 
 there existed so many gifted painters who sought expression, 
 and so many lovers of art who desired to buy pictures. 
 The diverse manifestations of this ordinary life were col- 
 lectively termed genre. 
 
 Many painters have represented the humour of the small 
 burgher-life in a remarkable manner; but, unfortunately, 
 technical perfection was with them always the chief aim^ 
 All these pictures have, at all events, an historical interest 
 for us; for when we examine the pretty productions of 
 Mien's, Netscher, Jan Steen, Gerard Dow, Van der WerfF, 
 and many others, the whole spirit of that age is wonderfully 
 revealed to us: we look, so to speak, through the window at 
 the sixteenth century with all its occupations and costumes. 
 In this respect the Dutch and Flemish artists were singu- 
 larly fortunate. The peasants' garments were not lacking 
 in picturesqueness; and those of the burghers were, for the- 
 men, a delightful blending of Netherlandish well-to-do ease 
 and of Spanish grandezza; for the women, a brilliant
 
 56 HEINE. 
 
 mixture of the fantasies of the whole world. For example, 
 Mynheer, with the burgher cloak and knightly cap of brilliant 
 hue, has a clay pipe in his mouth. Mifrow wears heavy 
 trailing robes of Venetian shimmering satin, Brussels lace, 
 African ostrich feathers, Russian furs, Oriental slippers, and 
 may hold an Andalusian mandoline, or, still more frequently, 
 carry in her arms a silken brown Hondchen (little dog) 
 of the Saardam race. The negro page-boy, the carpets 
 from Turkey, parrots of all colours, exotic flowers, the great 
 gold and silver vases with extravagant arabesque designs, ail 
 these threw over this Dutch-cheese existence the glamour of 
 an Oriental fairy-tale. 
 
 When, after its long sleep, art reawoke in our days, 
 artists were none the less embarrassed in the choice of 
 a subject. Sympathy with religious and mythological 
 painting was completely dead in most European countries, 
 even in Catholic states; while contemporary costumes seemed 
 too unpaintable to permit the cheerful representation of the 
 history of the time or of daily life. Our modern frock-coat, 
 too, is -so essentially prosaic, that it seems impossible to 
 introduce it into a picture without an appearance of a 
 parody. 
 
 T Not long since I argued over this matter with a 
 philosopher from Berlin a town in Prussia who en- 
 deavoured to explain to me the mysterious signification 
 of the frock-coat, and the natural-historical poetry of its 
 shape. He related to me the following myth: The first 
 man was not wholly clothless, but was created sewed up in 
 a night-shirt. When woman was formed out of his rib a great 
 piece was cut out of his night-shirt and had to serve her as 
 an apron; thus the night-shirt by means of this rent 
 became a frock-coat, that found its natural supplement in 
 
 1 The following paragraph was printed in the original edition.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 57 
 
 the woman's apron. In spite of this picturesque origin 
 of the frock-coat, and of its poetical significance to a 
 supplement of the race, I cannot reconcile myself to its 
 shape. Artists who share this aversion with me have sought 
 elsewhere for more picturesque costumes. This, no doubt, 
 has contributed chiefly to their predilection for more ancient 
 historical subjects, and we find in Germany a whole school, 
 certainly not lacking in talent, ceaselessly occupied in rummag- 
 ing through the \vardrobeofCatholic and feudal middle ages, 
 in order to clothe the men of to-day, with all their modern 
 feelings, beneath the monkish cowl or knightly armour. 
 Other artists have sought other expedients; they have 
 chosen to represent peasant-folk whose originality and 
 national costume have not yet been submerged in the 
 waves of civilisation. Hence the scenes from the Tyrolese 
 mountains which we so often see in the pictures of the 
 Munich painters. This region lies at their door, and the 
 costume of these mountaineers is more picturesque than 
 that of our dandies. Hence, also, those joyous pictures of 
 that common Italian life which allures so many artists by 
 reason of their sojourn in Rome, where they find that ideal 
 nature, those human forms full of ancient nobility, those 
 picturesque costumes that are so dear to the painter's heart. 
 Robert, French by birth, an engraver in his youth, lived 
 for a number of years in Rome. The pictures he exhibits in 
 this year's Salon belong to the category to which I have just 
 referred to the representation of the life of the people in 
 Italy. "Then he is a painter of genre" I h'ear the Masters 
 of the Guild exclaim; and I know one lady-historical- 
 painter who promptly turns up her nose disdainfully. But I 
 cannot accept this classification, because historical painters, 
 in the old sense of the word, no longer exist. It would be 
 indeed too vague to claim this name for all paintings
 
 58 HEINE. 
 
 which express a profound thought; there would result a 
 quarrel over each canvas to decide whether or not it 
 contained a thought; and at the end of the dispute nothing 
 would be gained but one word. Possibly, if it were used in 
 its natural signification, that is to say, for the representation 
 of the history of the world, this word, historical-painting, 
 would be specially applicable to a class of work which is 
 now actually being largely produced, of which Delaroche 
 may be considered the foremost exponent. 
 
 Before concerning myself particularly with the latter, I wish 
 to say a few words about the paintings of Robert. They 
 are, as I have said, exclusively representations of Italy, 
 paintings which depict for us in the most delightful manner 
 the charm of that favoured land. Art, for long the ornament 
 of Italy, becomes now the cicerone of her past magnificence. 
 The speaking colours of the painter reveal to us her most 
 secret beauties ; an old magic revives, and the land which 
 once subjugated us first by its arms, then by its literature, 
 subjugates us to-day by its beauty. Yes, Italy will always 
 reign over us, and painters like Robert chain us afresh to 
 Rome. 
 
 The Pifferari, by Robert, which is, unless I am mistaken, 
 already widely known by means of lithography, was ex- 
 hibited this year, and represents those pipers of the Alban 
 mountains who come to Rome at Christmas to play a holy 
 serenade before the images of the Mother of God. This 
 work is better drawn than painted ; there is a certain stiff- 
 ness about it ; it is gloomy, Bolognese in character, and 
 like a coloured engraving. Nevertheless, it appeals to the 
 feelings, as though one listened to the naive pious music 
 piped by the shepherds of the Alban hills. 
 
 Less simple, but perhaps of deeper significance, is another 
 picture by Robert : that of a dead body lying uncovered on
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 59 
 
 its bier, in accordance with the Italian custom, and being 
 carried to its grave by the Misericordia Brothers. The 
 members of the confraternity, shrouded in black, and wearing 
 a black mask with two holes out of which the eyes look in a 
 mysterious manner, advance like a procession of ghosts. On 
 a seat in the foreground, facing the spectator, sit the father, 
 mother, and young brother of the deceased. Poorly clad, 
 sunk in grief, with bound head and folded hands, the old 
 man sits in the middle between his wife and boy. He is 
 silent ; for there is no deeper pain in this world than that 
 of a father who, contrary to the laws of nature, survives his 
 son. The mother, deadly pale, seems to lament in very 
 desperation. The child, a poor little clodhopper, has 
 a piece of bread in his hand which he wants to eat, but 
 he cannot swallow a mouthful on account of his grief, 
 and is therefore all the more pitiful. The deceased appears 
 to have been the eldest son, the support and pride of the 
 family, the Corinthian pillar of the house. Still in the 
 gracefulness of youth, contented and almost smiling, he lies 
 on the bier ; so that, in the picture, life seems harsh, hate- 
 ful, mournful; while death appears unspeakably beautiful, 
 even smiling and full of contentment. 
 
 The artist, who has glorified the charm of Death, has 
 nevertheless known how to represent life with still greater 
 magnificence. His large masterpiece, Les Moissonneurs, is, 
 so to speak, the apotheosis of life. Looking at it, one forgets 
 that there is a kingdom of shadows; it seems as though no- 
 where could there be greater happiness and light than on this 
 earth. " The earth is heaven, and men are holy, deified:" 
 is the great revelation which is declared by the happy colours 
 that light this picture. A vast plain of Romagna, illumined 
 by the dying fires of the setting sun of Italy, lies stretched 
 before us. In the middle distance is a peasant's wain drawn
 
 60 HEINE. 
 
 by means of heavy chains by two great buffaloes, and laden 
 with a family of country folk about to make a halt. To 
 the right, near their sheaves, sit some reapers resting after 
 their work, while a bagpipe-player pipes and a lusty youth 
 in the joy of his heart dances to the sounds. One seems 
 to hear the melody and the words : 
 
 "Damigella, tutta bella 
 Versa, versa il bel vino ! " 
 
 To the left come maidens, young and pretty, carrying the 
 field-fruits, burdened with sheaves of corn. Also from the 
 same side come two youths, one of whom advances with 
 languorous movements and half-closed eyes, while the other, 
 on the contrary, makes signs of joy in the air with his sickle. 
 Between the buffaloes of the waggon stands a robust brown- 
 breasted boy, who seems to be the servant, and rests against 
 the pole. On the top of the waggon, to the one side, the 
 old grandfather is stretched on cushions, an affable old man 
 whose spirit probably still directs the wheels of the family. 
 On the other side the son, a strong and resolute male figure, 
 sits with crossed legs on the back of one of the buffaloes, 
 and holds in his hands the whip, the visible sign of com- 
 mand. Higher, almost upright, stands his pretty young 
 wife with a child in her arms, a rose with its bud. Beside 
 her is seen the head of a young man, probably the brother, 
 as amiable and blooming, who endeavours to spread the 
 linen over the tent-pole. This picture i, I hear, being 
 engraved ; perhaps the prints will reach Germany next 
 month, so I will not prolong the description. But neither 
 engraving nor description can give an adequate idea of the 
 charm of the picture, for the charm lies in the colour. The 
 figures, all darker than the background, are so exquisitely 
 lighted by the reflections of the heavens, that they glow
 
 THE SALON, 1831. fit 
 
 with the most brilliant and joyous tones, while the contours 
 are nevertheless definitely outlined. Some of the heads 
 seem to be portraits. But the painter has not copied 
 nature after the stupidly scrupulous manner of many of 
 his fellows, and so rendered the features with a diplomatic 
 minuteness. As a clever friend remarked, Robert has 
 selected for himself the figures which nature has offered to 
 him. And, in the same manner that souls do not lose their 
 individuality in the fires of purgatory, but only the soilures 
 of earth, before their translation to heavenly joys ; so these 
 figures have been purified in the burning flames of genius, 
 to enter, radiant, into the heaven of art ; where eternal life 
 and eternal beauty reign ; where Venus and Mary never lose 
 their adorers; where Romeo and Juliet never die; where 
 Helen remains for ever young; where Hecuba at anyrate 
 never grows any older. 
 
 A study of Robert's system of coloration shows him to 
 be a student of Raphael. The architectonic beauties and 
 the grouping also recall this master. Certain isolated figures, 
 moreover, have a family resemblance to Raphael's figures, 
 but to those of his first period, during which he still repro- 
 duced Perugino's severe types very faithfully, but softened 
 them somewhat and gave them more grace. 
 
 It is not my intention to establish a parallel between 
 Robert and the greatest painter of the Catholic epoch. It 
 is, however, impossible to deny their relationship. It is 
 a resemblance in material form alone, and not a spiritual 
 relationship. Raphael is imbued with Catholic Christianity, 
 a religion which expresses the strife of spirit against 
 matter, of heaven against earth ; whose object is the sub- 
 jection of matter; that calls every protest of the latter a 
 sin ; whose aim is to spiritualise earth, or still more, to offer 
 it in sacrifice to heaven. But Robert belongs to a nation
 
 62 HEINE. 
 
 wherein Catholicism is extinct. For, to remark in passing, 
 the current expression that Catholicism is the religion of the 
 majority of the people, is only a piece of French gallantry 
 towards Notre Dame de Paris, who, on her side, with equal 
 politeness, wears the tricolour of Freedom on her head : a 
 double hypocrisy against which the rabble protested in a 
 somewhat informal manner when, recently, it demolished the 
 churches and gave swimming lessons in the Seine to the 
 holy pictures of the saints. Robert is French ; and he, 
 like most of his countrymen, gives unconscious allegiance 
 to a still veiled doctrine, which knows nothing of a com- 
 bat between spirit and matter, which does not forbid man 
 the sure enjoyments of things terrestrial while at the same 
 time promising him celestial joys in Infinity; which pre- 
 fers, in a word, to assure blessedness to man on earth, and 
 takes the sensuous world to be as holy as the spiritual ; for, 
 " Whatever is, is God." These " Harvesters " of Robert are 
 not only guileless of all sin, but they do not know even what 
 sin is. Their daily work is their devotion ; they pray con- 
 tinually without moving their lips ; they are happy without 
 heaven, redeemed without sacrifice, pure without continual 
 ablution, saints by nature. Moreover, in Catholic paintings, 
 the aureole radiates from the head alone, as the seat of the 
 spirit, thereby symbolising spiritualisation. In Robert's 
 pictures, on the contrary, we see matter equally beatified, 
 for the whole man, body and head, is encompassed by a 
 heavenly light as with a glory. 
 
 Catholicism is not only extinct in modern France, it has 
 not even the reactionary influence on art that it has in our 
 Protestant Germany, where Catholicism has gained a new 
 value through the transmitted poetry of the ages. With the 
 French, it is perhaps a dull rancour which disgusts them 
 with Catholic traditions, when every other historical repre-
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 63 
 
 sentation awakes in them a keen interest. I can explain 
 this statement by an example which in its turn will be 
 elucidated by the statement. The number of pictures 
 representing religious history, whether from the Old or the 
 New Testament, whether traditional or legendary, is so small, 
 that a similar subdivision of a wholly worldly order has 
 furnished more examples, and certainly of better quality. 
 After an exact calculation I find, among the three thousand 
 numbers of the catalogue, that only twenty-nine of these 
 deal with religious subjects, whereas the pictures represent- 
 ing scenes from Sir Walter Scott's novels alone, number 
 over thirty. I can, therefore, in speaking of a French 
 painting, use the words, historical painting, and historical 
 school, in their most natural signification without the fear 
 of any misunderstanding. 
 
 DELAROCHE 
 
 is the Corypheus of these schools. This painter has no 
 predilection for the past in itself; solely for its represen- 
 tation, for the reproduction of its spirit, for the writing of 
 its history in colour. The present taste of the greater 
 number of the French painters is akin ; the Salon is filled 
 with scenes drawn from history. The names of Deveria, 
 Steuben, and Johannot, merit the most distinguished 
 mention. In the sister-arts, also, a similar vogue prevails; 
 as, for instance, in poetry, so brilliantly exemplified by 
 Victor Hugo. The latest efforts of the French in the 
 Science of History, and their great results in the actual 
 writing of History, are in this respect no isolated pheno- 
 mena. 
 
 Delaroche, the great historical painter, has contributed 
 four canvases to this year's Salon. Two are from French 
 and two from English history. The two first are of small
 
 r> 4 HEINE. 
 
 dimensions, what are called easel pictures; vivid, neverthe- 
 less, in figures and striking detail. One represents the 
 dying Cardinal Richelieu ascending the Rhone, from 
 Tarascon to Lyons, in a barque : while in a boat fastened 
 behind it Cinq Mars and De Thou, who are being con- 
 ducted to Lyons by the Cardinal in order that they may be 
 beheaded. In this respect the actual composition may be 
 artistically reprehensible, but in this instance the artist has 
 triumphed. The coloration is brilliant, almost dazzling; 
 and the figures seem to swim in the streaming gold of an 
 evening sun. This contrasts all the more strikingly with 
 the fate awaiting the three chief figures. Bright though the 
 decorations of these boats be, they float, nevertheless, 
 towards the sombre kingdom of death. The glittering 
 golden rays of the sun are only a parting greeting. It is 
 dayset; that, too, must wane ere long. Then a blood-red 
 stream of light will spread over the earth, and thereafter 
 comes the night. Not less brilliant, and in a sense not 
 less tragic, is the historical pendent, which also represents 
 the last moments of a Cardinal Minister Mazarin. He is 
 stretched upon a superb state-bed, surrounded by gay 
 courtiers and retainers, who gossip and play cards with 
 one another, and move about the room ; personages in 
 garments of divers hues; superfluous beings, especially 
 superfluous to a man lying on his death-bed. Charming 
 costumes of the time of La Fronde, not as yet flamboyant 
 with rosettes of gold, embroideries, ribbons, and lace of 
 the luxurious days of Louis XIV., when the remaining 
 knights were changed into courtiers, in the same manner 
 as the great battle-sword slowly degenerated to the absurd 
 rapier of the gallant. Here the costumes are still simple; 
 the doublet and lace collar still recall the original warlike 
 occupation of nobles; the plumes in the hats even are still
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 65 
 
 boldly upright and do not bend with every breath of court- 
 wind. The men's hair still falls in natural curls over their 
 shoulders, and the ladies wear the becoming frisure a la 
 Sevignb. True, the garments of these dames already indicate 
 a transition to the tastelessness, to the long trains and wide- 
 spreading skirts, of the following period. But the bodices 
 retain a naive grace, and white charms emerge there- 
 from like flowers from a horn of plenty. In this composi- 
 tion are seen only pretty women, only pretty court masks; 
 the smile of love on their lips, and perhaps a gnawing bitter- 
 ness in their hearts ; lips innocent as flowers, and behind 
 them a wicked little tongue, cunning as a serpent. Three 
 of these ladies, gossiping and talking scandal, are seated 
 to the left of the sick-bed: near them is a keen-eared 
 priest with piercing eyes and sensitive nose. On the right 
 sit three cavaliers and a lady playing cards, at lansguenet 
 perhaps, an excellent game that I have myself played at 
 Gottingen, and at which I once won six thalers. A noble 
 courtier, clad in a dark violet velvet mantle with a red 
 cross, stands in the middle of the room and bows low with 
 elaborate scrape of the leg. At the right corner of the 
 picture is a group of two court ladies and an Abbe". He 
 gives to the one a paper to read, perhaps a sonnet of his 
 own making, while he ogles the other, who flutters her 
 fan, love's dainty telegraph. Both ladies are charmingly 
 beautiful the one fair as a rose at early morning, the other 
 pale as a languishing star at twilight. In the background 
 is the retinue of chattering courtiers, probably relating to 
 one another important backstairs State secrets, or wagering 
 that Mazarin will be dead in an hour. And indeed the sick 
 man seems neai his end; his face has the pallor of a corpse, 
 his eyes are sunken, his nose is pinched in a significant 
 manner. Within him, that flame which we call life is at its 
 
 5
 
 66 HEINE. 
 
 ebb; cold and darkness are closing in around him; the 
 wing of the Angel of Night already overshadows his fore- 
 head. At this moment the lady playing by his side turns to 
 him, shows him her cards, and seems to ask him if she shall 
 trump with her heart. 
 
 The subjects of other two pictures by Delaroche are 
 from the history of England. The figures are life-size, 
 and are painted with greater simplicity. One canvas re- 
 presents the two princes in the Tower whom Richard III. 
 caused to be assassinated. The young king and his younger 
 brother are seated on an old-fashioned bed; the little dog 
 runs to the door of the prison, and seems by his barking to 
 announce the approach of the murderers. The king, a 
 boy on the verge of adolescence, is a pathetic figure. The 
 idea of an imprisoned king, as Sterne so rightly felt, is of 
 itself a sufficiently pitiable thought; yet here the prisoned 
 king is hardly more than a guileless boy delivered into the 
 hands of a relentless murderer. In spite of his tender 
 years, he seems to have suffered much; his pale sickly 
 face has a touch of tragic grandeur; his blue-stockinged 
 legs hang nervelessly, and give his body the broken aspect 
 of a weakly flower. All this, as I have said, is treated 
 with great simplicity, and the impression is all the more 
 powerful. 
 
 Ah ! it appealed to me poignantly, for I discovered in the 
 face of the luckless prince the beloved eyes of a friend, eyes 
 which have often smiled at me, and were closely related to 
 other eyes still more beloved. Memory recalled to me each 
 time I stood before Delaroche's picture, how in a lordly 
 castle in far-off Poland I stood once before the picture 
 of a friend, and spoke of him with his lovely sister, whose 
 eyes closely resembled the eyes of my friend. We spoke 
 also of the painter of the picture, who had recently died,
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 67 
 
 and of how men die one after the other. Alas ! the beloved 
 friend himself is dead, shot at Prague; the bright lights 
 of the charming sister are also quenched, her castle burnt 
 to the ground. It fills me with dismay when I reflect 
 that not only does our life vanish so quickly out of the 
 world, but that no trace remains of the scenes in which 
 we lived, as though nothing of this life of ours had ever 
 existed, as though it were all a dream. 
 
 The other picture by Delaroche, however, roused still 
 more painful feelings. It represents a scene from that 
 horrible tragedy, which has been translated into French, 
 has cost so many tears on both sides of the Channel, and 
 has also profoundly affected the German spectator. We 
 see on the canvas the two heroes of the drama: the first, 
 a corpse in its coffin ; the second, full of life, raising the 
 lid in order to contemplate his dead enemy. Perchance 
 they are not two heroes, but merely two actors to whom the 
 director of the world has assigned their respective roles, 
 and who, perhaps without knowing it, have represented the 
 tragic struggle of two principles ? I will not name these 
 two inimical principles, these two great thoughts, that, may- 
 hap, were warring in the breast of God at the moment of 
 creation, that we see in presence of one another in this 
 picture the one, shamefully wounded and bleeding, in the 
 person of Charles Stuart ; the other, arrogant and victorious, 
 in the person of Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 In one of the sombre rooms of Whitehall the coffin of 
 the beheaded king rests athwart dark red velvet seats; 
 before it stands a man who, with quiet hand, lifts the cover, 
 in order to contemplate the corpse. This man stands 
 alone; his figure is thick-set and broad, his bearing is 
 careless, his face is that of an honest boor. His soldierly 
 costume is puritanically devoid of ornament: a long vest of
 
 68 HEINE. 
 
 brown velvet under a yellow leathern jacket; high riding- 
 boots that almost wholly conceal his black hose; across his 
 breast a sash of dirty yellow, whence hangs a sword in its 
 sheath; on his cropped dark hair a black hat turned up 
 with a red feather; round his neck a little turned-down white 
 collar, under which a bit of his armour is visible; dirty 
 yellow leather gloves; the left hand holds a short stout 
 stick, the other raises the lid of the coffin in which the 
 king lies. 
 
 Faces of dead men have often an expression of distinction, 
 before which that of the living man seems insignificant in 
 comparison, for they excel in passionless reserve, in the 
 imperturbable coldness of distinction. All men feel this, 
 and out of respect to the superior rank of the dead, the 
 watchman presents arms when a corpse is carried past, be 
 it merely that of the poorest cobbler. It is, therefore, easily 
 understood that the juxtaposition of Oliver Cromwell to the 
 dead king renders all comparison unfavourable to the latter. 
 Glorified by his recent martyrdom, sanctified by the majesty 
 of misfortune, his neck encircled with precious purple, with 
 the kiss of Melpomene on his white lips, the dead man 
 presents a startling contrast to the puritanical, coarse, robust 
 figure. The contrast is equally striking and significant 
 between the outer garments of this man and the last tokens 
 of splendour of fallen majesty: the rich silken green cushion 
 in the coffin, and the elegance of the spotlessly white linen 
 shirt trimmed with lace from Brabant. 
 
 What great world-pain the artist has herein expressed 
 with a few strokes of his brush ! There, miserably bleeding, 
 lies that splendour of royalty, once the consolation and 
 flower of mankind. Life in England since that day has 
 grown mournful and colourless: poetry has fled affrighted 
 from that land which erstwhile she had decked with
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 69 
 
 laughing colours. Ah ! how deeply did I feel this when 
 once, at midnight, I passed before that fatal window at 
 Whitehall; when the damp, cold commonplace of the Eng- 
 land of to-day froze me through and through. Why was my 
 soul not equally deeply affected when lately, for the first 
 time, I passed over the terrible spot where Louis XVI. was 
 done to death ? I opine it was because he, when he died, 
 was no longer a king, and because he had already lost his 
 head. King Charles lost his crown only when he lost his 
 head. He believed in this crown and in his absolute right; 
 for these he fought like a lissom and daring knight. He 
 died nobly proud, protesting against the illegality of his 
 sentence, a true martyr to Royalty-by-the-grace-of-God. The 
 poor Bourbon did not deserve this glory; his head, before 
 his death, had been uncrowned and profaned by a Jacobin 
 cap. He had no faith in himself; he believed in the 
 competence of his judges; he protested only of his in- 
 nocence. He was an honest, rather portly paterfamilias; 
 his virtues were genuinely bourgeois. His death has a 
 sentimental rather than a tragic character; it suggests to 
 one August Lafontaine's family romances. ... A tear for 
 Louis Capet, a laurel wreath for Charles Stuart. 
 
 " Un plagiat infame d'un crime Stranger ! " Such are the 
 words wherewith Viscomte Chateaubriand describes that 
 melancholy occurrence, which took place on the Place 
 de la Concorde, one 2ist of January. He makes the 
 proposal that on this spot a fountain should be erected 
 whose water should spring from a cup of black marble, for 
 the cleansing "you know well what I mean," he added 
 with pathetic innuendo. The death of Louis XVI. is the 
 becraped stalking-horse that the noble count constantly 
 parades abroad. Yearly and daily he exploits the ascen- 
 sion of the son of Saint Louis; yet the refinement of the
 
 70 HEINE. 
 
 spleen with which he declaims, and his far-fetched funeral-wit, 
 testifies to no deeply-seated grief. Most objectionable of 
 all is it when his words are re-echoed from the heart of the 
 Faubourg St. Germain, when the old emigrant-coterie still 
 lament with hypocritical sighs over the late Louis XVI., as 
 though they were his own belongings, as though he had ever 
 belonged to them, as though they were specially entitled to 
 bewail his death. Yet this very death is a common world- 
 wide misfortune that concerns the humble day-labourer 
 equally with the highest master of ceremonies at the 
 Tuileries; a death that fills every human heart with com- 
 passion. Oh, the wily set ! Since they can no longer 
 usurp our legitimate joys, they usurp our legitimate sorrows ! 
 It is perhaps fitting, that while, on the one side, we 
 indicate the right of the common people to participate in 
 such griefs, so that they no longer allow themselves to be 
 persuaded that kings do not belong to them, but only to an 
 Mite who claim the exclusive privilege of bewailing every 
 mischance which befalls royalty as though it were their 
 own; we ought, on the other side, to give full voice to 
 those griefs, since, in these days, certain coldly calculating 
 state-grabbers have arisen temperate bacchantes of Reason 
 who, in their logical madness, seek to argue out of the 
 depths of our heart all the reverence which the old time 
 Sacrament of Kinghood evokes. Meanwhile we can in 
 nowise call the mournful origin of this grief a plagiarism, 
 still less a crime, least of all an infamy; we call it a dis- 
 pensation of providence. It would exalt men too high, and 
 at the same time abase them too deeply, to attribute to 
 them such gigantic power, and at the same time so much 
 wantonness, that they of their own free will should have 
 shed the blood whose traces Chateaubriand would fain 
 cleanse away with the water from his black marble cup.
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 71 
 
 Of a truth, when the circumstances of that time arc duly 
 considered, and the testimony of living witnesses is gathered 
 together, it is very obvious how small a part man's free 
 will played in the death of Louis XVI. Many a one 
 who intended to vote against the death, acted contrariwise 
 when he ascended the Tribunal and was swayed by the 
 over-shadowing frenzy of political despair. The Girondins 
 felt that they pronounced simultaneously their own death- 
 sentence. Many a speech that was then delivered served 
 only to confuse the speaker. The Abbe* Sieyes, disgusted 
 with this repulsive jabbering, v.oted simply for death; when 
 he stepped down from the Tribune, he said to his friend, 
 "JFai vote la mort sans phrase." Calumny, however, mis- 
 quoted this private utterance ; and the terrible sentence, 
 " la mort sans phrase" was imposed as a parliamentary 
 utterance upon the mildest of men. Thus it is stated in all 
 school-books, and school children have to learn it by heart. 
 As I have everywhere been assured, mourning and dismay 
 reigned in the whole of Paris on that 2ist of January; and 
 even the most rabid Jacobin seemed oppressed with painful 
 misgivings. My customary cab-driver, an old sans-culotte, 
 related to me that when he saw the king die he felt exactly 
 "as if one of his own limbs had been sawn off." "It gave 
 me a pain in my stomach," he added, "and all day long 
 I had a distaste for food." He also said " the old Ve"to " 
 seemed very perturbed, as though he wished to utter his 
 defence. This much is certain, he did not die as artistically 
 as did Charles I., who first of all quietly pronounced his 
 long speech of protestation, and preserved his presence of 
 mind to such a degree that once or twice he requested 
 the surrounding nobles not to finger the axe in case of 
 blunting its edge. The mysterious, masked executioner of 
 Whitehall presented a more gruesomely poetic aspect than
 
 72 HEINE, 
 
 Samson with his bare face. Here Court and headsman 
 had allowed the last mask to fall from their faces, and it 
 was a prosaic spectacle indeed. Perchance Louis might 
 have pronounced a long Christ-like speech of forgiveness, 
 were it not that at his first words the roll of the drums 
 was so deafening that his protestations of innocence were 
 scarcely heard. The exalted heavenward words that 
 Chateaubriand and his companions constantly paraphrase: 
 " fils de Saint Louis, monte au del!" these words were 
 never spoken on the scaffold; they do not coincide with 
 the sober work-a-day character of the good Edgeworth, in 
 whose mouth they were put. They are the invention of 
 a journalist of that date, Charles Hiss by name, who 
 caused them to be printed on the same day. Such 
 information is wholly useless. Nevertheless, these words 
 are in every compendium; they have long since been 
 learned by heart, and the poor school children have now 
 also to learn by heart that these words were never uttered. 
 
 It cannot be denied that in exhibiting this picture, 
 Delaroche seems to have had the intention to challenge 
 historical parallels. If one begins with a parallel between 
 Louis XVI. and Charles I., one naturally proceeds to draw 
 another between Cromwell and Napoleon. I venture 
 to say, however, that injustice is done to these when 
 they are compared with one another. Napoleon remains 
 guiltless of bloodshed ; for the execution of the Duke 
 d'Enghien was merely an assassination. Cromwell, however, 
 never sank so low as to allow himself to be consecrated 
 Emperor by a priest, nor, recreant son of revolution, to 
 attain to kinship with Caesar by means of love intrigues. 
 In the life of the one there is the stain of blood ; in the life 
 of the other there is the stain of oil. Both, however, felt 
 a secret shame. Bonaparte, who could have been Europe's
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 73 
 
 Washington, but who became her Napoleon only, did not 
 prosper in his imperial purple mantle. Liberty pursued him 
 like the ghost of a slain mother, he heard her voice every- 
 where, even in the night. She tore him, terror-stricken, 
 from the arms of legitimacy, who had come to share his 
 couch ; he was seen to wander rapidly through the spacious 
 rooms of the Tuileries, storming and reviling. In the morn- 
 ing, tired and pale, he appeared at the State Council; and he 
 complained of ideology, always of ideology, that pernicious 
 ideology, and Corvisart shook his head. 
 
 If, too, Cromwell could not sleep quietly, but walked 
 restlessly through Whitehall all night, it was not, as many 
 devout Cavaliers believed, because he was haunted by the 
 spectre of a bleeding king, but by the fear of flesh-and- 
 blood avengers of his guilt. Therefore he always wore 
 armour under his doublet ; he became more and more dis- 
 trustful, and after the appearance of the pamphlet " To put 
 to death is no murder," Oliver Cromwell was never seen to 
 smile again. 
 
 But, if a comparison between the Protector and the 
 Emperor offer few resemblances, on the other hand the 
 parallel drawn between the faults of the Stuarts and those 
 of the Bourbons, between the periods of Restoration in both 
 countries, is richer in result. The history of calamities 
 almost repeats itself. Here to-day, as formerly in England, 
 we have the quasi-legitimacy of a new dynasty. Once 
 again sacred arms are being forged at the anvil of 
 Jesuitism ; the Church, beyond whose pale there is no sal- 
 vation, sighs and intrigues as of yore in favour of the 
 miraculous Child. The one thing now needful is that the 
 French pretender should, as did formerly his English 
 prototype, return straightway to his fatherland. Well, let 
 him come ! I prophesy for him the reverse of the fate of
 
 74 HEINE. 
 
 Saul, who sought for his father's ass and found a crown; 
 the youthful Henry will come to France to seek a crown, 
 and will find only his father's asses. 
 
 Those who studied this picture of Cromwell were especi- 
 ally interested in the endeavour to divine the thoughts of the 
 man by the bier of the dead Charles. History has two 
 versions of this episode. According to one version, 
 Cromwell had the coffin opened at night, by torch-light, and 
 remained long in contemplation, with motionless body, and 
 distorted features, like a dumb statue. According to the 
 other tradition, he opened the coffin in daylight, quietly con- 
 sidered the dead body, and said, "He was a strongly 
 built man, and might have lived long." In my opinion, 
 Delaroche had this democratic legend in his mind. Crom- 
 well's face expresses neither astonishment nor stupefaction, 
 nor agitation of any kind; on the contrary, the spectator is 
 struck by the grim, horrible calm of this man. There 
 he stands, a strong, self-reliant figure, "brutal as a fact," 
 powerful without pathos, demoniacally natural, wonder- 
 fully commonplace, execrated yet honoured ; and there he 
 contemplates his work, like a wood-cutter who has just 
 felled his oak. He has quietly cut down the great oak 
 which till then had spread its branches so proudly over 
 England and Scotland ; the royal oak under whose shade so 
 many fine generations of men had flourished, where under 
 the Sprites of Poesie had oftentimes circled in their sweetest 
 dances. Quietly he has felled it with his fatal axe, and there 
 it lies prostrate with all its beautiful foliage, and with its 
 crown inviolate. . . . Ah, fatal axe ! 
 
 " Do you think, sir, that the guillotine is a great improve- 
 ment?" These were the croaking words with which an 
 Englishman, who stood behind me, broke in upon the 
 reflections which, as I have just described, affected me pain-
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 75 
 
 fully when I contemplated the wounded neck of Charles 
 Stuart in the picture by Delaroche. And indeed it is 
 painted with too crude realistic a hue. Moreover, the 
 cover of the coffin is incorrectly drawn, and gives the 
 latter the appearance of a violin case. Otherwise, the 
 picture is painted with masterly excellence, with the fineness 
 of Vandyck, with Rembrandtesque boldness in the shadows. 
 It reminds me forcibly of the republican warrior in Rem- 
 brandt's great historical picture of the " Nightwatch " in the 
 Trippenhuis in Amsterdam. 
 
 In character, Delaroche's talent, and that of the greater 
 number of his confreres, resembles most closely that of the 
 Flemish school ; with this difference, however, that French 
 grace handles a subject with more dexterous lightness, and 
 a canvas is rendered charming with French elegance. Hence 
 I might designate Delaroche an elegant Netherlander. 
 
 I shall perhaps report elsewhere the conversations I 
 have so often heard in front of " Cromwell." No place 
 offers a more favourable opportunity for the study of the 
 popular feelings and opinions of the day. The picture was 
 placed in the large hall, at the entrance of a long gallery. 
 Beside it hung Robert's equally fine masterpiece, as though 
 for comfort and consolation. Indeed, when the vision of that 
 burly, soldierly figure of the Puritan that terrible reaper 
 with the dissevered kingly head in strong relief against 
 the dark background, thrills the spectator and stirs in him 
 all his political passions, the soul feels the calming influence 
 of those more pacific reapers, who, in heaven's serenest 
 light, return with their finest sheaves of corn to the 
 harvest feast of peace and love. If, before one of these 
 pictures, we realise that the great struggle of the modern 
 era is not yet ended, that the earth still trembles be- 
 neath our feet; if we still hear the raging of the storm that
 
 76 HEINE. 
 
 threatens to tear the earth from its foundation ; if, indeed, 
 we perceive the yawning abyss that greedily engulfs torrents 
 of blood, so that the fear of total destruction seizes us: in 
 the other picture we see how steadfast and serene the 
 earth remains, with what love she brings forth her golden 
 fruits, even after she has been trampled under foot in the 
 great universal tragedy of Rome, with all its gladiators and 
 Emperors, and vices and elephants. It is a history without 
 beginning and without end, that repeats itself ceaselessly, 
 that is as simple as the sea, as the heavens, as the seasons ; 
 a sacred history that poets chant, and whose archives are 
 to be found in the heart of every man: the history of 
 humanity ! 
 
 Of a truth this vicinage of Robert's picture to that of 
 Delaroche was salutary and wholesome. How often, 
 after I have gazed at Cromwell, and so identified myself 
 with him, that I could almost hear his thoughts, hard 
 monosyllables grumbled and hissed in that deplorable 
 English pronunciation which resembles the distant grum- 
 bling of the sea, and the shrill cries of the storm-birds how 
 often have I felt myself attracted by the quiet magic of the 
 neighbouring canvas, and my soul was quieted and rejoiced 
 when I seemed to hear the sweet speech of Tuscany sound- 
 ing from Roman lips. 
 
 Ah ! it is indeed needful that the beloved, indestructible, 
 melodious history of humanity should comfort our souls in 
 the discordant clash of the world's history. At this moment 
 I hear out beyond me that harsh sound, threatening, deafen- 
 ing as of yore, that maddening din. Drums are beating, 
 weapons are clashing; a frenzied, ever-welling crowd of 
 men with wild cries and oaths surge through the narrow 
 streets of Pans and howl, "Warsaw is fallen! Our 
 vanguard has fallen ! Down with the Ministers ! War to
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 77 
 
 the Russians ! Death to the Prussians ! " I find it very 
 difficult to remain quietly at my writing-desk, and bring 
 my peaceable art-news from Paris to a conclusion. Yet, 
 if I go out into the street, and if I be recognised as a 
 Prussian, assuredly my skull will be battered in by one or 
 other of these July-heroes, and all my ideas upon art will be 
 squashed; or a bayonet will be run through my left side, 
 where already my heart bleeds of itself. Indeed, I should 
 run a chance of being locked up in the Watch-house as 
 a foreign breaker of the peace. 
 
 At such a clamour thoughts and pictures become con- 
 fused and indistinct. Delacroix's goddess of Freedom 
 appears to me with a wholly altered face, almost with anxiety 
 in her wild eyes. Vernet's picture of the Pope is miracu- 
 lously altered ; Christ's weak old Vicegerent seems young 
 and healthy, and rises smilingly from his chair, and the 
 mouths of his strong bearers seem as though opening for 
 a lusty Te Deum Laudamus. The young English Prince 
 sinks to the ground, and, dying, looks at me with the well- 
 known glance of my friend, with that intensity that is 
 peculiar to the Poles. The dead Charles, too, wears quite 
 another face and alters suddenly : when I look closely, 
 there lies no king in the black coffin, but murdered Poland, 
 and no Cromwell stands before it, but the Tzar of Russia, 
 a noble, fine figure, as imposing as when once I saw him in 
 Berlin, when he stood on a balcony near to the King of 
 Prussia, whose hand he kissed. Three thousand Berliners, 
 who rejoiced in the spectacle, shouted Hurrah ! and I 
 thought in my heart, " God be merciful to us ! " For I 
 knew the Sarmatian proverb, " You must kiss the hand that 
 you wish not to sever." 
 
 Ah ! I wish that here also the King of Prussia had allowed 
 his left hand to be kissed, and with his right hand had
 
 78 HEINE. 
 
 seized the sword, and anticipated the dangerous enemy 
 of the fatherland, as duty and reason demanded. Had this 
 Hohenzollern assembled the Vogtwurde of the kingdom in 
 the north, they would certainly have registered their votes 
 against encroaching Russia. The Russians are a brave 
 people, and I love and honour them ; but since the 
 fall of Warsaw the last rampart which divided us from 
 them they have drawn so close to our hearts that I feel 
 afraid. 
 
 I fear me, that the next time the Tzar of Russia visits 
 us that it will be our turn to kiss his hand God be merciful 
 to us ! 
 
 God be merciful to us ! Our last rampart has fallen ; 
 the goddess of Freedom grows pale; our friend has fallen 
 to the ground, the Romish high-priest lifts himself up, 
 smiling malevolently; and victorious aristocracy stands 
 triumphant over the bier of the proletariat. 
 
 I hear that Delaroche is at present at work on a pendent 
 to his Cromwell, a Napoleon at Saint Helena, and that he 
 has chosen the moment when Sir Hudson Lowe, the Tory 
 executioner, lifts the shroud which covers the corpse of the 
 great representative of Democracy. 
 
 Returning to my subject, there remain several important 
 painters to eulogise; for example, the two sea-painters, 
 Gudin and Isabey; also one or two excellent depictors of 
 ordinary life, the spiritual Destouches and the humorous 
 Pigal. But, in spite of the best intentions, it is impossible 
 for me quietly to enumerate their peaceable merits 
 one after another, for the clamour in the streets is really 
 too loud; it is impossible to order one's thoughts when such 
 storms re-echo in the soul. It is difficult enough, in Paris, 
 on so-called quiet days to turn from the attraction of the 
 life in the streets, to indulge in private dreams. Though
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 79 
 
 art blossoms in Paris better than elsewhere, nevertheless, we 
 are every moment disturbed in the enjoyment of it by the 
 hoarse clangours of life; the sweetest tones of Pasta and 
 of Malibran are rendered displeasing to us by the cry of 
 need, of bitter poverty; the heart, intoxicated by Robert's 
 colour-poems, is quickly sobered by a sight of the public 
 misery. It would need the egotism of a Goethe to attain 
 to an undisturbed enjoyment of art, and I feel strongly 
 at this moment how more than usually difficult art 
 criticism is thereby rendered. Yesterday I was totally 
 unable to proceed with these notes after I had walked 
 through the Boulevards, where I saw a man, pale as death, 
 fall to the ground with hunger and misery. But when a 
 whole people falls upon the Boulevard of Europe then it 
 is impossible to write quietly when the critic's eyes are 
 dimmed with tears; his judgment is then no longer of any 
 value. 
 
 Artists, with reason, complain of this time of dissension, 
 of universal turmoil. It is said that painting pre-eminently 
 requires the peaceful olive branch. Hearts which listen 
 anxiously whether or not the war-trumpets sound, have 
 certainly not the necessary attention to give to sweet music. 
 The opera is listened to with deaf 1 ears ; the ballet is 
 watched with but partial attention. " It is the fault of that 
 accursed July revolution," sigh the artists, and they forswear 
 liberty and tiresome politics, which absorb everything and 
 everyone to their detriment. I hear but I cannot believe 
 it that nothing further is spoken of the theatre in Berlin ; 
 that according to yesterday's Morning Chronicle the Reform 
 Bill has passed through the Lower House, and Doctor 
 Raupach, who is at present in Baden-Baden, bewails the 
 times, because his art-talents have thereby gone to the 
 wall.
 
 80 HEINE. 
 
 I am certainly a great admirer of Doctor Raupach ; 
 I went to the theatre whenever " Schiilerschwanke," or 
 "Sieben Madchen in Uniform," or "Das Fest der Hand- 
 werker," or any other of his pieces were given : but I can- 
 not deny that the fall of Poland causes me far more concern 
 than I should feel did Doctor Raupach with his art-talent 
 disappear. O Warsaw ! Warsaw ! not for the whole world 
 would I have had thee fall ! 
 
 The old prophecy which I made concerning the end of 
 the present art period that it began at Goethe's cradle and 
 would end at his grave seems to be nearing its fulfilment. 
 The art of to-day must wane because its life-principle is 
 rooted in a decrepit old regime of the holy Roman kingdom 
 of the past. Wherefore, like all decaying survivals of that 
 past, it remains most unregeneratively antipathetic to the 
 present It is this antipathy, and not the troublous times, 
 that is so harmful to art. On the contrary, troublous times 
 are salutary to it. As of yore in Athens and Florence, so 
 now, art unfolds her most beautiful blossoms in the midst of 
 the wildest war and party storms. Of a truth, those Athen- 
 ian and Florentine artists lived no egotistical, isolated, art- 
 absorbed lives, with leisurely poet's heart closed to the great 
 sorrows and joys of their time. Their work, on the con- 
 trary, was but the dream-mirror of their time ; they them- 
 selves were manly men whose personalities were as powerful 
 as their artistic talents. In Phidias and Michael Angelo, 
 the man and the artist formed one whole being, even as their 
 statues were carved from one whole block of marble. 
 Just as these statues were in harmony with their Grecian and 
 Catholic temples, so those artists were in complete accord 
 with their surroundings. They did not isolate their art from 
 the politics of the day; their work was not the result of paltry 
 personal afflatus. ^Eschylus sang of the Persians with the
 
 THE SALON, 1831. 81 
 
 same earnestness with which he fought against them at 
 Marathon; Dante wrote his comedies not as a commissioned 
 poet-in-ordinary, but as a banned Guelf; and in his exile 
 he sang, not of the eclipse of his talent, but of the down- 
 fall of Freedom. 
 
 Surely these new days will give birth to new art-powers 
 that will be in inspired harmony therewith; that will not 
 need to borrow symbols from the faded Past, but will evolve 
 a technique wholly different from what has gone before- 
 Until then, with sound and colour, self-intoxicated sub- 
 jectivity, individuality, and divinely free personality must 
 use to the uttermost the joy of life which is far more 
 profitable than the dead phantom of an old art. 
 
 Or, do art and the world draw to a sorrowful close ? Is 
 that spirituality, which now leavens all European literature, 
 a sign of approaching extinction, to that hour of death 
 when men become clear-sighted and with pale lips give 
 utterance to transcendental secrets? Or will grey old 
 Europe become young again? Perchance this twilight- 
 spirituality of her writers and artists is not the wonderful 
 second sight of the dying, but a welcome premonition of 
 a re-birth, the harbinger breath of a new spring. 
 
 This year's exhibition has quieted that unholy fear of 
 death, and gives promise of better things. The Archbishop 
 of Paris hopes for salvation in the cholera, in death; I 
 await it in freedom, in life. Therein do our faiths differ. 
 I believe that France, out of the sentient depths of her 
 new life, will breathe forth a new art. And this heavy 
 task is demanded of the French people, of the French, the 
 light-hearted, fickle people, whom we so often liken to a 
 butterfly. 
 
 But the butterfly is also the symbol of immortality of the 
 soul and of its eternal rejuvenescence. 
 
 6
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 
 
 WHEN I arrived in Paris in the summer of 1831, nothing 
 caused me greater surprise than the exhibition of pictures 
 then open ; and although the more important political and 
 religious revolutions solicited my attention, I could not 
 refrain from writing first of all upon the great revolution 
 which had there taken place in the domain of art, of which 
 that Salon must be considered a representative outcome. 
 
 Together with most of my own countrymen, I had held 
 unfavourable prejudices concerning French art; that is, 
 against French painting, whose latest developments had 
 remained quite unknown to me. Painting in France has 
 been influenced by special conditions ; it has followed the 
 social movement, and has been rejuvenated with the people 
 themselves. This statement, however, does not apply to the 
 sister arts of music and poetry, whose transformation had 
 commenced prior to the Revolution. M. Louis de Maynard 
 contributed a series of articles to L'Europe Littiraire 
 upon the Salon; they are certainly among the most 
 interesting notes ever written upon art by a Frenchman. 
 He has expressed himself upon the point in question in the 
 following words, which I have reproduced faithfully, though 
 without his grace and charm of expression: 
 
 "The painting of the eighteenth century commences in
 
 THE SALON, 183.3. 83 
 
 the same manner as the contemporary politics and litera- 
 ture ; in like manner it attains to a certain accomplished 
 development, and its decline dates from the day of the 
 universal downfall in France. A strange period, in truth, 
 that commences with a burst of laughter at the death of 
 Louis XIV., and finishes in the arms of the executioner, 
 ' Monsieur le bourreau,' as Madame de Barry called him ! 
 Oh ! this century that has denied everything, railed at every- 
 thing, profaned everything, that has believed in nothing; 
 for that very reason it was all the more capable of its great 
 work of destruction, and it destroyed, without being able 
 the least in the world to reconstruct anything, or for that 
 matter without having any such desire. 
 
 " However, if the arts followed the same movement, they 
 nevertheless followed with unequal strides. Thus, painting 
 in the eighteenth century lagged behind. It produced its 
 Crebillons, but it had neither a Voltaire nor a Diderot. 
 Constantly in the pay and under the patronage of the great, 
 constantly under the petticoats of the reigning mistresses, 
 little by little, I know not how, it lost its daring and its 
 strength. 
 
 " Throughout all its libertinage it never shows that tran- 
 sport, that enthusiasm which carries us away, dazzles us, 
 and compensates us for its bad taste. Moreover, its cold 
 affectations, its faded artifice affect us painfully where, in 
 the centre of a boudoir, a dainty little lady stretched on a 
 sofa, plays lightly with her fan. Favart, with his Egles and 
 his Zulmas, is truer to nature than Watteau and Boucher 
 with their coquettish shepherdesses and their idyllic abbes. 
 
 "Favart, though he made himself ridiculous, worked 
 nevertheless in good faith. The painters of that time were 
 less affected than any one else by the ferment that was 
 permeating France. The outbreak of the Revolution
 
 84 HEINE. 
 
 caught them in their studio coats. Philosophy, politics, 
 science, literature, each represented by one man in par- 
 ticular, precipitated themselves impetuously, like a band 
 of drunken men, in an assault of whose aim they were 
 ignorant; but the nearer they approached the realisation 
 of it, the calmer became their fever, the more peaceable 
 their features, the more assured their strides. 
 
 " They had confused presentiments of the aim, which 
 heretofore they were unable to define ; for they had read 
 in the book of God that all human joys end in tears. 
 Alas ! they had emerged from too noisy, too disorderly a 
 banquet not to anticipate what would be more serious, more 
 terrible. When one reflects upon the qualms with which 
 they were at times tormented in the midst of the gentle 
 intoxication of that eighteenth century orgy, one might 
 almost believe that the scaffold, which was to put an end to 
 all that joyfulness, had beckoned to them from afar with its 
 sombre, spectral hand. 
 
 "Painting, which till then had held itself aloof from the 
 more serious of the social movements, either because it 
 was debilitated by wine and women, or because it regarded 
 co-operation as useless, dallied until the last moment 
 among its roses, its perfumes of musk, its shepherd- 
 esses' frolics. Vien and a few others realised that it must 
 be snatched therefrom at any price, but they did not 
 know what next to do with it. Lesueur, held high in the 
 esteem of the master of David, was unable to found a new 
 school : he was forced to relinquish the effort. Himself 
 arrived in a time when all intellectual royalty had fallen, 
 together with the power of a Marat or a Robespierre, David 
 was in the same dilemma as these artists. Nevertheless we 
 know that he went to Rome, and that he returned as con- 
 firmed a Vanlooist as he went.
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 85 
 
 "It was later only, when Greek and Roman antiquity 
 was preached, when publicists and philosophers recom- 
 mended a return to the ancient forms, whether social, 
 political, or literary, it was then only that his nature 
 unfolded itself in all its innate hardihood, that with puis- 
 sant hand he dragged art out of the frivolous and per- 
 fumed sheepfolds into which it had fallen, to raise it to 
 the rarefied regions of antique heroism. The reaction was 
 as pitiless as are all reactions, and David pushed it to an 
 extreme: with him terrorism commenced in painting." 
 
 David's work and procedure are well enough known in 
 Germany. Our French guests under the Empire have 
 frequently discoursed to us concerning David. 
 
 We have also frequently heard of his pupils, who con- 
 tinued the master's work, each in his own way; of Gerard, 
 Gros, Girodet, and Guerin. We know, however, less about 
 another man whose name also begins with a G, who, if he 
 be not the founder, is at least the initiator of a new school 
 of painting in France. I refer to GeVicault. 
 
 I have alluded elsewhere to this new school. When I 
 described the best canvases in the Salon of 1831 I then 
 summed up the characteristics of these new masters. 
 
 That Salon, in the judgment of all, was the most extra- 
 ordinary that France has ever seen, and it remains memor- 
 able in the annals of Art. In particular, the pictures which 
 I considered worthy of description will live for centuries to 
 come, and my writing is perhaps a useful contribution to 
 the history of painting. 
 
 I have been able this summer to convince myself of 
 the immense importance of the Salon of 1831, when the 
 galleries of the Louvre, which had been closed during two 
 months, reopened on the first of April and proffered to us 
 the most recent products of French art. As is customary,
 
 86 HEINE. 
 
 the old pictures, which mainly constitute the national gallery, 
 were concealed by folding screens on which the new pictures 
 were hung; so that at times, behind the Gothic insipidities 
 of a neo-romantic painter, the graceful mythological old 
 Italian masterpieces could be seen. The whole exhibition 
 resembled a codex paltmpsestus, wherewith one is all the 
 more annoyed at the superimposed barbarous text because 
 of the divine Greek poetry it conceals. 
 
 Nearly four thousand pictures, and among them scarcely 
 one masterpiece to be found ! Was this the result of too 
 great a fatigue after too great an excitement ? 
 
 Does Art also manifest that lamentable malaise which 
 we observed in the political life of the French nation after 
 the mad delirium of liberty had subsided ? Was this year's 
 exhibition only a garish yawn, a multicoloured echo of the 
 Chamber? If the Salon of 1831 was irradiated with the 
 July sun, it was the mournful rain of June which dropped 
 in the Salon of 1833. 
 
 The two feted heroes of 1831, Delaroche and Robert, 
 did not enter the lists ; the other painters whom 
 I praised previously have this year produced nothing 
 of excellence. With the exception of a picture by Tony 
 Johannot, a German, not a single canvas interested me 
 strongly. Scheffer has produced another Marguerite, 
 which witnesses to great technical progress, yet is not an 
 important work. It is the same idea, painted with more 
 warmth, thought out more apathetically. Horace Vernet 
 sent another big picture, beautiful merely in its details. 
 Decamps apparently wished to make fun of the Salon 
 and of himself, for he has sent paintings chiefly of 
 monkeys, among them one very excellent ape painting 
 an historical picture. Its long drooping Teuto-Christ-like 
 hair reminded one joyously of friends across the Rhine.
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 87 
 
 It is M. Ingres of whom most is spoken this year, both 
 in praise and blame. He has painted two portraits, one of a 
 young Italian, the other of an elderly Frenchman, M. Berlin, 
 senior. As Louis Philippe in the domain of politics, 
 so Ingres was this year king in the realm of art; as the 
 first reigns in the Tuileries, so the other reigns in the 
 Louvre. The character of M. Ingres also is commonplace; 
 he is in fact juste milieu between Mieris and Michael 
 Angelo. In his pictures the lusty heroism of Mieris is 
 joined to the fine coloration of Michael Angelo. 
 
 The notable sculpture at the present exhibition is the 
 gainer by the lessening enthusiasm excited by the painting. 
 There is work here which gives warrant for the highest 
 expectations. One bears comparison even with the art of 
 the masters: the Cain of M. Etex. It is a group of sym- 
 metrical, even monumental beauty, antediluvian in character 
 yet with a wholly modern signification. Cain, with his wife 
 and his children, is represented in acceptation of his fate, 
 absorbed, without thought, petrified in disconsolate repose. 
 This man has killed his brother in consequence of a dispute 
 concerning a thanks-offering, because of a religious quarrel. 
 Yes, religion bred the first fratricide, and since then it has 
 borne on its forehead the sign of blood. 
 
 I shall return later to Etex's Cain, when I have alluded 
 further to the extraordinary advance which in our day we re- 
 mark in sculpture, more even than in painting. The Spartecus 
 and Theseus, at present exhibited in the gardens of the 
 Tuileries, excite my thoughtful admiration every time I 
 see them. Only, when it rains, I regret that such master- 
 pieces of modern art should be so wholly exposed in the 
 open air. The heavens are not so clement here as in 
 Greece, where, as a matter of fact, works of the highest 
 order were better protected from wind and rain than is
 
 88 HEINE. 
 
 usually supposed. The best were well sheltered, usually 
 in temples. Thus far, the weather has done little hurt to 
 the new statues of the Tuileries, and the effect is very 
 beautiful when they are seen in relief against the fresh 
 green foliage of the chestnuts. It is very amusing some- 
 times to hear the nurses explain to the little children who 
 play there, what is the meaning of that naked man in 
 marble who holds his sword in his hand with so angry 
 a mien; or what sort of strange creature that is who has 
 the head of an ox on his human body, and is being slain 
 by the club of another naked man. The ox-man, they say, 
 has devoured many little children. Young republicans who 
 pass by the statue are pleased to observe that Spartacus 
 throws a sullen look towards the windows of the Tuileries, 
 and they see the monarchy in the form of the Minotaur. 
 Other people find something to say anent the manner in 
 which Theseus wields his club, and pretend that were he 
 to deal his blow he would infallibly smash his own hand. 
 Be that as it may, thus far the general effect is excellent. 
 After the lapse of a few winters, however, these fine statues 
 will have become weather-worn and crumbly, moss will 
 grow on the sword of Spartacus, peaceful families of in- 
 sects will nest between the ox head of the Minotaur and 
 Theseus's club, if the latter's hand and the club itself have 
 not been broken. 
 
 Since so many useless soldiers have to be fed here, the 
 king ought to station a sentinel in the Tuileries at each 
 side of the statue, to hold an open umbrella over it 
 when it rains. Then, in the true sense of the word, 
 art would be protected under the umbrella of the citizen- 
 king. 
 
 Artists complain on all sides of the excessive parsimony 
 of the king. It is said that, as Duke of Orleans, he took an
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 89 
 
 active interest in the arts. It is murmured that orders 
 and payments are alike unsatisfactory. Nevertheless, with 
 the exception of the King of Bavaria, he is the chief art 
 connoisseur among the princes. To-day his mind is too 
 wholly absorbed by politics for active concern with the 
 arts as formerly. If, however, his taste for painting and 
 sculpture has cooled somewhat, that for architecture has 
 become a veritable passion with him. Never has there 
 been so much building in Paris as now under the king's 
 auspices. Everywhere new edifices and whole new streets 
 are being built. Hammering goes on continuously at 
 the Louvre and at the Tuileries. The plan for the New 
 Library is as grandiose as can be imagined. The Church of 
 the Madeleine, the old Temple of Glory, approaches com- 
 pletion. Further work also, on that grand palace of the 
 Ambassadors which Napoleon wished to construct on 
 the right bank of the Seine, is once more in progress. 
 At present only half of the building is finished, so that it 
 looks like the ruins of a gigantic fort. Wonderful colossal 
 monuments are being erected in the public places. In the 
 Place de la Bastille the great elephant is being put up, which, 
 not inaptly, represents the conscious force and powerful 
 reason of the people. In the Place de la Concorde there 
 stands a wooden effigy of the obelisk at Luxor. In a few 
 months hence the Egyptian original will replace it, and 
 serve to commemorate the horrible events previously 
 enacted here on the 2ist January. Though that hieroglyph- 
 bedizened messenger may bring thousands of experiences 
 with him from the wonderland of Egypt, the modern lantern- 
 post, which has stood for fifty years in the middle of La Place 
 de la Concorde, has seen things incomparably more remark- 
 able ; and the old, red, primaeval stone-giant will pale and 
 tremble with fright when, on a quiet winter's night, that
 
 90 HEINE. 
 
 frivolous lantern-post begins to chatter and recount the 
 history of the place whereon they stand. 
 
 The craze for building is the king's master-passion, and 
 may become the cause of his downfall. I fear that, in spite 
 of all promises, he thinks constantly of the "detached forts"; 
 for this project of his would necessitate the use of favourite 
 tools, the trowel and hammer, and his heart beats with 
 joy when he thinks of a hammer. These hammer-strokes 
 may some day make him deaf to the voice of reason ; 
 insensibly he may become the dupe of his favourite fan- 
 tasies, if he consider these forts to be his only means of 
 salvation and their construction a matter easy of execu- 
 tion. 
 
 Thus, a craze for architecture may be the means of drag- 
 ging us into great political agitations. In connection with 
 these forts and the king himself, I may be permitted to quote 
 here a fragment written by me last July: 
 
 "The whole secret of revolutionary parties consists in 
 this, that they do not wish to attack the government, but 
 rather to await some violent attack from their opponents, 
 so that they may make an active resistance. A new insur- 
 rection in Paris, therefore, cannot break out except at the 
 express desire of the government, which must first furnish 
 the occasion by some significant act of folly. If the in- 
 surrection succeed, France will at once declare a Republic, 
 and Revolution will waltz over the whole of Europe, whose 
 old institutions, if not trampled to pieces, will at least be 
 terribly shaken. If the insurrection fail, a terrible, unheard- 
 of reaction will set in here, which will be aped with the 
 usual ineptitude by neighbouring countries, and may bring 
 about many changes in the existing condition of things. 
 In any case, the peace of Europe is endangered by whatever 
 unwonted action the French government may attempt
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 91 
 
 against the interests of the Revolution, by whatever it may 
 undertake that is hostile to the revolutionary parties. Now, 
 as the will of the present government is no other than the ex- 
 clusive will of the king, the breast of Louis Philippe is in 
 reality Pandora's box; it encloses all the evils that may one 
 day pour themselves over the whole earth. Alas ! it is im- 
 possible to read in his face the thought of his heart; for this 
 younger branch seems to be as much the master of dis- 
 simulation as the elder. No actor on this earth holds 
 his face so much under control, no one knows how to play 
 his role in so masterly a way, as our citizen-king. He is 
 perhaps one of the most intellectual and courageous men in 
 France. Nevertheless, when it became a question of gaining 
 the crown, he knew how to give himself the appearance of 
 a harmless, timid bourgeois; the people who placed him 
 on the throne without much ceremony certainly believe 
 that they can remove him at will with even less ceremony. 
 This time royalty has played the feeble-spirited part of 
 Brutus. Therefore it is at themselves and not at Louis 
 Philippe that the French ought to laugh when they see those 
 caricatures which represent him with his white felt hat and 
 his big umbrella. Both are highly correct, and, like the 
 hand-shakings, belong to his role. History will one day 
 testify that he acted his part well; this thought may perhaps 
 console him for the caricatures and satires which make him 
 the object of their wit. The number of these caricatures 
 and skits becomes daily greater, and everywhere great 
 pears are to be seen drawn on the walls of the houses. 1 No 
 prince has ever been so scoffed at in his own capital as Louis 
 Philippe. But he reflects, 'Who laughs last laughs best; 
 it is not you who will eat the pear, the pear will eat you.' 
 
 1 This is an allusion to the singular physiognomy and pointed style 
 of wearing the hair, characteristic of Louis Philippe.
 
 92 HEINE. 
 
 Assuredly he feels all these insults which are levelled at 
 him, for he is a man. Neither is he of so gentle and lamb- 
 like a nature that he cannot revenge himself; he is a man, 
 and a strong man who can control his ill-temper at the 
 moment and knows how to command his anger. When 
 the hour strikes that he judges to be propitious, then he will 
 strike first against his immediate enemies, then against 
 those who are beyond this pale, but have offended him 
 still more gravely. This man is capable of anything; who 
 knows if he will not one day throw down, as gage of combat, 
 the glove which has become so dirty with all those indis- 
 criminate hand-shakings. He is not lacking in princely self- 
 esteem. He, whom I had seen with felt hat and umbrella 
 shortly after the July Revolution, had suddenly changed 
 when I saw him on the 6th of June last year, after he had 
 vanquished the republicans ! He was no longer the good- 
 natured, pot-bellied bourgeois, with smiling fleshy face: even 
 his corpulence gave him an air of dignity, and he held his 
 head as boldly in the air as any of his forefathers had ever 
 done. His weighty presence was majestic, he was every 
 pound a king ! When, however, he perceived that the crown 
 did not sit quite firmly on his head, that stormy weather 
 might overtake him, he resumed the old felt hat and once 
 more took his umbrella in his hand ! In how bourgeois 
 a manner at the Grand Review a few days later did he 
 salute his fellow-tailors and bootmakers, how he distributed 
 to right and left the most cordial hand-shakings, not only 
 with his hand, but with his eyes and smiling lips, and even 
 whiskers ! Nevertheless, this smiling, saluting, imploring, 
 suppliant, honest man carried then in his breast fourteen 
 ' detached forts.' 
 
 " These forts are just now the object of the most serious 
 questions ; the solution of these questions may be terrible,
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 93 
 
 and even shake the whole world. It is ever the same 
 fatality that lures these clever people to their undoing: they 
 believe themselves to be cleverer than a whole people, 
 whereas experience has shown that the masses judge with 
 instinctive correctness, and divine shrewdly, if not the 
 whole plans, at least the intentions of their rulers. The 
 people are omniscient, all-powerful ; the eye of the people 
 is the eye of God. Thus the French people shrugged their 
 shoulders with pity when the government, with a paternal 
 air, hypocritically announced that it wished to fortify Paris 
 in order to be able to protect it against the Holy Alliance. 
 Every one feels that Louis Philippe wishes solely to fortify 
 himself against Paris. It is true, the king has sufficient 
 reason to fear Paris. The crown scorches his head and 
 singes his scalp as long as the great flame still smoulders in 
 Paris, that hearth of Revolution. But why does he not state 
 this openly ? Why does he still pose as the faithful guardian 
 of this flame ? It would, perhaps, be more advantageous 
 for him were he to explain openly to the grocers and other 
 partisans of royalty, that he cannot uphold either himself or 
 them, so long as he is not complete master of Paris, that for 
 this reason he surrounds the capital with fourteen forts, 
 whose cannons from above would impose silence in all the 
 risings below. The frank avowal that it concerned his head 
 and the heads of all the juste-milieu, would perhaps bring 
 about a good result. But now it is not only the opposition 
 party, but most of the shop-keepers and the hangers-on of 
 t\\ejuste-milieu system, who are exasperated at the 'detached 
 forts'; and the press has made the reason of their irrita- 
 tion sufficiently plain to them. The majority of the shop- 
 keepers opine, in short, that Louis Philippe is a very 
 excellent king, worthy that sacrifices should be made for 
 him and even certain risks be run, as, for instance, on the
 
 94 HEINE. 
 
 5th and 6th of June, when, to the number of 640,000 
 men, together with 20,000 troops of the line, they risked 
 their lives against a few hundreds of Republicans ! But in 
 no way do they consider it worth while that, in order to 
 retain Louis Philippe, Paris should be exposed to risks ; 
 that is to say, that they themselves, their wives, their 
 children, and all their shops should be shot at from the 
 height of the fourteen new forts during possible subsequent 
 outbreaks. Moreover, they say that during fifty years, 
 they have been accustomed to every sort of revolution. 
 Studious efforts might be made to mediate in the case of 
 the lesser outbreaks, so that peace might be speedily re- 
 stored. Their policy in the more considerable insurrections 
 would be to yield immediately, so that quiet might at once 
 be re-established. Even the strangers, they say, the rich 
 strangers, who spend so much money in Paris, are con- 
 vinced that a revolution has no dangers for a peaceable 
 onlooker : that, indeed, there is no reason why it should 
 not be accomplished with the greatest order, with great 
 politeness; while for a foreigner, it is quite a treat even, to 
 be able safely to experience a revolution. However, if 
 Paris be surrounded with detached forts, the fear of 
 cannon-balls on a fine morning would chase away from 
 Paris all foreigners, all provincials, and not only these and 
 other strangers, but also many of the inhabitants. Then 
 less sugar, pepper, and pomade would be sold, and less 
 profits secured ; in short, commerce and industry would be 
 ruined. Grocers, who tremble for their house rents, for 
 their customers, for themselves and families, are therefore 
 hostile to a project which will convert Paris into a fortress, 
 in place of the old, bright, careless Paris of earlier days. 
 Others, who belong, it is true, to the jnste-milieu, but who 
 have not renounced the liberal principles of the Revolution,
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 95 
 
 and prefer these principles to those of Louis Philippe, these 
 men think that the citizen-royalty is better protected by 
 institution than by any kind of architecture which too 
 vividly recalls old feudal times, when the master of the 
 citadel could dominate the town at his good pleasure. So 
 far, they say, Louis Philippe has proved himself a faithful 
 guardian of the civil liberty, of the equality that has been 
 gained through so much bloodshed ; but he is a man, and 
 in man there is always a secret desire for absolute sway. 
 Possessed of the detached forts, he could satisfy all his 
 caprices with impunity; he would be far more untram- 
 melled than any of the kings prior to the Revolution ; for 
 they could only clap malcontents into the Bastille whereas, 
 if Louis Philippe surround the whole town with bastilles, 
 he bastillises the whole of Paris. Even if the Parisians were 
 perfectly certain of the noble disposition of the present king, 
 no one can guarantee the character of his successors, and still 
 less of those who by cunning or chance might one day put 
 themselves in possession of those detached forts, whence 
 they could sway Paris at their own pleasure. But another 
 and far weightier apprehension than these objections mani- 
 fests itself everywhere, and disturbs even those who hereto- 
 fore have sided neither for nor against the Revolutionary 
 party. It concerns the highest and most important of the 
 interests of the whole people national independence. 
 Although French vanity will not willingly reflect upon 1814 
 and 1815, every man must admit to himself that a third 
 invasion does not lie completely out of the realms of the 
 possibility: in which eventuality these detached forts not 
 only would be no insurmountable obstacle to the allies if 
 they wished to take Paris, but once in possession of the 
 enemy, would enable the allies to hold Paris in check to 
 all eternity, or even rase it completely to the ground with
 
 96 HEINE. 
 
 the cannons. In this I merely state the opinion of French- 
 men who are convinced that during the first invasion the 
 foreign troops placed themselves at a greater distance from 
 Paris, because they found no staying point against this 
 enormous population ; that now the princes in the depths 
 of their hearts desire nothing more ardently than utterly to 
 destroy Paris, the hearth of the Revolution." 
 
 Is it really true that this project of detached forts is 
 finally abandoned ? That is known only of God, who sees 
 into the loins of kings. 
 
 I cannot refrain from remarking that we are perhaps 
 blinded by party spirit, and that the king is actuated by 
 disinterested views only, and merely wishes to barricade 
 himself against the Holy Alliance. But this is improb- 
 able. The Holy Alliance has, on the contrary, a thousand 
 reasons to fear Louis Philippe, and has also a motive of 
 supreme importance for desiring his preservation. For, in 
 the first place, Louis Philippe is the most powerful prince 
 in Europe; his material power is increased tenfold by its in- 
 herent mobility, and ten times a hundred times stronger yet 
 are the moral means at his disposal in case of need. If, 
 nevertheless, the united princes succeed in bringing about 
 the fall of this man, they themselves will have thereby over- 
 turned the most powerful, and perhaps the last support of 
 royalty in Europe. Yes, the princes ought daily on their 
 knees to thank the Creator of crowns and of thrones, that 
 Louis Philippe is king of France. Once already they 
 have committed the folly of killing the man who alone had 
 been able most powerfully to weld the Republicans together, 
 Napoleon. Oh ! it is with justice that you call yourselves 
 kings by grace of God ! 
 
 It was a special grace of God's that once He has sent a 
 man to the kings who could save them at the moment when
 
 THE SALON, 1833. 97 
 
 Jacobinism had taken its axe in its hand and threatened to 
 destroy the old monarchy: let the princes kill this man and 
 then God himself cannot help them ! He sent Napoleon 
 Buonaparte and Louis Philippe of Orleans: by these 
 two miracles He has twice offered salvation to monarchy. 
 For God is wise and perceives that the Republican form 
 of government is neither convenient nor profitable, nor re- 
 vivifying for old Europe. And I, too, share this opinion. 
 But perchance we two can do nothing against the blindness 
 of princes and of demagogues. Against stupidity we gods 
 fight in vain. 
 
 Yes, it is my most sacred conviction that Republicanism 
 would be neither convenient, profitable, nor salutary for the 
 peoples of Europe, and quite impossible for the Germans. 
 When, blindly apeing the French, the German demagogues 
 took to preaching a German republic, and attempted in their 
 mad fury to defame and abuse not only the kings but 
 monarchy itself, that last guarantee of our society, I con- 
 sidered it a duty to express myself as I have done in the 
 foregoing pages regarding the 2ist January. True, since 
 the z8th of June of last year, my royalism has turned a little 
 sour : yet, I repeat, I do not feel disposed to omit this 
 passage in reprinting these pages. 
 
 I am proud of having once had the courage not to allow 
 myself to be lured either by caresses and intrigue, or by 
 threats, into foolishness or error. He who goes not as far as 
 his heart impels him, and his reason permits, is a coward ; 
 he who goes farther than he wished to go is a slave.
 
 9 8 
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 
 
 [1822.] 
 
 " Strange ! Were I the Dey of Tunis 
 
 I would sound the alarm at so dubious an event. " 
 
 KLEIST, The Prince of Hamburg. 
 
 I. 
 
 VOUR very welcome letter of the 5th inst. filled me with 
 the greatest joy, inasmuch as it expressed so unmistakably 
 your good-will towards me. My heart is gladdened to learn 
 that so many good and worthy people think of me with 
 interest and love. You must not believe that I have so 
 soon forgotten our Westphalia ! The September of 1850 is 
 still too fresh in my memory. The beautiful valleys around 
 Hagen, the friendly Oberweg at Unna, the pleasant days in 
 Hamm, the excellent Fritz von B., you, Wundermann, the 
 antiquities in Soest, even the heath at Paderborner, all 
 stand vividly before my eyes. I still hear the old oak 
 forests rustle around me, I hear the whisper of each leaf : 
 " Here dwelt the old Saxons, who were the last to lose their 
 ancient Germanic faith and customs." I still hear an old 
 stone cry to me, "Wanderer, stop, here Arminius defeated 
 the legions of Varus!" In order to know thoroughly 
 the serious and forcible character of the inhabitants of
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 99 
 
 Westphalia, their honesty, their unpretentious solidity, 
 the country must be traversed on foot, as, indeed, I did 
 in Austrian Landwehr-day-marches. It will really prove a 
 great pleasure to me, if, as you write to me, I can gratify 
 so many people who are dear to me by sending a few 
 communications dated from the capital. Immediately on 
 receiving your letter I prepared pens and paper, and now 
 here I am at work. 
 
 I have no lack of notes. The only question is, what 
 shall I not write about? That is to say, what are the 
 things long since known to the public? to what are 
 they indifferent? what should they ignore? Yet another 
 embarrassment : there is much to be written about, but as 
 little as possible upon the theatre and subjects of that kind, 
 as these constitute the constant theme of the correspondents 
 of the Abendzeitung, the Morgenblalte^ and the Viennese 
 Konversationblatte, where, moreover, they are detailed 
 systematically. One reader may be interested if I relate 
 that Jagor has added to his list of ingenious inventions 
 a certain Truffle-ice; another will be delighted to hear 
 that Spontini, at the last Ordensfest, wore coat and 
 breeches of green satin dotted with golden stars. Require 
 nothing systematic from me, for that is the exterminating 
 angel of all correspondence. To-day I will speak of public 
 balls, of churches; to-morrow of Savigny, and of the 
 merry-andrews who traverse the streets in extraordinary 
 attire; the following day, of the Gustiniani Gallery, and 
 then, mayhap, I will return to Savigny and the merry- 
 andrews. Association of ideas shall always prevail. A 
 letter will follow every four or six weeks. The two first 
 will be of disproportionate length, for I shall therein give 
 a sketch of the interior and external life of Berlin. A 
 sketch, not a picture. But where shall I begin with this
 
 too HEINE. 
 
 mass of material ? A French rule comes to my aid : Begin 
 at the beginning. 
 
 I will, therefore, begin with the town, and will imagine 
 that, once again, I am in search of the General Post Office 
 in Konigstrasse, and that I have had my light portmanteau 
 taken to the "Black Eagle" in Post Strasse. Already I 
 hear you ask, " Why is the post office not in Post Strasse, 
 and the ' Black Eagle ' in Konigstrasse ? " Another time I 
 will answer these questions; at the present I am going for a 
 turn in the town, and pray you to accompany me. Follow 
 me only a few steps, and here we are at once at a very 
 interesting spot. We are standing on the Long Bridge. 
 You murmur to yourself, " It is not so very long ! " Pure 
 irony, my dear friend. Let us stand here a moment and 
 examine the statue of the great Elector. He sits proudly 
 on his horse, while chained slaves surround the pedestal. 
 The group is a magnificent bronze, and incontestably the 
 finest work of art in Berlin. Moreover, it can be seen 
 gratis, for it stands in the middle of the bridge. It has the 
 greatest resemblance to the statue of the Elector Johann- 
 Wilhelm on the market-place at Dusseldorf, except that 
 here in Berlin the tail of the horse is less thick. But I see 
 you are being hustled on all sides. 
 
 There is a constant crowd on this bridge. Look round 
 about you. What a fine, handsome street ! That is 
 the Konigstrasse where all the best shops are, and where 
 bright-coloured shining wares of all kinds dazzle the eyes. 
 Let us advance; now we have reached the Schlossplatz. 
 On the right is the Castle, a big grandiose building. Time 
 has coloured it grey, and has given it a sombre, but propor- 
 tionally majestic, appearance. On the left are other two 
 fine streets, Bruderstrasse and Breitestrasse; straight before 
 you, now, is the Stechbahn, a kind of boulevard. And
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 101 
 
 here lives Josty ! Ye Gods of Olympus, how I should put 
 you out of conceit of your Ambrosia were I to describe 
 all the sweets here accumulated ! Oh ! if only you knew 
 the contents of these kisses I Oh, Aphrodite, hadst thou 
 emerged from such foam thou wouldst have been sweeter 
 still ! The premises are narrow and close, it is true, and 
 decorated like a tavern. But the good always gains the 
 victory over the beautiful; here, packed together like 
 herrings, are the grandchildren of the " Bears," comfortably 
 seated, while they lap cream and smack their lips with 
 enjoyment and lick their ringers. 
 
 " Away, away hence ! 
 The eye sees through the open door, 
 The heart revels in delight." 
 
 We can go through the castle, and we shall find ourselves 
 at once in the pleasure-grounds. " Where is the garden, 
 though ? " you ask. Ah, good heavens ! never mind it ; 
 irony again ! The garden is a square surrounded with a 
 double row of poplars. We stumble here upon a marble 
 statue guarded by a solitary sentinel. It is the old Des- 
 sauer. 1 He wears the old Prussian uniform, in nowise 
 idealised, exactly like the heroes on the Wilhelmsplatz. I 
 will point them out to you on the first occasion ; there are 
 Keith, Ziethen, Seidlitz, Schwerin, and Winterfeld : the two 
 last wear Roman costumes, with long curling wigs. 
 
 Here we are in front of the cathedral church j the 
 exterior is shortly to be ornamented by two new turrets 
 on both sides of the great tower. This great rounded 
 tower is not amiss, but the two young turrets cut ridiculous 
 figures. They look like bird-cages. There is a story 
 
 1 The old Prince of Dessau, one of the most celebrated of Prussian 
 generals in the eighteenth century.
 
 102 HEINE. 
 
 told of the great philologist W. Last summer he took 
 a walk with the orientalist H., who was passing through 
 Berlin. Pointing to the cathedral, he asked, " What is the 
 meaning of those bird-cages up there?" To which the 
 learned Witzbold replied : " Bullfinches are reared up 
 there." l Statues of Luther and of Melancthon are to be 
 placed in the two great niches of the cathedral. Shall we 
 enter, in order to admire the incomparable figure by Begasse ? 
 Moreover, you can edify yourself with the preaching of 
 Pastor Theremin. No, let us remain outside, for allusions 
 will certainly be made to the sectarian followers of M. 
 Paulus. And it does not amuse me. Rather let us watch, 
 immediately to the right of the cathedral, that undulating 
 mass of people crammed together in a square railed-in enclo- 
 sure. That is the Stock Exchange. There the upholders 
 of the Old and of the New Testament traffic. We will not 
 go too near to them. O God, what faces ! Avarice in every 
 muscle ! When they open their mouths, they seem to cry to 
 me, " Give me all your money ! " Much must already have 
 been staked. The richest must certainly be those on whose 
 jaded faces discontent and ill-humour is most deeply graven. 
 How much happier are those poor devils who do not know 
 if a golden louis is round or square! With good reason 
 merchants are here held in small esteem. 
 
 But so much the more thought of are those fine gentlemen 
 down there, with the great plumed hats and the red em- 
 broidered coats ; for the pleasure-garden is the place where 
 daily the watchword is given, and where the parade of the 
 guards is mustered. 
 
 I am, in truth, no special friend of military affairs ; never- 
 theless, I must confess it is always a pleasing spectacle 
 
 1 The above is an untranslatable pun. The word Dowpfasse, which 
 means a bullfinch, also signifies a Canon of the Cathedral.
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 103 
 
 to see the Prussian officers grouped together in the 
 garden. Fine, vigorous, solid, virile men. Here and 
 there, it is true, one may still see a puffed-up, stupidly 
 proud aristocratic strut conspicuous in the crowd. Never- 
 theless, one finds in the majority of these officers, espe- 
 cially among the younger, a modesty and a simplicity of 
 manners, the more estimable inasmuch as the military pro- 
 fession is the most respected in Berlin. The old caste 
 feeling, formerly so rigid, is now, it is true, less exclusive ; in 
 great part, no doubt, because every Prussian must serve as 
 a common soldier during one year at least, and this without 
 exception, from the king's son to the son of the cobbler. 
 Doubtless this is very irksome and oppressive, but in many 
 respects it is very wholesome. It guarantees our young men 
 against the danger of becoming effeminate. In many of the 
 States less is heard about the oppression of the military 
 service, because in them it is all thrown on the poor agri- 
 culturist, whereas the noble, the learned, the rich, and even 
 as in Holstein, for example the whole populace of the town 
 are exempt from service. How rapidly all such complaints 
 with us would die away if our loud grumbling citizens, our 
 politically inclined shopmen, our genial auditors, office 
 clerks, poets, and street loungers were exempt from service ! 
 Do you see that peasant drilling over there ? He shoulders, 
 presents arms is silent. 
 
 Forwards, however ! We must cross the bridge. You 
 are surprised at the immense amount of building material 
 which lies about here, at the numbers of workmen who 
 lounge, chat, drink brandy, and do little else. Close 
 by here the Dog Bridge once stood. The king had it 
 demolished, and now is causing a magnificent iron bridge 
 to be erected in its place. The work was begun this 
 summer, and will drag on indefinitely: finally a splendid
 
 104 HEINE, 
 
 work will be achieved. And now, look down there. . . . 
 In the distance you can distinguish the Lindens. 1 
 
 I really do not know a more imposing aspect than that 
 presented by the Lindens viewed from the Dog Bridge. 
 To the right the high, imposing Arsenal, the new Guard- 
 house, the University, and the Academy. To the left the 
 Royal Palace, the Opera House, the Library, etc.; fine 
 buildings crowding upon fine buildings. Over all, there 
 are statues for ornament ; unfortunately all badly carved in 
 inferior stone, with the exception of those on the Arsenal. 
 . . . We now stand on the Schloss Platz, the broadest and 
 largest "square" in Berlin. The king's palace is simpler 
 and more insignificant than all the other edifices. Our 
 king lives here like a simple citizen. Hats off! there he 
 is, driving past. No not that beautiful coach with six 
 horses; that belongs to an ambassador. There he is, in 
 yonder indifferent carriage drawn by two ordinary horses, 
 his head covered with an ordinary officer's cap, his body 
 enveloped in a grey waterproof. But the eye of the adept 
 can see the purple beneath his cloak, and the diadem 
 below his cap. " Do you see how affably the king 
 returns every one's salute ? " Listen ! " He is a fine man," 
 whispers a little fair one. " He is the best of husbands," 
 answers sighingly her older friend. "Ma foi," growls out 
 the officer of the huzzars, "he is the best rider in our 
 army." 
 
 How does the University please you ? A truly magnifi- 
 cent edifice ! It is a pity that so few of the lecture-rooms 
 are spacious. For the most part they are gloomy and 
 comfortless; and, what is worse, in many of them the 
 windows front the street, and afford, at an oblique 
 angle, a view of the Opera House. How the luckless 
 
 1 The famous Berlin alley or promenade, " Unter den Linden."
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 105 
 
 students must sit upon hot coals when the leathern wit 
 indeed not even morocco leather but pig's leather wit 
 of a dry-as-dust professor drones in his ears, while his 
 eyes stray towards the street, fascinated by the picturesque 
 spectacle of the brilliant equipages, the marching soldiers, 
 the nymphs who skip past, and the gay crowd which streams 
 towards the Opera House. How the sixteen "coppers" 
 must burn in his pocket as the poor fellow thinks to him- 
 self, "Happy people! They are going to see Eunike play 
 the part of Seraphim, or Milder that of Iphigenia." "Apol- 
 lini et Musis " is the inscription on the Opera House, yet 
 must the sons of the Muses remain outside. But see, the 
 lecture is at an end and a crowd of students saunter to- 
 wards the Lindens. "What," do you ask, "do so many 
 Philistines attend the lecture ? " Hush, hush, there are 
 no Philistines. A tall hat a la Bolivar and a great-coat 
 a FAnglaise do not make the Philistine, any more than 
 a red cap and a short coat make the student. Here there 
 are numbers of sentimental young barber's apprentices, 
 aspiring errand-boys, and stuck-up tailors, who affect the 
 costume of good society. The well-born student must be 
 excused if he wish not to be mistaken for one of these 
 gentlemen. There are few Courlanders here, though Poles 
 are rather more numerous; some seventy or so, nearly all 
 of whom wear the student's costume. These have no 
 reason to fear any perplexity as to who they are. A 
 moment's glance at their faces shows that no tailor soul 
 lurks beneath the short coat. Many of these Sarmatians 
 might well serve as models of affability and worthy 
 behaviour to their fellow-students, the sons of Hermann 
 and Thusnelda. It is true. When one sees so many charm- 
 ing qualities in strangers, an immense dose of patriotism is 
 requisite to persuade oneself always that the most excel-
 
 io6 HEINE. 
 
 lent and most precious product of earth is a German ! 
 The students do not club much together. The Lands- 
 mannschaften 1 are abolished. The association known as 
 "Arminia," composed of old adherents of the Burschen- 
 schaft, 2 has also been dissolved. Duels have become rare. 
 One recent encounter had a tragic ending. Two medical 
 students, Leibschiitz and Febus, fell into a quarrel over an 
 insignificant point of dispute merely because both laid 
 claim to seat No. 4. They were unaware of the fact that 
 in this lecture-hall there were two seats marked 4; and, 
 as it happened, both had received this number from the 
 Professor. " Idiot," cried the one, and this slight exchange 
 of words was all that then passed between them. They 
 fought the other day, and Leibschiitz transfixed himself on 
 the point of his adversary's rapier. He died a quarter of an 
 hour later. As he was a Jew, his body was carried to the 
 Jewish Cemetery by his comrades at the Academy. Febus, 
 
 also a Jew, took flight, and 
 
 But I see you are not listening to my tale; you are 
 admiring the Lindens. Yes, those are the famous Lindens 
 of which you have heard so much. It thrills me to think 
 that Lessing perhaps stood at this spot, that the favour- 
 ite promenade of so many great men who have lived 
 in Berlin has been under these trees. Here strolled the 
 great Fritz, there he wandered ! But has not the present 
 also its glories? It is just mid-day, the promenade hour 
 of the gay world. The richly-dressed crowd comes and 
 goes under the Lindens. Do you see that beau with the 
 twelve-coloured vests ? Do you hear the deeply significant 
 remarks he lisps to his lady? Do you smell the costly 
 pomades and essences with which he is perfumed ? He 
 
 1 The name of associations of students in German universities. 
 s The Student-Union, or the Student Fraternity.
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 107 
 
 scans you with his eye-glass, smiles, and curls his hair. But 
 look at those fine ladies ! What forms ! I grow poetic ! 
 
 " Yes, friend, here under the Lindens 
 Thou canst edify thy heart, 
 The most beautiful of women 
 Thou wilt here find assembled together. 
 
 They bloom, lovely and adorable, 
 In bright-coloured silken garments; 
 A poet, musing, named them 
 Sweet wandering flowers. 
 
 What beautiful feathered hats ! 
 
 What beautiful Turkish shawls ! 
 
 What beautiful bloom on these cheeks, 
 
 How still more beautiful the swanlike necks 1 " 
 
 No, that lady over there is a wandering Paradise, a 
 wandering heaven, a wandering beatitude. And it is 
 to that simpleton with moustachios that she throws such 
 tender glances. That fellow is not one of those who 
 invented powder, but one of those who use it; yes, a 
 military man. You wonder why every one stops suddenly 
 at this point, puts his hand into his watch-pocket, and 
 looks upwards. My dear, we are standing exactly below 
 the Academy clock, which goes better than all the watches 
 in Berlin, so that each passer-by never fails to regulate 
 his by it. It is an amusing sight for any one who does 
 not know that a clock is there. 
 
 The Song-Academy is_ also in that building. I cannot 
 procure you a ticket; indeed the president himself, Pro- 
 fessor Zetter, is said not to be very complaisant when 
 such requests are made to him. But observe that little 
 brunette, who throws you so many speaking glances. 
 And it is round so dainty a thing that you want to hang a
 
 io8 HEINE. 
 
 particular collar, the mark of the dog. How gracefully she 
 shakes her little curled head, and trips with her little feet : 
 now, look you, she smiles anew to show her white teeth. 
 She must have remarked that you are a stranger. What 
 a crowd of decorated men ! What a mass of orders ! when 
 one is measured for a coat the tailor asks, " With or with- 
 out incisions (for the orders) ? " But halt ! Do you see 
 that building at the corner of the Charlottenstrasse ? That 
 is the Cafe Royal! Let us turn in there, I beg ; I cannot 
 pass without a glance inside. You do not wish to? Be 
 it so ; but you must humour me when we return this way. 
 Opposite you, at an oblique angle, is the Hotel de Rome, 
 and there, to the left, is the Hotel de Petersbourg, the two 
 most important hotels here. Near by is Teichmann, the 
 confectioner ; his fancy bonbons are the best in Berlin, but 
 there is too much butter in his cakes. If you want to dine 
 badly for eight groschen, go to the restaurant next to 
 Teichmann, on the first floor. Now look both right and 
 left. This is the great Friedrichstrasse. Contemplation 
 of it gives an idea of infinity. But do not let us stand 
 too long ; it is easy to catch cold here. There is a cruel 
 draught between the Halle Gate and that of Oranienburg. 
 Here to the left, good things crowd together again. On 
 the one side dwells Sala Tarone; the Cafe du Commerce 
 is on the other ; and, finally, there lives Jagor ! A Sun 
 is affixed above the door of this Paradise. Characteristic 
 symbol ! What sensations this sun excites in the stomach 
 of a gourmand ! Will he not neigh at this sight as did 
 the horse of Darius Hystaspes ? 
 
 Kneel down, ye modern Peruvians, here dwells Jagor ! 
 
 Yet, this sun is not without its spots. No matter how 
 numerous may be the exquisite delicacies newly set forth 
 each day on the printed cards, the service frequently lags.
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 109 
 
 Often, too, the roast joints are old and tough; whereas, 
 in my opinion, at the Cafe Royal, most of the dishes are 
 better prepared and more savoury. But the wine ! Oh, 
 why have I not the purse of Fortunatus ! If you wish to 
 delight your eyes, I recommend you to look at the pictures 
 displayed in the glass cases on Jagor's ground-floor. There 
 one sees, side by side, the actress Stich, the theologian 
 Neander, and the violinist Boucher. How the Beauty 
 smiles! Oh! if you saw her as Juliet when she gives 
 the first kiss to the pilgrim Romeo ! Her words are 
 music 
 
 "Grace is in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
 In every gesture dignity and love." 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 How distraught Neander appears ! Assuredly he thinks of 
 the gnostics ; thinks of Basilides, Valentinus, Bardesanes, 
 ef Carpocrates and of Marcus. Boucher bears a really 
 striking resemblance to the Emperor Napoleon. He calls 
 himself the Socrates of violinists, gathers a mad amount 
 of money together, and out of gratitude calls Berlin the 
 capital of music. 
 
 But let us pass on quickly Here is another confectioner, 
 and here also lives Lebeufve, a magnetic name. Look at 
 the fine buildings on either side of the Lindens. Here 
 resides the great world of Berlin. Let us quicken our 
 steps. The large house to the left is Fuch's, the con- 
 fectioner. Here everything is decorated in the most 
 marvellous manner; everywhere mirrors, flowers, figures 
 in marzipan, gilding in short, the extreme of elegance. 
 But, let me add, everything obtained here is at once the 
 dearest and the worst in Berlin. A few sweetmeats, mostly 
 stale, that is all ! On the table two or three old news- 
 papers lie, and the tall Fraulein who serves is not even
 
 no HEINE. 
 
 pretty. We will not go into Fuch's. I eat neither mirrors 
 nor silk curtains, and if I wish to regale my eyes I go to 
 see Spontini's Cortez or Olympia. 
 
 To the right of you, you will notice something new. 
 Boulevards are being constructed in order to make a 
 thoroughfare from Wilhelmstrasse to Lindenstrasse. We 
 will pause a moment, to notice the Brandeburg Gate 
 and the Victory that surmounts it. Erected by Langhans 
 after the model of the Propylon at Athens, this gate is formed 
 by a colonnade of twelve great Doric columns. As to the 
 goddess on the top, she is sufficiently known to you through 
 modern history. The good lady has also had her trials ; 
 though one cannot detect similar symptoms in this bold 
 chariot driver. Let us pass through the gate. What lies 
 before you is the renowned Thiergarten^ through which 
 runs the broad drive to Charlottenburg. On either side are 
 two colossal statues, one of which might stand for an Apollo; 
 huge, ignoble, mutilated blocks. They ought to be thrown 
 down, for certainly many a pregnant Berlinese has looked 
 on them to her detriment. Hence the numerous hideous 
 faces that we met under the Lindens. The police ought to 
 interfere. 
 
 Let us retrace our steps. My appetite clamours, and I 
 would fain turn in at the Cafe Royal. Will you drive ? 
 Here close to the gate is a droschke stand ; for by this name 
 are our vehicles known in Berlin. The fare is four groschen 
 for one, and six for two " fares," and the coachman drives 
 wherever he is desired. The carriages are all alike, and the 
 drivers all wear grey capes with yellow facings. When one 
 is in a hurry, or when it pours with rain, it is impossible to 
 find a single droschke. Then, when the weather is fine, 
 like to-day, or when one has nothing very particular to do, 
 1 The Zoological Gardens.
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN, 1 1 1 
 
 one finds a mass of droschkies standing together. Let us 
 get in. Quick, driver ! What a moving stream under the 
 Lindens ! How many loiterers there, confident of their 
 dinner to-day ! Do you thoroughly comprehend that word 
 dinner, my friend? Whosoever grasps the full meaning 
 of that word knows the secret of all the agitation of human 
 life. Quick, driver ! What do you think of the immortality 
 of the soul ? Of a truth it is a great discovery, greater than 
 that of powder. What is your opinion of Love ? Quick, 
 driver ! Is it not true that it is the law of attraction and 
 nothing more? Do you like Berlin? Does it not strike 
 you that though the town is new, beautiful, and built with 
 great regularity, it nevertheless gives a rather frigid impres- 
 sion ? Madame de Stael made this very ingenious remark: 
 "Berlin, that wholly modern town, however beautiful it 
 may be, does not make sufficiently serious impression. It 
 bears no imprints of its history, of its country, of the character 
 of its inhabitants ; and these magnificent dwellings, newly 
 constructed, seem designed merely for the convenient 
 gathering together of pleasure and of industry." Herr von 
 Pradt has said something still more piquant . , . But you 
 do not hear a word on account of the rumbling of the 
 carriages. Good, we are at our destination. Stop ! We are 
 at the Cafe Royal. That man with the affable face, stand- 
 ing at the door, is Beyermann. Now he is what I call 
 something like a host ! No cat's-back cringing, but 
 thoughtful attention. Polite and urbane in manners, he is 
 at the same time indefatigable in service ; in short, the 
 finest specimen of the genus, " Mine host." Let us go in. 
 A splendid establishment ! Outside, it is the handsomest 
 cafe in Berlin ; inside, it is the prettiest restaurant. It is a 
 meeting-place of the educated fashionable world. Interest- 
 ing men are often to be seen here. Notice over there that
 
 ii2 HEINE. 
 
 big broad-shouldered man in the black overcoat? He is 
 the celebrated Cosme'li, who to-day is in London, to-morrow 
 in Ispahan. Thus I picture to myself Chamisso's Peter 
 Schlemihl. He has a paradox at the moment, on the tip of 
 his tongue. Do you see that other tall man, with the 
 haughty air and high forehead ? That is Wolf, who has 
 cut Homer to pieces, and can write German hexameters. 
 And, at the table over there, that little fidgety man, whose 
 face has a constant quivering of the muscles, whose gestures 
 are at once comic yet dismal, that is Hoffmann, a councillor 
 of the Chamber, who wrote Kater Murr. The individual 
 with the upright, solemn figure, who sits opposite to him, is 
 Baron von Liittwitz, who furnished to the Voss newspaper 
 a truly classical criticism of Kater Murr. 
 
 Do you see that elegant with easy manner who lisps like 
 a Courlander, and at this moment has turned towards the 
 tall serious-looking man in a green overcoat? He is the 
 Baron von Schilling, who in the Minden Sunday newspaper 
 so disturbed the "dear little grandsons of Teut." The 
 serious one is a poet, Baron von Maltitz. But can you guess 
 who is that man with the determined figure, standing near 
 the chimney ? That is your antagonist Hartmann from the 
 Rhine; hard, and a man of bronze cast in one piece. But 
 why trouble myself about all these gentlemen ? I am 
 hungry. " Garfon, la carfe ! " Glance over this list of 
 splendid dishes. How melodious and melting these names 
 sound, " as music on the waters ! " These are magical, 
 mysterious formulas, unlocking to us the realm of spirits. 
 And . . . champagne ! Permit me to shed a tear of 
 emotion. But you, heartless man, you have no desire for 
 all these dainties, and ask only for news, for miserable town 
 cackle. You shall be satisfied. 
 
 " My dear Herr Goose, what is the news ? "
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 1 1 3 
 
 He shakes his venerable grey head and shrugs his 
 shoulders. We will turn to the little red-cheeked man; 
 the fellow's pocket is always stuffed with news, and if once 
 he begin to disgorge he goes on and on like a mill-wheel. 
 What is the news in the musical world, my dear Herr 
 Kammermusikus ? 
 
 " Nothing at all. The new opera by Hellwig, Die Berg- 
 knappen^ is one of no great interest. Spontini is at present 
 composing an opera, for which Koreff has written the 
 text. The subject is said to be taken from Prussian 
 history. We shall also soon have KorefFs Aucassin and 
 Nicolette, set to music by Schneider, whose score, however, 
 is still undergoing revision. After the carnival we are 
 promised Bernard Klein's heroic opera, Dido. The 
 ladies Bohrer and Boucher have announced their coming 
 concerts. When Der Freyschiitz is given, it is always 
 difficult to procure seats. The bass singer Fischer is here ; 
 he will not appear in public, though he sings a great deal at 
 private houses. Graf Briihl is still very ill ; he broke his 
 collar-bone. We feared we might lose him ; it would have 
 been no easy matter to find another theatrical manager as 
 enthusiastic as he in the interests of German art. The 
 dancer Antonini was here; he asked a hundred louis a 
 night, but it was refused him. Adam Mu'ller came also to 
 Berlin, and Houwald, the tragedy-maker. Madame Wolt- 
 mann is probably still here ; she is writing her Recollec- 
 tions. The bas-reliefs for the statues of Blucher and 
 Scharnhorst are still being worked upon in Rauch's studio. 
 The operas which are to be given during the Carnival are 
 already announced in the papers. Doctor Kuhn's tragedy, 
 Die Damascener, will be given again this winter. Wach is 
 busy with an altar-piece, which our king intends to present 
 to the Church of Victory in Moscow. Madame Stich has
 
 ri 4 HEINE. 
 
 recovered from her confinement ; she will reappear upon 
 the stage to-morrow in Romeo and Juliette. Caroline 
 Fouque has brought out a novel in the form of letters, 
 wherein she writes the hero's letters, while those of the 
 lady are written by Prince Karl von Mecklenburg. The 
 State-Chancellor is now convalescent ; Dr. Rust attended 
 him. Doctor Bopp, nominated Professor of Oriental 
 languages at the University, has given his first lecture in 
 Sanscrit to a numerous audience. From time to time 
 numbers of the Brockhaus Konversationsblatte are still 
 confiscated. Goerre's latest production, In Sachen der 
 Rheinlande, etc., etc., is not even mentioned; almost no 
 notice has been taken of it. The young lad who killed 
 his mother with blows of a hammer is mad. The agita- 
 tions of the mystics in the north of Pomerania make great 
 sensation. Hoffmann is now about to publish with Will- 
 mann, in Frankfiiit, a book said to contain many political 
 allusions. Professor Gubitz is still occupied with his 
 modern Greek translations, and at present is cutting vign- 
 ettes for Feldzug Suwaros gegen die Turken, a work which 
 the Emperor Alexander intends to have printed for the 
 popular use of the Russians. C. L. Blum has recently 
 published with Christian! his Klagelieder der Grischen, 
 which contain may passages of poetic beauty. The gather- 
 ing of artists at the Academy was a very brilliant affair ; the 
 proceeds have been devoted to charity. Walter, the court 
 actor from Carlsruhe, has just arrived, and will appear 
 in Staberle's Reiseabenteuer. Madame Neumann will return 
 here in spring, when Stich will set out on a tour. Julius 
 von Voss has written a new piece, Der neue Markt. His 
 comedy, Quintin Matsys, will be represented next week. 
 Prinz von Hamburg, by Heinrich von Kleist, will not be 
 given. The manuscript of his anthology, Die Argonauten,
 
 LE TTERS FROM BERLIN. 1 1 5 
 
 which he sent to our manager, has been returned to him. 
 "Waiter, a glass of water!" . . . 
 
 Is he not full of news, this Kammermusikus ! We must 
 stick to him. He shall supply Westphalia with news, and in 
 whatsoever he may be ignorant Westphalia does not require 
 to be enlightened. He belongs to no party, to no school, 
 is neither a Liberal nor a Romanticist, and, when anything 
 spiteful escapes his lips, he is as innocent in intention as the 
 luckless reed from which the wind drew out the words, 
 " Midas the King has asses' ears ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 I HAVE received your esteemed communication of the 2nd 
 of February, and I gathered therefrom with pleasure that 
 you are satisfied with my first letter. Your lightly indicated 
 wish, that definite personalities shall not be sketched in too 
 high relief, I shall do my utmost to observe. It is true, I 
 might easily be misunderstood. People do not regard the 
 picture that I have lightly sketched in, but only the little 
 figures which I have drawn in order to make it more life- 
 like, and they end perhaps by even thinking that these little 
 figures were my chief concern. But it is as possible to 
 paint pictures without figures as it is to eat soup without 
 salt. One can speak in veiled words, as our journalists do. 
 If they allude to a great North-German power, every one 
 knows that Prussia is indicated. To me this is ridiculous; 
 it is as though the dancers at a masked ball went about 
 without their masks. Thus if I speak of a great North- 
 German Juris-consul, who wears his black hair in waving 
 curls as long as possible over his shoulders, who casts
 
 Il6 HEINE. 
 
 pious, sanctimonious glances heavenwards, and endeavours 
 thus to resemble the pictures of Christ; who, moreover, 
 bears a French name and is of French extraction, yet 
 always poses as a German, people know to whom I allude. 
 I intend to call every one by his name; in this matter 1 
 think with Boileau. I shall depict many personalities; I 
 shall concern myself little with the blame of those mannikins 
 who regard conventional correspondence as a sort of com- 
 fortable arm-chair wherein each one rocks the other with 
 this amiable exhortation, "Let us praise one another, but 
 let us not say what we look like." 
 
 I have long since known that a town is like a young 
 girl, who loves to see her graceful figure reflected in the 
 mirror of a stranger's correspondence; but I never should 
 have thought that Berlin would thus mirror herself as an 
 old woman, would behave like a veritable old gossip. On 
 this occasion I have therefore made the following discovery: 
 "Berlin is a great place of assemblage for crows !" 
 
 I am out of humour to-day, morose, fretful, irritable. 
 Discontent has put the drag upon my imagination, and all 
 my wits are draped in black mourning crape. Do not 
 suppose that the cause lies in some feminine infidelity. I 
 am still in love with women ! When, at Gottingen, I was 
 shut away from all intercourse with the fair sex, I procured 
 at least a cat to be near me. In any case, feminine 
 infidelity obtains no more than a smile from me, so don't 
 believe that my vanity has received any painful slight. 
 The time is past when each evening I was wont pain- 
 fully to twist my hair into curl papers, to carry a mirror 
 perpetually in my pocket, and busy myself for twenty-five 
 hours of the day in knotting my cravat. Neither think 
 that religious scruples have tormented and agitated my 
 tender soul; I now believe only in the Pythagorean
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN. 1 1 7 
 
 hypothesis, and in the civil code of the kingdom of Prussia. 
 No, the reason of my disquietude is a much more sensible 
 one. My most precious friend, the most amiable of 
 
 mortals, Eugen von B , left here yesterday ! He was 
 
 the only man in whose society I was never bored; the 
 only one whose original witty sayings could fill me with 
 cheerful serenity; while in his gracious features I could see 
 once more my soul of other days, when I led a pure, sweet, 
 flower-life, and had not soiled it with lies and hatred. 
 
 But away with painful thoughts; I must now speak of 
 what people here, on the Spree, are singing and saying. All 
 their subtle reasonings, their spiteful tongues, their chatter 
 and their gossip, you shall hear it all, my dear corre- 
 spondent. 
 
 Boucher, who long since has given his very, very-very 
 last concert, and now, probably, is charming Warsaw or St. 
 Petersburg with his dexterous playing of the violin, speaks 
 the truth when he calls Berlin the capital of Music. 
 During the whole winter here there has been a singing and 
 a ringing enough to deafen and blind one. One concert 
 followed close on the other's heels. 
 
 " Who names the Fiddlers, names the name 
 Of guests who came together here? 
 
 Even from Spain they came, 
 
 And upon the platform 
 
 Played many an indifferent melody." 
 
 The Spaniard was Escudero, a pupil of Baillot's, an excellent 
 violinist, young, healthy, good-looking, yet no protege of 
 the ladies. An ominous rumour had preceded him that 
 he is in no wise dangerous to the fair sex. I will not weary 
 you with the enumeration of all the musical evenings which 
 have delighted or bored us this winter. I will say only
 
 n8 HEINE. 
 
 that at Madame Seidler's concert the hall was filled to 
 suffocation, and that at this moment we are looking forward 
 to Drouet's concert, at which young Mendelssohn will play 
 in public for the first time. 
 
 Have you yet heard Maria von Weber's Freischiifz? 
 No ? Luckless man ! But, at least, you have heard 
 parts of this opera, the Lied der Brautiungfern, or, to 
 express it more shortly, Jungfernkranz ? No ? Happy man 
 that you are ! If you go from the Halle Gate to the 
 Oranienburg Gate, and from the Brandenburg Gate to 
 King's Gate; yes, even if you go from the Unterbaum to 
 the Kopnick Gate you hear eternally the same melody 
 the song of songs, the Jungfernkranz. As in the elegies of 
 Goethe one sees the poor Briton pursued in all lands by 
 Marlborough s'en va-t-en guerre, so am I haunted from 
 daybreak until late in the night by that song : 
 
 " We bind on thee the virgin-crown 
 With silk of violet blue; 
 We lead thee then to game and dance, 
 To pleasure and to wedding joys. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, green virgin-crown, 
 With silk of violet blue, of violet blue. 
 
 Lavender, myrtle, and thyme 
 That in my garden grew, 
 Why does the bridegroom tarry ? 
 I can scarcely wait for him. 
 
 Chorus. 
 Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful," etc. 
 
 In however good a temper I awake in the morning, all 
 my cheerfulness evaporates when, with the first hours of 
 day, I hear the children humming the Jungfernkranz, as
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. i ig 
 
 they pass under my window. Not an hour passes but the 
 daughter of my landlady sets up with her fiingfernkranz. 
 I hear my baker hum \.\\t Jungfernkranz as he comes up the 
 stairs. The little washer-woman comes " with lavender, 
 myrtle, and thyme." And thus it goes all day long. My 
 head is in a whirl. I cannot endure it any longer; I rush 
 out of the house, throw myself into a droschke. At least I 
 shall not hear the song through the sound of the wheels. 
 I stop at the house of ... Can I speak to the Fraulein ? 
 The servant runs to inquire. " Yes." The door flies open. 
 The pretty one sits at the piano and greets me with these 
 sweet words : 
 
 " Why does the bridegroom tarry? 
 I can scarcely wait for him." . . . 
 
 "You sing like an angel," I cry with convulsed amiability. 
 " I will sing it again from the beginning," lisps the good 
 girl, and she wreathes again her virgin-crown, again and yet 
 again, until I writhe like a worm in indescribable tortures, 
 until I cry out in the anguish of my soul, " Help, Samiel!" 
 
 You must know that the wicked villain in Der Freischiilz 
 is so named; the hunter Caspar who has given himself to 
 .him, calls in any moment of need, "Help, Samiel!" It 
 has become the fashion here to give this cry in moments 
 of comic embarrassment, and Boucher, who, as I have 
 said, calls himself the Socrates of violinists, once called 
 aloud, " Help, Samiel ! " when a string of his instrument 
 broke under his fingers. 
 
 And Samiel helped. The disturbed lady stopped 
 suddenly in her stream of song, and lisped " What is the 
 matter with you ? " " It is pure ecstasy," I groaned with a 
 forced smile. " You are ill," she lisped, " go to the 
 Thiergarten, enjoy the lovely day, and watch the gay
 
 120 HEINE. 
 
 people." I seized my hat and stick, kissed the gracious 
 hand of the gracious lady, cast, from the door, one more 
 languishing look of admiration, rushed out, jumped into 
 the first droschke that came along, and rolled away to the 
 Brandenburg Gate. I got out and ran into the Thier- 
 garten. 
 
 I advise you when any ill assails you that is, in such 
 lovely spring days, at this hour, at half-past twelve, to go to 
 the Thiergarten. Enter to the left, and turn at once to the 
 spot where the lady pensioners have raised a small, simple 
 monument to our late Queen Louise. Our king often 
 walks on that side. He is a fine man, of a noble, venerable 
 aspect, and disdains all show. He wears almost always an 
 unpretentious grey mantle. I informed a blockhead that 
 the king is often obliged to make shift with this garment 
 because his master of the robes lives in the country and 
 seldom comes to Berlin. The pretty royal children are 
 frequently to be seen in the Thiergarten at this hour, also 
 all the Court and the flower of the highest nobility. The 
 foreign physiognomies belong to the families of foreign 
 ambassadors. One or two liveried flunkeys follow at some 
 distance behind the noble dames. Officers, splendidly 
 mounted, gallop by. I have seldom seen prettier horses 
 than here in Berlin. I feast my eyes on the sight of these 
 fine riders. The princes of our house are among the 
 number. What a fine, powerful, princely race! On this 
 trunk there is not one deformed or stunted branch. Full 
 of health and vigour, with an expression of courage and 
 high birth on their faces, the two eldest sons of the king 
 pass by on horseback. That other fine young figure with 
 the pious features, the dear love-lit eyes, is prince Karl, the 
 king's third son. But that brilliant, dignified lady who 
 passes rapidly by on horseback, accompanied by a gay and
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 121 
 
 numerous suite, is our Alexandrine. Dressed in a brown 
 close-fitting riding habit, with a round hat and feathers on 
 her head and whip in hand, she resembles those beautiful 
 chatelaines of knightly days, whose gracious figures we see 
 reflected in the magic mirror of the old tales, and of whom 
 we cannot decide whether they are saints or amazons. I 
 think that the sight of these pure features has made me 
 belter; reverent feelings thrill me; I hear the voices of 
 angels; I feel the fanning of unseen palm branches, a great 
 hymn rises in my soul when suddenly there vibrates the 
 jarring strings of a harp, and an old woman's voice quavers 
 "We weave for thee the virgin-crown," etc., etc. 
 
 For the remainder of the day I am haunted by that 
 accursed song. It embitters my happiest moments. Even 
 when I sit down to table it is served as dessert by the 
 singer Heinsius. The whole afternoon I am strangled with 
 "violet-silk." On the one side the Jungfernkranz is ground 
 upon a barrel-organ by a lame man, on the other side it is 
 fiddled by a blind man. But it is in the evening that all 
 the ghosts are let loose. Everywhere there is a fluting and 
 a shrieking, a fiddling and a gurgling, and ever the same 
 old melody. Now and again a tipsy student, or ensign, 
 breaks in upon the hubbub, by bellowing forth Caspar's 
 Song or the Hunter's Chorus; but the Jungfernkranz is 
 permanent. As soon as one has ended it, another sings 
 it again from the very beginning. It sounds at me from 
 every house; every one whistles it with variations; I believe 
 that even the dogs bark it in the streets. 
 
 In the evening, like a hunted roebuck, I lay my head 
 in the lap of the prettiest of the Prussians. She strokes 
 my rough hair caressingly, and lisps in my ear, " I love 
 thee, and thy Louise will always be good to thee." And 
 she caresses me and fondles me till she thinks I am falling
 
 122 HEINE. 
 
 asleep, then she gently takes her guitar and plays and sings 
 the cavatina from Tancrede, "After so many sufferings," and 
 I rest after so many sufferings, and pleasant pictures and 
 sounds surround me. Then, suddenly, I am rudely awaked 
 from my dreams, for the unlucky creature sings, " We weave 
 for thee the virgin-crown ! " 
 
 Mad with despair I tear myself from the clasp of these 
 beautiful arms, hurry down the narrow stairs, fly home like 
 a whirlwind, and throw myself on my bed, gnashing my 
 teeth ! I listen : the old cook is padding about the house 
 with her Jungfernkranz, and I bury myself deep beneath 
 the coverlets ! 
 
 You understand now,, dear reader, why I said you were 
 a fortunate man if you had not heard that song. Yet do 
 not think that the melody is in reality a bad one. On the 
 contrary, it has reached its popularity through its excellence. 
 " But enough's as good as a feast ! " You understand me. 
 
 The whole of Der Freischutz is excellent, and certainly 
 deserves the interest with which it has been received all 
 over Germany. Here it has already been given at least thirty 
 times, and it is always difficult to secure a good seat for 
 a performance. It has produced the same furore at Dres- 
 den, Hamburg, and Vienna. This suffices to prove how 
 erroneous it would be to attribute the success solely to the 
 enthusiasm of an Anti-Spontini party. An Anti-Spontini 
 party ? I see the expression is strange to you. Do not 
 suppose that it is a sort of political party. The violent 
 strife between Liberals and Reactionaries, as we see it in 
 other capitals, cannot break out here in full force, because 
 the royal power, established in the centre of and on the 
 outside of these parties, exercises its puissant arbitration. 
 But, instead, one often sees in Berlin an equally edifying 
 party-strife between musicians. Had you been here at
 
 LE TTERS FROM BERLIN. 1 2 3 
 
 the end of last summer, you could easily have pictured 
 to yourself, by the spectacle of the present day, what in 
 the past must have been the war of the Gluckists and 
 Piccinists in Paris. , . . But I see I must speak more 
 explicitly of the Opera in Berlin; first of all because it 
 is the chief subject of conversation in the town, and 
 secondly, because without the following remarks it will 
 be impossible for you to grasp the sense of many of my 
 communications. 
 
 As to our singers I will not speak of them at present. 
 Their eulogies are stereotyped in all the Berlin correspond- 
 ence articles, and in the newspaper criticisms. Daily one 
 reads: Midder Hauptmann is superb, Schulz is exquisite, 
 Seidler is excellent. Briefly, it is incontestable that the 
 opera has here been brought to an astonishing perfeclion, 
 and that it yields in no whit to any other in Germany. 
 Are these results due to the indefatigable activities of the 
 late Weber? Or else is it the Knight Spontini, who, 
 according to the assertions of his adherents, has called 
 all these wonders into life, as with a magic wand ? I have 
 grave doubts on the subject. I venture to think that the 
 directorship of the great knight has exercised a very harmful 
 influence on certain parts of the opera. But I strictly 
 maintain that, since the complete separation between 
 the drama and the opera, and since the latter has been 
 delivered over to the absolute government of Spontini, 
 it has suffered daily harm through the natural predilection 
 of the great knight for his own grandiose creations and 
 those of geniuses who are his friends or relatives; and 
 through his equally natural antipathy to the music of such 
 composers whose spirits are not in harmony with his, or 
 horribile dictu who have even dared to enter into rivalry 
 with him.
 
 124 HEINE. 
 
 I am too much of a layman, in the domain of music, to 
 dare pronounce my own judgment upon the merits of the 
 compositions' of Spontini, and all that I now say is merely 
 the echo of public opinion, which is easy to overhear in the 
 come-and-go conversations of the day. 
 
 Spontini is the greatest of all living composers. He is a 
 musical Michael Angelo. He has opened new paths in 
 the realm of music. He has fulfilled what Gliick only 
 presaged. He is a great man, he is a genius, he is a god ! 
 So speaks the Spontini party. And the walls of the palace 
 
 resound with such immoderate praise . You must 
 
 know it is the aristocracy which is especially enthusiastic 
 over Spontini's music, and showers upon the master signs 
 of favour. To these noble patrons the whole Spontini 
 party has joined itself, a party very naturally composed 
 first of all of a crowd of men who give blind adherence to 
 the most distinguished and legitimate taste of the day; of a 
 crowd of enthusiasts for everything foreign ; of a few com- 
 posers who would fain have their own productions put upon 
 the stage; and finally of a few veritable votaries. 
 
 It is easy to guess what elements compose a portion of 
 the opposite party. Many are hostile to the good knight 
 because he is an Italian, others because they are envious 
 of him. Others, again, because his music is not German. 
 But the greater majority find in his music only a noise of 
 cymbals and trumpets, clanging bombast, and an unnatural 
 style. Add to this the anger of many people. , . . Now, 
 my dear friend, you can understand the noise which filled 
 all Berlin this summer, when Spontini's Ofympia was 
 represented for the first time upon our stage. Were you 
 not able to hear the music of this opera in Hamm ? There 
 were no lack of cymbals and trombones, so much so that 
 one wit made a proposal that the solidity of the walls of
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 125 
 
 the new theatre should be tested by means of the music of 
 this opera. A lesser wit came away from the noisy opera, 
 and when he heard the beat of drums in the street he 
 cried, drawing a long breath, "Ah ! at last one can listen to 
 quiet music ! " All Berlin sharpened its wits over the 
 numbers of trombones and over the great elephant in the 
 scenic effects of this opera. The deaf were enchanted with 
 so much gorgeous display, and vowed they could feel the 
 beautiful thick music with their hands. The enthusiasts, 
 however, cried out, " Hosannah, Hosannah ! Spontini is 
 himself a musical elephant ! He is an angel with the last 
 trumpet ! " 
 
 Shortly afterwards Karl Maria von Weber came to 
 Berlin; his Freischutz was played in the new theatre, and it 
 charmed every one. The adversaries of Spontini had now a 
 rallying point, and in the evening, after the first perform- 
 ance of his opera, Weber was feted in the most brilliant 
 manner. In a very fine poem, whose author was Doctor 
 Forster, it was said of the Freischutz that "he chased 
 nobler quarry than the elephant." Weber the other day 
 inserted in the Intelligenceblatte an expression of annoyance 
 thereat, and, while cajoling Spontini, blamed poor Forster, 
 whose intention had nevertheless been excellent. Weber 
 had then a hope of obtaining a place in the Grand Opera; 
 he would not have assumed so exaggerated a modesty had 
 he foreseen that all hopes of establishing himself in Berlin 
 were in vain. He quitted us after the third representation 
 of his opera, travelled back to Dresden, there received a 
 brilliant call to Cassel, which he refused, to take up again 
 the directorship of the opera at Dresden, where he is com- 
 pared to a good general without soldiers. He has now 
 started for Vienna, to superintend a new comic opera of his. 
 Concerning the worth of the text, and of the music of Der
 
 126 HEINE. 
 
 FreischutZ) I send you the great critical article upon it, 
 written by Professor Gubitz in the Gesellschafter. This 
 intellectual and keen-sighted critic has the merit of being 
 the first to appreciate in detail the romantic beauties of 
 this opera, and of having accurately predicted its great 
 triumph. 
 
 Weber's physiognomy is not very striking. He is small 
 of stature, with badly-formed legs, a long face without 
 especially agreeable features. But the face is redeemed by 
 the intellectual earnestness, the firmness of purpose, and the 
 calm will, which impress us so strongly in the paintings of 
 the old German masters. What a contrast between his 
 figure and that of Spontini ! The tall stature, the deep-set, 
 sparkling dark eyes, the black curling hair which half covers 
 the lined forehead, the half-melancholy, half-disdainful 
 curve of the lips, the fierce expression of the yellow face, 
 which reflects every passion past and to come, the whole 
 head that seems to belong to Caliban, and which it is never- 
 theless impossible not to call beautiful and noble: all 
 these at a glance reveal the man and the mind which 
 brought forth Vestalin, Cortez, and Olympia. 
 
 Of the composers here to be named directly after 
 Spontini, Bernhard Klein comes first. He has long since 
 won deserved fame through certain very pretty compositions, 
 and his grand opera Dido is awaited with great impatience 
 by the entire public. This opera, in the opinion of those 
 connoisseurs to whom the composer has communicated 
 certain fragments, contains wonderful beauties, and should 
 prove a chef eFceuvre of German national genius. Klein's 
 music is quite original. It differs wholly from the music of 
 the two above-mentioned masters; as wide a contrast as 
 between their physiognomies and the joyous, amiable, 
 virile face of our genial Rheinlander. Klein comes from
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN. 1 2 7 
 
 Cologne, and may well be considered the pride of his native 
 town. 
 
 G. A. Schneider must not be passed over in silence. 
 Not that I consider him a composer of the first order, but 
 because, as author of the music for KorefFs Aucassin et 
 Nicoktte, he has been the subject of popular discus- 
 sion from the 2 6th of February till the present day. 
 During eight whole days one heard nothing spoken of 
 except Koreff and Schneider, Schneider and Koreff. Here, 
 dilettante genius tore the music to pieces; there, a group 
 of bad poets and schoolmasters massacred the text. For 
 myself, this opera amused me extremely. The sprightly 
 tale, developed by the gifted poet with such grace and 
 child-like simplicity, charmed me. I delighted in the 
 pleasing contrast between the solemn Land of Evening and 
 the brilliant Orient, and as, in these most marvellous, loosely 
 connected pictures, adventure followed on adventure, there 
 sprang up within me the spirit of the flower of romanticism. 
 There is always great excitement in Berlin whenever a new 
 opera is to be given; an interest stimulated in this instance 
 by the fact that Schneider, the musical director, and Koreff, 
 the privy councillor, are here universally known. The 
 latter we are about to lose, as for a long time past he has 
 been preparing for a protracted journey in foreign parts. 
 It is a loss to our town, for this man is distinguished by 
 social virtues, by an agreeable personality, and by nobleness 
 of sentiment. 
 
 You know now what is sung to-day in Berlin, and I 
 come next to the question, what is talked about in Berlin ? 
 I have intentionally spoken of singing first of all, for I 
 am persuaded that men learned to sing before they learned 
 to talk, in the same way that metrical speech preceded 
 prose. I believe, in short, that Adam and Eve made their
 
 128 HEINE. 
 
 declarations of love in melodious adagios, and that they 
 nagged one another in recitative. Did not Adam, moreover, 
 beat time to it ? In all probability. This custom of beat- 
 ing time has been preserved among the Berlin populace 
 by tradition, while at the same time they have lost another 
 old tradition, that of singing in time. Our ancestors in the 
 valleys of Cashmere warbled after the manner of canary 
 birds. How we have perfected ourselves ! Perhaps birds 
 will one day attain to the art of speech ? Dogs and pigs 
 are well advanced on that road; their barking and grunting 
 is the transition between song and speech. The first speak 
 in the langue d'oc, the others use the langue d'ceil. 
 Compared with us other Germans the bears 1 are very back- 
 ward in civilisation, and though they rival us in the art of 
 dancing, their growling, compared with other German 
 modes of speech, is not yet worthy of the name of speech. 
 Asses and sheep once reached the point of speech: they 
 had their classic literature, held excellent discourses upon 
 pure asinity, on the sheep's associations, upon the idea of a 
 sheep's head, and upon the splendour of the old bucks. But, 
 as often happens in the course of things in this world, they 
 have retrograded so far from civilisation that they have lost 
 their speech, and have only retained the cordial Ee-aw, and 
 the childishly pious Baa ! 
 
 But how am I to pass from the Ee aw of long ears, from 
 the Baa of the thick-woolpates, to the works of Sir Walter 
 Scott ? For of these I must now speak, because all Berlin 
 speaks of them, because they are the Jungfernkranz of 
 the reading world. They are everywhere read, admired, 
 criticised, cut up, and again re-read. From the countess 
 to the milliner, from the count to the messenger, every one 
 reads the romances of the great Scott; and, in particular, 
 1 I.e., the Berlinese.
 
 LE TTERS FROM BERL IN. 129 
 
 our sentimental ladies. These lie down with Waverley and 
 get up with Red Gauntlet, and during the whole day they 
 have the Dwarf between their fingers. The romance 
 Kcnihvorth has caused an especial furore, as there are 
 very few persons here who are blessed with a knowledge of 
 English; the greater majority of our reading world help 
 themselves with French and German translations. Of these 
 there is no lack. Of the latest of Walter Scott's novels, 
 The Pirate, four translations were announced at the same 
 time. Two were published here, that of Frau von Monten- 
 glant by Schlesinger and that of Doctor Spieker by Drucker 
 and Humboldt. The third translation is by Litz in Ham- 
 burg, and the fourth will be brought out in the pocket 
 editions of the Brothers Schumann in Zwickau. In such 
 circumstances it is obvious that certain collisions are 
 unavoidable. Frau von Hohenhausen is at work now 
 upon a translation of Ivanhoe, and from this excellent 
 translator of Byron we may anticipate an equally excellent 
 translation of Scott. I even believe that this latter will, if 
 anything, be superior ; for the gentle soul of this beautiful 
 woman, so deeply in sympathy with the purely ideal, will 
 reflect the serene, pious, chaste types of the friendly Scott 
 with greater clearness than the dusky, infernal figures of 
 the morose, heart-sick Englishman. The beautiful, tender 
 Rebecca could not fall into more beautiful or tender hands, 
 and the sensitive poet need in this instance only translate 
 straight from her heart. 
 
 The name of Walter Scott has recently been feted in a 
 most remarkable way. On the occasion of a festival there 
 was a brilliant masquerade, wherein most of the heroes of 
 Scott's novels were personated in their characteristic cos- 
 tumes. This fete and these figures were talked about 
 during eight consecutive days. A special point of interest 
 
 9
 
 1 30 HEINE. 
 
 was that the son of Sir Walter Scott, who happened to be 
 in Berlin at the moment, paraded at the brilliant fete as a 
 Scottish Highlander, with the naked legs required in this 
 costume, that is, wearing no trousers, but only a sort of 
 apron which reached to the middle of the thighs. This 
 young man, an officer in the English Hussars, has been 
 made much of here, and enjoys his reflected glory. Where 
 are the sons of Schiller? Where are the sons of our great 
 poets, who, if not without trousers, yet in all likelihood 
 wander about without shirts? Where are our greater 
 poets themselves? Hush, hush, that's not to be talked 
 about ! 
 
 I do not wish to be unjust and leave unnoticed the 
 veneration paid to the name of Goethe, the German poet 
 most spoken of in Berlin. But, hand on heart, may it not 
 nave been the fine worldly-wise conduct of our Goethe which 
 contributed the most to secure so brilliant a position for 
 him, and allowed him to enjoy to so high a degree the 
 affection of our nobles ? Far be it from me to detract in 
 the slightest degree from the old gentleman's character. 
 Goethe is a great man in a silken coat. Quite recently he 
 displayed the greatest magnanimity towards his art-loving 
 compatriots, who, wishing to erect in his honour a monu- 
 ment in the noble precincts of Frankfurt, had called 
 upon all Germany for subscriptions. In Berlin the sub- 
 ject was discussed to an amazing degree, and your humble 
 servant wrote the following sonnet, which was honoured 
 with applause : 
 
 Give ear, ye German women, men, and children, 
 And gather in subscriptions unabashed ; 
 The citizens of Frankfurt have determined 
 To raise an honourable monument unto Goethe.
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 131 
 
 "Strange merchants at the Fair-time will perceive," 
 So thought they, "that we are this man's associate; 
 That from our hot-bed this fine flower has sprung, 
 And blindly will they trust us in transactions." 
 
 Oh, leave the poet his own laurel crown, 
 Ye merchantmen ! Keep ye your gold. 
 A monument to self has Goethe raised. 
 
 In swaddling bands was he akin to you, yet now 
 
 A whole world lies between yourselves and Goethe, 
 
 You, whom the merest streamlet divides from Sachenhauser. 1 
 
 The great man, as is well known, put an end to all such 
 discussions; he returned the letters of the citizenship of 
 Frankfurt to his compatriots with the declaration that he 
 was certainly not a Frankfurter ! 
 
 Since then this right of citizenship to use Frankfurt 
 parlance has fallen ninety per cent, in value, and the 
 Frankfurt Jews have now the best hopes for this beautiful 
 acquisition. But to speak again in Frankfurt parlance 
 have not the Rothschild and the Bethmann 2 stood long 
 enough at par ? The merchant, over the whole world, has 
 the same religion. His counter is his church, his desk is 
 his confessional, his ledger is his Bible, his warehouse is his 
 holy of holies, the exchequer bell is his vesper bell, gold is 
 his god, credit is his creed. 
 
 I must take occasion at this point to mention two 
 novelties; first, the new hall of exchange, modelled upon 
 that of Hamburg, and opened a few weeks since; and, 
 secondly, the old but newly-revived project, the conversion 
 
 1 Sachenhauser is a little town situated opposite Frankfurt, on the 
 other side of the Maine, of which all the inhabitants have an old 
 reputation for grossness of living. 
 
 3 An untranslatable pun. Bethmann (the name of a rich banker) 
 signifies, word for word, devout man, bigot, or beadsman.
 
 1 32 HEINE. 
 
 of the Jews. But I will pass over both in silence, for I 
 have never been in the new hall, and the Jews are much 
 too sad a subject. Eventually, it is true, I shall be forced 
 to revert to them when I touch upon their new cult, which 
 has arisen here in Berlin in particular. I cannot do so 
 as yet, for hitherto I have neglected to assist even once 
 at the new Mosaic divine service. Neither will I write 
 anything concerning the new Liturgy, which long since 
 was introduced into the Cathedral-Church, and is the 
 principal subject of town-talk at the moment; because 
 otherwise my letter will swell to the size of a book. The 
 Liturgy had a crowd of gainsayers. They were headed, I 
 hear, by Schleiermacher. Not long since I listened to one 
 of his sermons, delivered with the power of a Luther. In it 
 was no lack of veiled attacks upon the Liturgy. I must 
 confess that he did not arouse in me any feelings of 
 exemplary piety, but, nevertheless, I was edified in the 
 true sense of the term, strengthened by his fiery darts, 
 and urged from the downy bed of drowsy indifference. 
 This man has only to throw aside the black robe of the 
 priest in order to appear as the priest of Truth. 
 
 An extraordinary impression has been produced here by 
 the invectives launched against the Faculty of Theology. 
 They appeared in the notice of the pamphlet, "Against the 
 collection of the VVette documents" (in the Voss news- 
 paper), and in the "Response to the declarations of the 
 said Faculty." Beckendorf is usually mentioned as the 
 author, but it is not definitely known from whose pen either 
 the "Notice" or the "Response" has proceeded. Some 
 people name Kampf, some Beckendorf himself, others 
 Klindworth, others Buchholz, etc. It is impossible not 
 to perceive the hand of a diplomatist in this treatise. 
 It is said that Schleiermacher is at work upon a re-
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 133 
 
 filiation, and it will not be difficult for this powerful 
 orator to shut the mouths of his adversaries. That the 
 Faculty of Theology ought to reply to these attacks is 
 obvious, and the whole public is looking forward with 
 eager curiosity to the answer. 
 
 The two supplementary volumes to the Dictionary of 
 Conversation by Brockhaus is also impatiently awaited, for 
 the natural reason that they, according to the promises of 
 the prospectus, should contain biographies of a great num- 
 ber of public characters, who, living partly in Berlin and 
 partly abroad, are habitual subjects of conversation. I 
 have just received the first instalment, from A to Bomz 
 (published ist March 1822), and I pounced with avidity 
 on the articles Albrecht (Cabinet minister), A/opaeus, Alten- 
 sfeiti, Ancillon, Prinz August (of Prussia), etc., etc. Among 
 the names that may interest our Rhenish friends I pick 
 out Akkum, Arndt, Begasse, Benzenberg, and Beugnot, 
 the brave Frenchman who, despite of his hatred-inspiring 
 position, has given to the inhabitants of the Grand-Duchy 
 of Berg so many beautiful proofs of a noble and great 
 character, and who to-day fights so valiantly in France for 
 Truth and Justice. 
 
 The measures against the Brockhaus publication are still 
 in process of execution. Brockhaus was here last summer, 
 and sought to ameliorate his differences with the Prussian 
 government. But his efforts seem to have been in vain. 
 Brockhaus is a man of agreeable personality. His exterior, 
 his penetrative earnestness, and his firm frankness, betoken 
 him to be a man who does not regard science and the strife 
 of opinions with the ordinary eyes of the bookseller. 
 
 As everywhere else, Grecian affairs have been thoroughly 
 discussed, but ardour for the Greeks is almost extinct. 
 There was much youthful enthusiasm for Hellas; the older,
 
 134 HEINE. 
 
 more reasoning people, shook their grey heads. The ardour 
 of the Philologians flamed fiercely. The Greeks must have 
 been greatly edified in that they were remembered in so 
 poetic a manner by our Tyrtaeans on the anniversaries of 
 Marathon, Salamis, and Plataa. Our Professor Zeune, who, 
 according to the observation of the optician Amuel, not 
 only wears spectacles, but is also a judge of spectacles, 
 proved the most active in the matter. Captain Fabeck, who, 
 as you have learned through the public papers, travelled from 
 here to Greece without having sung many Trytasian songs, 
 must to all accounts have performed astonishing exploits 
 there, and has now returned to Germany to rest on these 
 laurels. 
 
 It is now decided that Kleist's drama, Der Piinz von 
 Hamburg oder der Schlagkt bei Fehrbellin, is not to be 
 produced on our stage, for this reason, I am told, that a 
 certain noble lady believes that therein an ancestor is 
 personated in ignoble guise. This piece is still an apple 
 of discord in our aesthetic circles. For myself, I am per- 
 suaded that it is as though written by the Genius of Poetry 
 herself, and that it is of more worth than all those farces 
 and show-pieces, and all those poached eggs of Houwald, 
 which are daily dished up for us. Anne JBoleyn, a tragedy 
 by the very talented poet Gehe, who is here at the present 
 moment, is being rehearsed. Herr Rellstab has offered a 
 tragedy, entitled Karl der Kuhne von Burgund, to our 
 manager, but I do not know if the piece has been accepted. 
 
 Tongues have wagged tremendously since it has been 
 known that Hoffmann's new novel, Der Floh und seine 
 Gesellen^ has been confiscated by the Government pro- 
 secutor. The latter had discovered that the fifth chapter 
 of this novel contained persiflage upon the commission of 
 inquiry into democratic agitations. That, in high quarters,
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 135 
 
 very little notice was taken of this persiflage has been amply 
 proved, inasmuch as under their very eyes Jean Paul's Komet 
 was printed by Reimer, with the permission of the censor; 
 and in part of this novel the inquiries inte these agitations 
 are ridiculed in the most unholy manner. As to our Hoff- 
 mann, probably those in high places had excellent reasons 
 for taking such pleasantry in bad part. Hoffmann, councillor 
 of the chamber, by virtue of the king's confidence in him, 
 was himself a member of that commission of inquiry. 
 Could he, therefore, diminish the authority of the same 
 through untimely pleasantry, without committing a repre- 
 hensible indecorum ? This is why Hoffmann has been called 
 to account. Der floh will, nevertheless, be printed, but 
 with certain alterations. Hoffmann is ill at the moment, 
 is suffering from a severe catarrh. In my next letter I 
 will perhaps write more concerning this author, whom I 
 love and honour too much to forbear from speaking of 
 him. 
 
 Herr von Savigny will lecture this summer. The jugglers 
 who play their farces before the Brandenburg Gate got into 
 difficulties, and have long since left. Blondin is here, 
 and will perform his feats of riding and springing. The 
 headsman, Schumann, fills the Berlinese with surprise and 
 dismay. But Bosco, Bosco, Bartholomea Bosco ! it is he 
 you should see ! He is a true pupil of Pinetti; he can cure 
 broken watches quicker than the watchmaker Labinske; 
 he knows how to shuffle the cards and how to make the 
 marionettes dance. Tt is a pity that the fellow has not 
 studied theology. He was formerly an Italian officer; is 
 still very young, manly, powerful, and wears a close-fitting 
 jacket and black silk breeches. What is still more to the 
 point is that when he performs his tricks he almost wholly 
 bares his arms. Feminine eyes must rejoice over these
 
 136 HEINE. 
 
 much more than over his tricks. He is really a fine fellow, 
 it must be admitted, when one sees the mobile figure in the 
 glare of fifty long wax-candles, planted like a flickering 
 forest of lights before his long table, spread with a strange 
 assortment of jugglering apparatus. He has moved his 
 show from Jagor's Hall to the Englischen Hause, and 
 sightseers crowd there in surprising numbers. 
 
 I spoke yesterday in the Cafe' Royal to the Kammer- 
 musikus. He imparted an amount of small news to me, 
 of which I have remembered only the smallest portion. 
 Understand that most of it concerns musical Ckroniques 
 scandaleuses. On the zoth there will be an examination 
 at Doctor Stopel's, who teaches the piano and thorough- 
 bass after the Logier system. Graf Briihl has almost 
 recovered from his illness. Walter from Karlsruhe will 
 soon appear in another farce Staberle's "Hochzeit." Herr 
 and Frau Wolf have gone on tour to Leipsic and Dresden. 
 Michael Beer has written a new tragedy in Italian, Die 
 Briiule von Arragonien; while in Milan a new opera by 
 Meyerbeer is about to be performed. Spontini is at work 
 on a musical setting to Koreff's Sappho. Certain philan- 
 thropists are desirous of founding a home for waifs, similar 
 to that of Privy Councillor Falk at Weimar. Cosmeli has 
 published at Schiippet's library his Harmless Observations 
 made during Travels across a portion of Russia and Turkey, 
 which will not prove so very harmless, because this original 
 writer regards everything with his own eyes, and says and 
 gives his impressions with unbiassed directness. Reading 
 libraries are subjected to the supervision of the police, to 
 whom they are obliged to submit their catalogues ; all 
 wholly obscure books, such as most of Althing's novels, 
 those of A. von Schaden, and such like, are prohibited. 
 The last-named, who has just journeyed to Prague, has
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 137 
 
 recently published Licht und Schaitenseiten von Berlin 
 ("Lights and Shadows of Berlin"), a pamphlet which is 
 said to contain many false assertions, and has excited a 
 great deal of ill-feeling. The manufacturer Fritsche has 
 invented a new and much cheaper kind of candle. Many 
 important transactions have been made in promise, in view 
 of the approaching drawing of the Pramien-Stadtschuld 
 coupons. The banking firm of L. Lipke & Co. alone have 
 placed nearly a thousand pieces. Boettiger and Tieck 
 are expected here. The spiritual Fanny Tarnow resides 
 here. The new Berlin Monthly Review came to an end 
 in January. General Menutuli has sent the manuscript 
 of his diary of travels from Italy to Professor Fischer, so 
 that it may be prepared for printing. Professor Bopp, 
 whose lectures on Sanscrit are always a great success, is 
 now writing a great work upon comparative philology. 
 About thirty students, among whom were many Poles, 
 have been arrested on account of the democratic disturb- 
 ances. Schadow has finished the model of a statue of 
 Frederick the Great. The death of young Schadow, in 
 Rome, has excited general sympathy. Wilhelm Schadow, 
 the painter, has recently produced a very fine picture 
 representing the Princess Wilhelmina and her children. 
 Wilhelm Hensell journeys to Italy in May. Kolbe is at 
 work upon the designs for the glass paintings in the Castle 
 of Marienburg. Schinkel is doing the sketches for the 
 scenes in Spontini's Milton. This is an opera in one act, 
 which, although not new, is shortly to be performed here 
 for the first time. The sculptor Tieck is at work upon 
 the model of a statue of Faith, which is to stand in one 
 of the two niches at the entrance of the cathedral. Rauch 
 is still busy with the bas-reliefs for Billow's statue; this, as 
 well as the now finished statue of Scharnhorst, will be
 
 138 HEINE. 
 
 placed on either side of the new guard-house (between the 
 University and the Arsenal). The State works, to judge 
 from outward appearances, are progressing rapidly. The 
 notabilities of East and West Prussia will be dismissed 
 to-day by our Government, and replaced by those of our 
 Saxon provinces. The notabilities of our Rhenish pro- 
 vinces will, it is said, be the last to be called. It is not 
 possible to learn anything of these negotiations between 
 the governments and the notabilities, because they have 
 taken juramenta silentiL Our differences with Hesse, con- 
 cerning the violation of territorial rights owing to the 
 abduction of a princess at Bonn, do not seem to have 
 been adjusted; there is even a possibility of our ambas- 
 sador at the Court of Cassel being recalled. A fresh Saxon 
 ambassador, Graf Lobran, has definitely been recalled; a 
 new Portuguese ambassador is daily expected. Our Prussian 
 ambassador at the Court of Portugal, Graf von Flemming, 
 the nephew of the State Chancellor, is still in Berlin. A 
 fresh French ambassador also is awaited. Our envoys to 
 the royal court of Saxony and to the grand-ducal court 
 of Darmstadt, Herr von Jordan and Baron von Otterstadt, 
 are still here. The approaching marriage of the Swedish 
 Prince Oscar with the beautiful Princess Elise Radzewill 
 is much discussed. Nothing further is said of the marriage 
 of our Crown Prince with a German princess. Great 
 are to be the festivities on the occasion of the marriage 
 of the Princess Alexandrine. Spontini will compose 
 for the ceremony Das Rosenefst in Caschemir, in which 
 two elephants will appear. The ministerial assemblies do 
 not take place at present ; those which still continue are 
 held on Tuesdays, at the house of Prince Wittgenstein, 
 Our State Chancellor has quite recovered, and resides here 
 from time to time, also at Glienicke. At Eastertide the
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 139 
 
 Annals of the Royal Universities of Prussia will be pub- 
 lished. The librarian Spieker is to bring out the comedy 
 Lalla Rookh. The giant who was to be seen in the 
 Konigstrasse is now at the Pauseninsel. Devrient is not 
 quite convalescent yet. Boucher and his wife are at 
 present giving concerts in Vienna. The new operas of 
 Karl Maria von Weber are entitled Euryanthe, with text 
 by Helmine von Chezy, and Die Beiden Pinitfs, the text 
 by Hofrath Winkler. Bernhard Romberg is here. 
 
 Ah heavens! Chronicle writing is a thankless task. 
 The most important items may not be communicated, 
 unless they can be guaranteed. Small gossip must cer- 
 tainly not be written ; first because, though it is interesting 
 in Berlin, it often sounds vapid and scrappy in the pro- 
 vinces. How, in Heaven's name, can it interest the ladies 
 in Diilmen if I relate how this young dancer can now 
 speak in due/is, and that that young lieutenant wears false 
 calves and false haunches? How can it concern these 
 ladies whether such and such a dancer represents one or 
 two persons to me, or whether the said lieutenant con- 
 sist of two-thirds wadding and one-third flesh, or of two- 
 thirds flesh and one-third wadding? Why, in short, 
 write notices upon men of whom no notice should be 
 taken at all ? 
 
 It is easy to guess how one has lived here, this winter. 
 No special description is required ; winter diversions 
 are the same in every capital town. Opera, theatre, 
 assemblies, balls, tea-parties (dansant as well as medisant), 
 with masquerades, private theatricals, grand entertainments, 
 etc. etc. ; these are about all our winter evening amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 Social life is very animated in Berlin, but it is split nearly 
 into shreds. Society is divided into a number of little
 
 140 HEINE. 
 
 circles, grouped one beside the other, each trying to 
 contract its limits instead of extending them. Take the 
 numerous balls, for example ; one would think Berlin was 
 composed solely of coteries. The court and the ministers, 
 the diplomatic body, civilians, commercial men, mer- 
 chants, officers, etc., etc. All give their own balls, at 
 which no one attends who does not belong to that special 
 set. With some of the ministers and ambassadors these 
 assemblies are more of the nature of big tea-parties, which 
 are given on special days in the week, and are trans- 
 formed into balls according to the greater or lesser influx 
 of guests. All the balls of the upper class strive with more 
 or less success to resemble the court balls or the princely 
 balls. As regards the latter, nearly all civilised Europe 
 has now adopted the same tone, or, more properly speaking, 
 they are all modelled on the Parisian balls. Consequently, 
 there is nothing characteristic about our balls in Berlin, 
 though a singular effect is occasionally given when a sub- 
 lieutenant on his slender pay, or a penniless young lady 
 attired in mosaic-like patched and bedizened garments, 
 strain their utmost to affect a distinguished bearing at 
 these balls; so that, like marionettes in a show, their 
 pathetic, pitiful faces form a sharp contrast with the stiff 
 court costume in which they are attired. 
 
 There is one kind of ball which, for some time past, has 
 been open to all classes ; namely, the subscription ball, or 
 what is jokingly nick-named the unmasked masquerade. 
 It is held in the concert-room of the new theatre. The 
 King and Court honour it with their presence, and 
 usually open it ; any one can participate by paying a 
 modest entrance fee. Baronine Caroline Fouque, so 
 distinguished for her qualities of heart and mind, has 
 very prettily described these balls and other court festivi-
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 141 
 
 ties in her Letters on Berlin ; indeed, I cannot sufficiently 
 recommend these letters to you on account of their insight. 
 This year the subscription balls were not as brilliant as last 
 year's, when they still had the charm of novelty. In com- 
 pensation, the balls given by the great functionaries of the 
 State were especially brilliant this winter. My dwelling 
 is surrounded by a number of mansions of princes 
 and ministers; frequently, of an evening, I have been 
 unable to work on account of the noise, the crunching 
 of wheels and the stamping of horses. At times the whole 
 street is blocked with equipages ; the numberless carriage- 
 lanterns light up the braided red-coats who run in between 
 calling and swearing, while crystal chandeliers pour their 
 gay and biilliant light through the large first-floor windows 
 whence the music resounds. 
 
 This year we have had very little snow, and consequently 
 we have scarcely heard the sleigh bells and the cracking 
 of whips. As in all great Protestant towns, Christmastide 
 plays the chief part in the great winter comedies. One 
 week beforehand every one is busy purchasing Christmas 
 presents. All the costume shops and all the jewellery 
 and hardware merchants make display of their choicest 
 articles as our dandies do their learned acquaintances. 
 On the Schlossplatz are erected a crowd of wooden stalls 
 hung with clothing, household goods and toys, and the 
 sprightly Berlinese flit like butterflies from shop to shop, 
 buy, gossip, ogle, and show their taste and themselves at the 
 same time, to admiring onlookers. But it is in the evening 
 that the fun is at its height; for then these charmers, often 
 with the whole of their respective families, with father, mother, 
 aunt, brothers, and sisters, are to be seen, pilgrimaging 
 from one confectioner's stall to another, as though to the 
 stations of the Cross. These dear folks pay their two
 
 142 HEINE. 
 
 groschen for entrance money, they feast their eyes to 
 their heart's content on the exhibition, on a let of dolls 
 made of sugar or of comfits, which are displayed tastefully 
 one beside the other. Lighted round about, and stored 
 within four walls painted in perspective, they form a pretty 
 enough picture. The amusing point of the thing is that 
 these sugar puppets frequently represent some real and 
 well-known personage. 
 
 I wandered through a crowd of these confectioners' 
 booths, for I know nothing more diverting than to watch 
 unobserved, how the pretty Berlinese enjoy themselves, how 
 their bosoms swell with excitement, palpitate rapidly, and 
 how these naive souls ejaculate shrilly, " Ah, but it is 
 lovely ! " At Fuch's, during the exhibition this year, were 
 to be seen pictures of Lalla Rookh^ such as were shown 
 last year at the Castle during the Court festival of which you 
 have heard. It was impossible for me to see anything of 
 these wonders at Fuch's, because the pretty heads of these 
 ladies formed an 'impenetrable wall before the square sugar 
 tableau. I will not bore you with my opinion of this con- 
 fectioners' exhibition ; on it Karl Miichler, the war minister, 
 he who, it is said, is the Berlin correspondent of the Ele- 
 ganten Welt, has already written an article in that paper. 
 
 Concerning the balls in Jagor's hall there is nothing of 
 especial importance to be said, except that the excellent 
 regulation exists that whosoever fears that he or she may be 
 bored to death, is perfectly at liberty to beat a retreat. The 
 balls at the Opera-house are splendid and on a grand scale. 
 On these occasions the whole of the pit is boarded over on 
 a level with the stage to form one huge hall lighted from 
 above with an immense number of oval chandeliers. The 
 burning globes have almost the appearance of solar systems, 
 as represented in astronomical compendiums ; they attract
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 143 
 
 and confuse the eyes of the onlooker, and pour their dazzling 
 shimmer on the brilliantly coloured, glittering throngs, as 
 they dance and hop and crowd together on the swaying 
 floor, till the sounds of the music are almost overpowered. 
 On these occasions every one must wear a mask, and no 
 one is allowed to uncover in the great hall. Indeed, I know 
 no place where this would be permitted. Only in the 
 corridors, and in the first and second tier of boxes, may 
 the mask be removed. People of the lower classes pay 
 a very small entrance fee, and watch all this splendour 
 from the galleries. In the big royal box the courtiers can 
 be seen, of whom the greater part are without masks. Now 
 and again one of their number descends to the centre hall 
 and mixes with the noisy masqueraders. These are com- 
 posed of men of all classes. Difficult it is indeed to decide 
 if such and such an one is a courtier or a tailor's apprentice; 
 it may be possible to recognise them by their outward 
 manner, but certainly not by their garments. Almost all 
 the men wear a simple silken domino and a tall opera 
 hat. The obvious explanation of this is the egotism of the 
 inhabitants of large towns. Each one wishes thus to amuse 
 himself, but not to play the part of a character- mask for the 
 amusement of others. For the same reason the ladies are 
 quite simply masked, usually as bats. A crowd of femmes 
 entretennes and ordinary priestesses of Venus flutter about 
 in this guise and form profitable intrigues. " I know you," 
 whispers one of these wandering stars. " I know you 
 too," is the answer. "I know thee, my fine masquer- 
 ader," a bat calls out in front of a dissolute young fellow. 
 " If thou knowest me, my pretty one, thou art no one in 
 particular," replies the wicked one aloud, and the com- 
 promised donna vanishes like the wind. 
 
 But what does it signify who is behind the mask ? Each
 
 144 HEINE. 
 
 one wishes to enjoy himself, and, for enjoyment, only masking 
 is necessary. Mankind is man pure and simple only at a 
 masque ball, where the waxen mask covers the usual mask 
 of flesh, where the simple " tliou " re-establishes the 
 familiarity of primitive societies, where a domino hides all 
 pretensions and brings about the most beautiful equality, 
 where the most beautiful freedom reigns the freedom 
 of the mask. To me a ball of this kind is always of the 
 highest enjoyment. When the cymbals crash and the 
 trumpets blare, and the gentle voices of flutes and violins 
 mingle in sweet accord, I throw myself like a swimmer 
 into the swirling, fantastically illuminated human flood. I 
 dance and run, and joke, and nod to every one, and laugh 
 and chatter whatever comes into my head. I was particu- 
 larly joyous at the last ball ; I could almost have walked 
 on my head. If my most deadly enemy had come across 
 my path I would have said to him, " To-morrow we will 
 shoot one another ; but to-day I will kiss you right cordially." 
 Love is the purest joy, God is love, therefore God is the 
 purest joyousness ! "Thou art beautiful! thou art charm- 
 ing ! Thou art the delight of my heart ! I adore thee, my 
 pretty one." These were the words that my lips repeated 
 instinctively a hundred times. And I shook every one's 
 hand and took my hat off politely to every one, and all were 
 also very polite to me. Only one German youth was 
 abusive, and jeered at what he called my apeing the manners 
 of the Modern Babylon, and thundered out in his ancient 
 Teutonic beer-bass, " At a German mummery, Germans 
 should speak German ! " O German youth, how silly and 
 blasphemous you and your words seem to me in such 
 moments when my soul envelops the whole world with 
 love ; when, rejoicingly, I would embrace both Turks and 
 Russians, would throw myself weeping on the breast of my
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 145 
 
 brother, the enchained African ! I love Germany and 
 Germans, but I love none the less the inhabitants of the 
 other portions of the earth, whose number is forty times 
 greater than that of the Germans. Love gives mankind his 
 true worth. God be praised ! I am worth forty times more 
 than those who cannot extricate themselves from the slough 
 of national egotism, who love Germany and Germans only. 
 
 III. 
 
 I HAVE just donned my gala coat, black silk breeches, and 
 ditto stockings, and thus attired I proclaim to you in the 
 most solemn manner: 
 
 The exalted marriage of Her Royal Highness the 
 Princess Alexandrine with His Royal Highness the 
 hereditary Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin. 
 
 Concerning the festive part of the nuptial ceremonies you 
 have certainly read the detailed description in the news- 
 papers, therefore, all I need say on the subject may be 
 brief. But there is another important reason why I should 
 say little, and that is because I have really seen very little 
 of it. As, however, I at all times concern myself more 
 with the spirit rather than the details of my matter, that 
 does not matter much. In truth, I had not sufficient fore- 
 sight to gather even the requisite facts. It was certainly 
 arranged long since that the marriage of these exalted 
 personages should take place on the 25th. But so 
 frequent were the assertions of its postponement that 
 positively on Friday the 24th I could not venture to believe 
 the ceremony would take place on the morrow. Nor was 
 I alone in this opinion. On the Saturday morning the 
 
 10
 
 146 HEINE. 
 
 streets were not particularly animated; but on all faces an 
 eagerness, a mysterious anticipation, were obvious. Ser- 
 vants, hairdressers, band-boxes, dressmakers, etc., hurried 
 about. The day was fine, and not too sultry, but the 
 people perspired. About six o'clock the rumbling of 
 carriages was first heard. 
 
 I am neither a noble, nor a states' official, nor an officer, 
 consequently I have no admission to Court, and could 
 not assist at the marriage festivities in the castle itself. 
 Nevertheless, I went as far as the court of the castle in order 
 to see at least the whole personnel of those who had admit- 
 tance. I have never elsewhere seen so many beautiful 
 equipages in one place. The servants had on their best 
 liveries, and in their brightest coloured coats and knee- 
 breeches with white stockings they looked like Dutch 
 tulips. Many of them wore more gold and silver on their 
 bodies than the whole household of the Burgomaster of 
 North America. 
 
 But the coachman of the Duke of Cumberland carried oft 
 the prize. Indeed, to see this flower of coachmen perched 
 on his box was alone worth a journey to Berlin. What is 
 Solomon arrayed in all his glory; what is Haroun-al- 
 Raschid in his caliph's robes; what is even the Triumphal 
 Elephant in Spontini's Olympia in comparison to the 
 grandeur of this magnificent coachman ! On less festive 
 days he is sufficiently imposing with his truly Chinese 
 porcelain trimness, with the pendulum-like movement of 
 his powdered head and heavy pig-tail, with the three 
 cornered wishing-cap on his head, and the wonderful 
 mobility of his arms in the management of his horses. But 
 to-day he wore crimson clothes, consisting of half a frock- 
 coat, half an overcoat, and breeches of the same colour, all 
 embroidered with gold facings. His noble head, powdered
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN, 147 
 
 chalk white, ornamented with an enormously big black 
 hair-bag, was covered with a black velvet cap with a long 
 peak. In the same manner were dressed the four flunkeys 
 who stood behind on the carriage, holding one another in 
 firm positions with brotherly interlinkings, and showing 
 four black hair-bags to the gaping public. But the coach- 
 man carried in his face the air of the natural ruler, as he 
 directed the six-in-hand state-carriage; firmly he held the 
 reins, "and fast flew on the horses." 
 
 There was a frightful crush of people in the courtyard of 
 the castle. It must be admitted the Berlin women are 
 not shy. The tenderest of maidens gave me pokes in 
 the ribs which I still feel to-day. Happily for me I am not 
 a pregnant woman. I squeezed myself through the crush 
 and luckily reached the portal of the castle. The officer of 
 the police, pushing back the crowd, let me pass through 
 however, because I wore a black coat, and because he per- 
 ceived in me that my abode is hung with red silk curtains. 
 From that moment I could easily see the great lords and 
 ladies getting out of their carriages, and I amused myself 
 extremely examining the distinguished court costumes and 
 court faces. The first I cannot well describe because I 
 lack the genius of the tailor; from questions of municipal 
 policy I refrain from depicting the latter. Two pretty 
 Berlin women who stood near me were in ecstasies over the 
 beautiful diamonds, the gold embroideries, the flowers, the 
 gauze, the satin, the long trains and the coiffeurs. For my 
 part I admired still more the beautiful eyes of these admirers, 
 and was somewhat annoyed when some one tapped me in a 
 friendly way on the shoulder and I saw the little red- 
 cheeked face of the Kammermusikus beaming at me. He 
 was tremendously agitated, and skipped like a tree frog. 
 " Carrissimo" he quaked, "do you see that beautiful countess
 
 148 HEINE. 
 
 over there ? A cypress-like figure, hyacinth locks, her 
 mouth is a rose and a nightingale together, the whole 
 woman is a flower, and like a poor flower that is pressed 
 between two sheets of blotting paper she stands there 
 between her grey aunts. Her lord and husband, who 
 browses upon such flowers instead of thistles, in order to 
 make us believe that he is no donkey, has to remain at 
 home to-day. He has a cold in his head, lies upon the sofa, 
 and I have been obliged to entertain him; we gossiped for 
 two hours upon the new Liturgy, so that my tongue has 
 become thinner by reason of so much talking, and my lips 
 hurt me from continuous smiling." 
 
 At these words the corners of the musician's mouth con- 
 tracted into a sour court smile, which he licked away again 
 with his fine little tongue. Suddenly he exclaimed again, 
 "The Liturgy! the Liturgy! it will fly upon the wings of the 
 red eagle of the third class from church tower to church 
 tower, jusqu'a la tour de Notre Dame! Let us speak of 
 something reasonable. Observe those two dandies who are 
 now driving past. The one squashed, made-up face, with 
 a thin head full of soft cotton-wool thoughts, and a vest 
 of coloured embroidery, gala-rapier, conical white silk-clad 
 legs. See how he gabbles in French, which, if it were 
 translated into German, would be nothing but nonsense. 
 As a contrast look at the other, the big man with the 
 moustache, that Titan who will lay siege to every earthly 
 paradise. I wager he has as much wit as Apollo Belve- 
 dere." In order to divert the thoughts of this tattler I 
 pointed out to him my barber, who stood opposite to us, 
 and who had donned his new coat made in old German 
 fashion ! The musician's face became red as a cherry, and 
 he ground his teeth: "O Saint Marat! so that lout wishes 
 to play the hero of Liberty! O Danton, Callot d'Herbois,
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 149 
 
 Robespierre!" In vain I hummed the song, " Eine feste 
 Burg, O lieber Gott," etc. 
 
 In vain; I had only made matters worse. The man 
 plunged into his old stories of the Revolution, and chattered 
 of nothing but guillotines, of lanternes, of the September- 
 breaking of prisons; until by good luck I remembered his 
 ridiculous fear of powder, and I said to him, " Do you know 
 that twelve cannons will be fired off directly in the pleasure- 
 garden ? " I had scarcely spoken these words when every 
 trace of the musician had disappeared. 
 
 I wiped the cold perspiration from my face as soon as I 
 was rid of the fellow, and now watched the latest arrivals ; 
 I bowed smilingly to my beautiful neighbours, and betook 
 myself to the pleasure garden. There twelve cannons were 
 in position, to be fired off the moment in which the 
 princely bridal pair should exchange rings. An officer 
 stood at a window of the castle to give the signal to the 
 artillerymen in the garden. A crowd of people had 
 gathered. One could read on their faces strange and 
 almost contradictory thoughts. 
 
 It is one of the finest traits in the character of the 
 Berlinese that they are indescribably attached to the king 
 and royal family. The princes and princesses are the 
 chief topic of conversation in the poorest bourgeois 
 houses. A true Berlinese never uses other expressions 
 than our Charlotte, our Alexandrine, our Prince Charles, 
 etc. . . . The Berlinese, so to say, associates his whole life 
 with that of the royal family, and he regards all the 
 members thereof as old acquaintances; he knows the 
 particular charactei of each, and is always delighted to 
 note new traits in them. Thus the Berlinese knows, for 
 example, that the crown prince is very witty, and that is 
 why every bon mot goes the round of the town under the
 
 150 HEINE. 
 
 name of the crown prince so that to this one Hercules 
 of wit the witty exploits of all the other Hercules are 
 described. 
 
 You can, therefore, form an idea of how deeply the 
 beautiful, brilliant Alexandrine is beloved; and by the 
 light of this love you can explain to yourself the con- 
 tradictory emotions betrayed by the faces of the people, 
 as, full of expectation, they watched the high windows of 
 the castle, wherein the marriage of our Alexandrine was 
 being celebrated. Vexation they dared not show, for it 
 was the wedding-day of their beloved princess; neither 
 could they rejoice unreservedly, for on this day they were 
 to lose her. Near me stood an old mother on whose face 
 could be read, "I have married her, it is true, but she 
 is lost to me now!" The face of my young neighbour 
 expressed the thought, " As Duchess of Mecklenburg, she 
 certainly does not rank so high as when she was queen of 
 all our hearts ! " On the red lips of a pretty brunette I 
 read, " Ah ! would I were at the same point myself ! " 
 
 Suddenly the cannons thundered out, the ladies 
 trembled, the bells rang, clouds of dust and smoke arose, 
 the young folks shouted, the people trotted home, and the 
 sun sank blood-red behind Monbijou. 
 
 The wedding festivities were not especially noisy. On 
 the morning following the nuptial benediction the newly- 
 married highnesses assisted at the service in the Cathedral 
 Church. They drove in the gold coach with great glass 
 windows, drawn by eight horses, and were well stared at 
 by an immense crowd of people. If I mistake not, the 
 above - mentioned flunkeys wore no hair - bags on this 
 occasion. In the evening the ceremony of court felicita- 
 tion was held, and thereafter a polonaise ball in the White 
 Hall. On the zyth there was a grand banquet in the Hall
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 151 
 
 of the Knights, and in the evening the exalted and most 
 exalted personages repaired to the Opera-house, when 
 Spontini's opera, composed especially for this festival, 
 Nurmahal oder das Rosenfest in Caschemir, was performed. 
 Most people had great difficulty in obtaining tickets for that 
 evening. One was given to me, but I did not go. I ought 
 to have gone in order to describe it to you? But do you 
 think I ought to sacrifice my life for my correspondence ? 
 I still think with horror of the Olympia, at which, for 
 particular reasons, I was obliged recently to be present, and 
 whence I emerged with all my limbs bruised. I went, 
 however, to the Kammermusikus, and asked him what 
 sort of an opera it was. He answered me, "The best 
 point in it is that there are no gunshots." Nevertheless, 
 I cannot rely on this musician's verdict. In the first place 
 he himself is a composer, and greater than Spontini in his 
 own opinion ; secondly, he had been made to believe 
 that Spontini was to write an opera with a cannon obligate. 
 The newly-married pair were unanimously received with 
 joyous acclamations. Nurmahal is not particularly well 
 spoken of. It is certainly no masterpiece. Spontini has 
 inserted in it many extracts from his old operas, with the 
 result that while this opera certainly contains some good 
 passages, the whole is a very patchwork affair, and lacks 
 sequence and unity, hitherto the chief merits of this com- 
 poser's music. The splendour of the setting of the piece 
 is said to be unprecedented. The scene painter and the 
 theatrical tailor have surpassed themselves. The theatre- 
 poet wrote the verse, consequently it must be good. No 
 elephants appeared in it. 
 
 The Staadtszeitung of the 4th July censures an- article of 
 the Magdeburger Zeitung, wherein it is stated that two 
 elephants were to appear in the new opera, and observed,
 
 152 HEINE. 
 
 with Shakespearian wit, " These elephants are doubtless still 
 at Magdeburg." If the Magdeburger Zeitung gleaned this 
 piece of news from my second letter, I deplore with heartfelt 
 sorrow that I am the luckless one who drew down upon 
 it this witty thunder. I withdraw it, and indeed with such 
 humility and contrition that the Staadtszeilung will weep 
 tears of emotion. For the rest, once and for all, I declare 
 that I am ready to retract whatever may be demanded of 
 me, providing it does not cost me too much trouble. I 
 had myself heard, in fact, that two elephants were to appear 
 in the Rosenfest. Later, I was assured it would be two 
 camels, and still later they were called two students, and 
 finally they were to be Angels of Innocence. 
 
 On the 28th there was a free ball. As early as half-past 
 eight masqueraders were driving up to the Opera-house. I 
 have described these balls in my former letter. The only 
 distinction in this instance was that no black dominoes 
 were admitted, that all the masks wore shoes, that at 
 one o'clock unmasking in the hall was allowed, and that 
 the entrance tickets and refreshments were given gratis. 
 This last point seemed to be the chief attraction. I carry 
 in my breast the firm conviction that the Berlinese are 
 models of civilisation and of fine manners, and that they 
 have reason to look with disparagement on the unpolished 
 manners of my compatriots; also, I have witnessed on many 
 occasions that the poorest Berlinese is a master in the art of 
 enduring hunger decently, and of smothering the cries of 
 his stomach under the forms of the most perfect conven- 
 tion. Otherwise, I might have conceived an unfavourable 
 opinion of these people when I saw at this free ball how 
 they pressed six deep round the Buffet, poured glass after 
 glass down their throat, crammed their stomachs with 
 cakes, and with so disgraceful a voracity, so heroic a
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 153 
 
 constancy, that it was almost impossible for an ordinary 
 human being to break through the buffet-phalanx, in order, 
 on account of the extreme heat in the hall, to cool one's 
 tongue with a glass of lemonade. The king and the whole 
 court were at this ball. The sight of the new-married pair 
 charmed every one present. The bride shone more by her 
 amiability than by her rich diamonds. Our king appeared 
 in a dark blue domino. The princes wore, for the most 
 part, old Spanish or knightly costumes. 
 
 I have long since pointed out that it is my caprice 
 alone and not precedence which decides the order in 
 which I recount the Berlin occurrences to you. Had I 
 adhered to dates I would have been obliged to begin my 
 letter with the jubilee of Privy Councillor Heim. The 
 papers will have sufficiently acquainted you with the way 
 in which this eminent doctor was feted. It was talked 
 about for two whole days, and that is saying a great deal. 
 Everywhere anecdotes of Heim's life were repeated; some 
 are very diverting. The most comical, in my opinion, is 
 that of the way in which he mystified his coachman, who 
 one day declared to him that he had driven Heim about 
 for so long a time that he now wished to become a doctor 
 and learn how to cure people. Many other civilian jubilees 
 took place about the same time, and, at Jagor, there was a 
 constant popping of the corks of champagne bottles. As 
 a rule, people here, before one is aware of it, have served 
 for fifty years. It is the climate that does it. Even a 
 serving-maid held her jubilee, and in the Eleganten can 
 be read how this jubilee-maiden was feted and celebrated 
 in song. I heard yesterday that actually a matron in the 
 Unschuldsgasse had celebrated her jubilee. She was 
 crowned with lilies and roses; a sentimental sword- 
 bearing youth presented her with a sonnet, quite in the
 
 154 HEINE. 
 
 style of the usual jubilee poetry, in which love, dove, 
 strength, length, appeared in rhymes, and twelve maidens 
 sang 
 
 " Oh, sword upon my side, 
 What mean thy bright flashes," etc. 
 
 You see, Theodor Korner's poems are still sung. Not, 
 certainly, in the circles of good taste, where it was long 
 ago considered to be very fortunate matter that in the 
 year 1814 the French did not understand German, and 
 could not read those insipid, stale, flat, unpoetical verses, 
 over which we Germans were so enthusiastic. Nevertheless, 
 these poems of deliverance are still declaimed and sung in 
 those little cosy reunions where one warms oneself in winter 
 at the innocent straw fire that crackle in these patriotic 
 songs; and as the old white horse of Frederick the Great 
 pranced again youthfully and went through the whole of 
 the manoauvres whenever he heard a trumpet, in the same 
 way the fine sentiments of many Berlinese are aroused 
 when they hear of Korner's songs. They lay a hand 
 gracefully on their bosom, heave a tremendous sigh of 
 admiration, rise courageously, and say, " I am a German 
 maiden." 
 
 I perceive, dear friend, that you look at me somewhat 
 askance on account of the bitter mocking tone in which 
 I at times speak of things, dear and rightfully dear, to 
 others. I cannot do otherwise. My soul glows too 
 ardently in the interests of true liberty not to be seized 
 with dejection when I see our pretty prattling heroes of 
 Freedom in their ash-grey insignificance. In my soul, 
 the love of Germany, and the reverence for German 
 magnificence, is too keen for me to chime in with the 
 thoughtless gabble of those penny-mannikins, who coquet
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN. 1 5 5 
 
 with everything pertaining to the German dominion. Many 
 a time the almost convulsive desire has arisen in me, with 
 a bold hand to tear away the halo of old lies which surround 
 their heads, to pull the skin off the lion himself, because I 
 suspect an ass is concealed beneath it. 
 
 Again, I will say very little anent the theatre. The 
 comic actor Walter has met with success here; but for my 
 own part his humour is not to my taste. On the other 
 hand, I was perfectly enchanted with Lebrun from Ham- 
 burg, who, a short time ago, played some first parts here. 
 He is our best German comic actor, unsurpassed in jovial 
 characters, and thoroughly deserves the approbation that 
 all Berlin connoisseurs gave him. Karl August Lebrun 
 is a born actor; nature has endowed him in full measure 
 with every talent necessary to his career, and art has 
 brought them to perfection. But what shall I say of 
 Neumann, who has bewitched the city, even the critics 
 themselves? What miracles a beautiful face works! It 
 is fortunate that I am short-sighted, otherwise this Circe 
 would certainly have changed me into a grey little quad- 
 ruped, as she has one of my friends. This unfortunate 
 has now such long ears that the one appears in the 
 Vossischen Zeitung and the other in the Hande und Spener 
 Zeitung. This lady has already sent certain youths mad; 
 one of them now has hydrophobia, and no longer writes 
 verse. Whoever approaches this beautiful woman feels 
 happy. One collegiate vowed a platonic love for her, 
 and sent her a caligraphic sample of his handwriting. 
 Her husband is also an actor, and he shines like glazed 
 linen in the comedy entitled Kabeljau und Hiebe. The 
 good lady must often be incommoded by the numerous 
 visits from her admirers. It is related that a sick man, 
 who lived next to her, and could never rest on account
 
 156 HEINE. 
 
 of all these men, who every minute rang at his door-bell and 
 asked, "Does Madame Neumann live here?" at last had 
 written on the door of his apartment, " Madame Neumann 
 does not live here." 
 
 The beautiful woman has even been cast in iron, and 
 small iron medallions stamped with her effigy are sold. 1 
 tell you, the enthusiasm over Madame Neumann rages here 
 like a murrain. While I write these lines I feel under the 
 influence myself. I still hear ringing in my ears the words 
 of ecstasy with which an old grey head spoke of her yester- 
 day. Homer could not describe Helen's beauty more 
 vividly than when he showed how old men were seized with 
 delight at the sight of her. Many medical men also pay 
 their court to the beautiful woman, so much so that she is 
 sometimes playfully called the Venus of Medicine. But 
 why should I make so long a tale, for without doubt you 
 have read our theatrical criticisms, and have usually noticed 
 a sort of metrical form in them, which is no other than that 
 of Sappho's Ode to Venus. Yes, she is a Venus, or, as 
 a merchant of Altona said, a Venusine, only the accursed type- 
 setter occasionally casts the sting of a wasp into this cup of 
 Hymettus honey, that our pious critic offers to our goddess. 
 
 The explanatory Intelligenzblate (the title of this paper is 
 ironical) corrects the following mistake in print, " In the 
 critical article upon the dramatic play of Madame Neumann 
 No. 63 of the SpeneSschen Zeitung of the 25th May in 
 line 26, instead of 'light play of love,' 'a light play of 
 expression' should be read." Yesterday the beautiful woman 
 played in Clauren's new comedy, Der Brautigam ans 
 Mexico. One is charmed as in a fairy tale, with its light, 
 bright originality, which must appeal to all lovers of joyous- 
 ness. This piece has pleased many people, indeed every- 
 thing that comes from the pen of this author receives
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 157 
 
 immense respect. His writings have many adversaries, 
 nevertheless they run through one edition after another. 
 
 A people's theatre has been erected on the Alexander- 
 platze. A certain man, named Cerf, who held the licence 
 for it, has renounced it, and receives in exchange the sum 
 of 3000 thalers yearly. Bethmann, who was formerly an 
 actor, has undertaken the management. Professor Gubitz 
 has been offered the charge of the poetical part of this 
 theatre. It is to be hoped that he will accept, for he 
 is thoroughly acquainted with the stage and its economy. 
 He is celebrated as a dramatic poet, critic, and at the 
 same time as a master in the art of drawing. This versa- 
 tility combines everything that is necessary for such a 
 directorship. But it is doubted if he will accept it, for the 
 editorship of the Gesellschafler, to which he devotes himself 
 heart and soul, fully occupies his time. This journal has a 
 large circulation of more than 1500 copies, I believe; it is 
 read here with an astounding amount of interest, and may 
 well be called the most important and best in Germany. 
 Gubitz edits it with a zeal and conscientiousness that borders 
 on anxiety, for in his love of correctness and decency he is 
 almost too rigorous. Yet do not suppose him to be a 
 pedant. He is a man in the prime of life, frank, full of 
 activity, joyous, enthusiastic for everything beautiful ; his 
 whole personality exhales the jovial anacreontic spirit, that 
 is so marked a characteristic of his poems. 
 
 We have latterly had a new weekly journal that concerns 
 itself with popular tastes ; it is edited by Lieutenant Leit- 
 hold, who has recently published an account of his travels 
 in Brazil, under the title of Kuriositaten und Rarit&tcn, 
 bearing a very na'ive motto. The best people's journals here 
 are Des Beobacler an der Spree and Der Mdrkische Bote. 
 The latter appeals to the more educated class. I was
 
 158 HEINE. 
 
 amazed to find a portion of my second letter reprinted in it 
 from the Anzeiger. I am very sensible of the honour done 
 me and of the praise indicated thereby; but it might have 
 brought me into very grave trouble, had not a gallant Censor 
 at Berlin erased what I had said concerning the Berlinese 
 ladies. If these angels had read those passages, the flower 
 baskets would have flown at my head by the three-score. 
 Yet even then I would not have taken refuge on the Hunde- 
 brucke; the beautiful maiden Fortuna has long since given 
 me so large an iron basket that I would scarcely be able to 
 fill it with all the tiny baskets of all the lady inhabitants of 
 the Spree. 
 
 At No. 26 Unter den Linden, a serpent of a very rare 
 kind is to be seen for eight groschen. I take this occasion 
 to inform you that it is precisely where I have fixed my 
 quarters. Blondin with his company still gives his delightful 
 and much frequented exhibitions of equestrian skill before 
 the Brandenburg Gate. He represents, among other things, 
 Columbus landing at Otaheiti. Bosco has finally given his 
 last representation but one, his last, and very last, and has 
 also given one on behalf of the poor. People say that he 
 imitates Boucher. It is not true ; it is Boucher who imitates 
 the juggler. The statues of Biilow and Scharnhorst will one 
 of these days be placed on either side of the Guard House. 
 They are on view at present in Rauch's studio. It was 
 there I took a look at them some time ago and thought them 
 beautiful. Blucher's statue, by the same artist, which is to 
 be placed in Breslau, has started for its destination. 
 
 I have seen the new Exchange. It is very handsomely 
 got up. It has a number of spacious rooms, on a very 
 grand scale, beautifully decorated. I am told that the 
 noble art-loving son of the great Mendelssohn, Joseph 
 Mendelssohn, is the creator of this institute. Berlin has
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN, 159 
 
 long been in need of something of the kind. Not only 
 merchants, but also functionaries, learned men, and persons 
 of all classes, frequent the Exchange. The most attractive 
 portion is the lecture-room, wherein I found more than 
 a hundred German and foreign journals, including our 
 Westf. Auzieger. Doctor Boehringer, a man well versed 
 in literature and science, who superintends this hall, knows 
 how to ingratiate himself with the visitors through his polite 
 forethought. Josty has the charge of the restaurant and of 
 the confectionery department. The attendants all wear 
 brown liveries trimmed with gold, and the doorkeeper is 
 especially imposing with his great marshal's staff. 
 
 The new construction going on close to the Lindens, 
 whereby Wilhelmstrasse is to be lengthened, proceeds 
 apace. The form is a scene of magnificent arcades. 
 The foundation-stone of a new bridge has also been 
 laid. 
 
 In the musical world there is absolute silence. The 
 capital of music does the same as other capitals ; it con- 
 sumes what is produced in the provinces. With the excep- 
 tion of the young Felix Mendelssohn, who, according to 
 the judgment of all the musicians, is a marvel and, it is 
 thought, may become a second Mozart, I know no single 
 musical genius among the resident Berlin aborigines. 
 Most of the musicians who distinguish themselves here 
 come from the provinces, or even from abroad. It is an 
 unspeakable pleasure to me to be able to notify that our 
 compatriot Joseph Klein, the youngest brother of the 
 composer of whom I spoke in my last letters, excites the 
 highest expectations. He has already composed many 
 things that are praised by connoisseurs. Song-accompani- 
 ments by him will shortly be published; they have met 
 with great success here, and have been much sung in
 
 160 HEINE. 
 
 society. His melodies, of a surprising originality, speak 
 straight to the heart; and it is obvious that this young 
 artist will one day become one of the celebrated German 
 composers. Spontini left us a long time ago. He is on 
 his way to Italy. He sent his Olympia to Vienna, where it 
 was, nevertheless, not performed because it would have 
 cost too much. The Italian stayed here only a few days. 
 There is under the Lindens an exhibition of wax figures. 
 In the Konigstrasse, at the corner of Poststrasse, wild 
 animals and a Minerva are being exhibited. 
 
 Fonk's trial is here as everywhere else the subject of public 
 conversation. Kreuser's very well-written pamphlet first 
 turned public attention upon him. Thereafter came many 
 other pamphlets all in his favour. The most important of 
 them was that by Freiherr von der Leyden. These books, 
 with the memoirs on the Fonk trial in the Abendzeitung and 
 the Konversationsblatti and the work by the accused himself, 
 have produced a favourable opinion of him. Certain per- 
 sons, who are secretly against Fonk, nevertheless speak for 
 him in public out of pity for the unhappy man who has suffered 
 for so many years. In one social gathering I mentioned 
 the horrible position of his innocent wife, the sufferings of 
 his honest and respectable family, and when I related how 
 it is said that the populace at Cologne had insulted Fonk's 
 poor children who are under age, one lady fainted, and one 
 pretty damsel began to weep bitterly and sobbed, " I know 
 the king will pardon him, even if he be condemned." 
 I am equally persuaded that our truly humane king will 
 exercise the most beautiful and divine of his rights, and not 
 plunge so many deserving people into misery ; I hope it as 
 sincerely as the Berlinese, though I do not share their 
 opinion concerning the trial. A propos, I have heard 
 an astounding variety of random opinions. Those who
 
 LETTERS fROM BERLIN. 161 
 
 speak most weightily on the matter are the gentlemen 
 who know nothing at all about it. My friend, the young 
 humpbacked lawyer, thinks that if he were on the Rhine 
 he could soon clear the matter. He is of opinion, more 
 especially, that legal proceedings in those provinces is 
 worth nothing. "What is the use of all this publicity ?" he 
 said yesterday. " How does it concern Peter or Christopher 
 whether Fonk or some one else murdered Coenen ? Let 
 the matter be handed over to me; I light my pipe, read 
 through the acts, and make my report; the commission will 
 consult thereover with closed doors and pronounce the 
 verdict, and decide whether the fellow is acquitted or 
 accused, and not a comment will be made. Of what use 
 this jury, these tailor and glover godfathers? I believe, 
 I, a man who has studied, who has attended Fries's course 
 of logic at Jena, who possesses certificates of the full course 
 of legal studies, who has passed all examinations, must, there- 
 fore, possess more judiciary knowledge than these ignorant 
 men ! In the end such an one marvels at his own import- 
 ance, because so much depends upon his yes or no ! And 
 the worst of all is this Code Nupolion, this bad statute-book 
 which docs not allow one even to box a servant's ears ! " 
 But I will not allow this learned lawyer to talk any longer. 
 He represents the mass of men who are on Fonk's side 
 because they are against the Rhenish mode of administrat- 
 ing justice. People resent it here, and would willingly free 
 the Rheinlanders from these "Fetters of French tyranny," 
 as the immortal Justus Gruner God save his soul one 
 day named the French law. May the beloved Rheinland 
 bear these fetters still longer, and may she be laden' with 
 other similar fetters ! May that pure love of freedom, which 
 is not based on hatred of the French and on national 
 egotism, long flourish on the Rhine; that veritable strength 
 
 ii
 
 1 62 HEINE. 
 
 of youth whose source does not spring from the brandy 
 bottle; that true religion of Christ which has nothing 
 in common with zealous pursuers of heterodoxy or hypo- 
 critical proselytisers ! There is no University news, 
 except that thirty-two students have been expelled on 
 account of the resumption of prohibited associations. It 
 is a fatal thing to be expelled ; the reprimand alone is in 
 itself sufficiently disagreeable. I hope this severe sentence 
 against the thirty- two will be mitigated. I have no wish to 
 defend these associations at the University ; they are the 
 remains of that ancient corporation system which I 
 prefer should wholly disappear. But I understand that 
 these associations are the natural consequences of our 
 academical order, or rather disorder, which in all probability 
 will not disappear until the charming and popular Oxonian 
 stall-and-forage system be introduced for our students. 
 About half-a-dozen Polish students are usually to be seen 
 here. A severe inquiry had been instituted against them. 
 The most of them, it is said, decamped without any wish 
 to return, but a great number, about twenty I believe, 
 are still in our State prison. The majority of them are 
 from Russian Poland, and these are accused of having 
 raised demagogic disturbances against their own govern- 
 ment. 
 
 It is announced that Louis Tieck will soon come here, to 
 give some lectures on Shakespeare. The 3ist of last month 
 was the binhday of the princely State Chancellor. A depu- 
 tation from Hesse is expected to settle our differences with 
 Hesse concerning the violation of territorial rights. A com- 
 mission has been sent to Pomerania to make inquiries into 
 the various religious sects there. The wool- market has 
 already commenced, and a good many landed proprietors 
 are here who bring their wool for sale, and are jokingly
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 163 
 
 nicknamed " Wollhabende." 1 Even the streets have awaked 
 to ambition. The Letzhstrasse (the Last Street) is now to 
 be named Dorotheenstrasse. There is a talk of erecting a 
 statue to Frederick the Great on the Operaplatz. The 
 family of dancers named Kobler have had their baggage 
 burnt upon the highway near Blunberg. A steam machine 
 is now in use for the construction of the new bridge. 
 
 At this moment there is very little literary news, notwith- 
 standing that Berlin is the central market of literature. In 
 the matter of vegetables I go with the season; I no longer 
 eat asparagus, I eat green peas. But in literature I have 
 fallen behindhand. Thus I have not even read the Falschen 
 Wanderjahre, which has made and still makes so much 
 stir. This book has an especial interest for Westphalia, for 
 it is usually attributed to our compatriot, Dr. Pustkuchen, 
 in Lemgo. I do not know why he wished to disavow this 
 book, which, however, need not put him to the blush. 
 People cudgelled their brains in vain to discover who was 
 the author, and settled upon a variety of names. The 
 Court Councillor Schiitz made it publicly known that it 
 was not he. A few voices suggested the Councillor of the 
 Legation, Von Varnhagen ; but he made a similar dis- 
 claimer. Indeed this attribution was very improbable, 
 because he is one of the staunchest admirers of Goethe, 
 and Goethe himself in his last number of the review, 
 Kunst und Alterthum am Rhein> declared that Varn- 
 hagen had understood him profoundly, and had even 
 enlightened Goethe concerning himself. Of a truth, next 
 to the consciousness of being Goethe himself, I know no 
 more desirable feeling than to receive from Goethe, the 
 
 1 An untranslatable play upon words. Wohlhabende signifies those 
 who possess wealth; the word Wollhabende, substituted 'in its place, 
 signifies those who possess wool.
 
 1 64 HEINE. 
 
 man standing upon the topmost seat of the century, a 
 testimony of that description. 
 
 Moreover, there is much talk here over the German 
 Gil Bias, which Goethe published four weeks ago. The 
 book was written by a former servant. Goethe revised it 
 throughout, and added thereto a remarkable preface. This 
 vigorous old man, the AH Pacha of our literature, has 
 brought out a new part of his biography. When finished 
 it will be one of the most remarkable works, and indeed 
 the great epic of our time. For this autobiography is at 
 the same time the biography of the epoch. Goethe depicts 
 this epoch and its influence most vividly. His is in contra- 
 distinction to those other biographies for example, that of 
 Rousseau who have only their own pitiful subjectivity in 
 view. 
 
 One part of Goethe's autobiography, however, will not 
 appear till after his death, because in it he discusses his 
 relationships in Weimar, and especially those which con- 
 cern the Grand Duke. This supplement will probably 
 excite the most public attention. We shall receive shortly 
 also Byron's Memoirs, though it is said these, like his 
 dramas, are largely psychological. The preface to his three 
 last dramas contains some very remarkable passages upon 
 our century and upon the revolutionary elements with which 
 it is pregnant. Great laments are still made over the god- 
 lessness of his poetry; and the poet-laureate, Southey, in 
 London, calls Byron and his kindred spirits the Satanic 
 School. But Childe Harold brandishes most powerfully 
 the poisoned whip with which he castigates the poor 
 laureate. Another autobiography excites much interest 
 here. It is the Memoires de Jacob Casanova de Seinga/t, 
 of which Brockhaus has brought out a translation. The 
 French original has not yet been printed, and a certain
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN. 1 65 
 
 obscurity still hovers over the pedigree of the manuscript. 
 Of its authenticity there can be no doubt. The Fragment 
 sur Casanova in the works of Prince Charles de Ligne is 
 a trustworthy witness, and the book itself has that air of 
 veracity which a mere fabrication would lack. I would 
 not recommend the perusal of it, it is true, to my sweet- 
 heart or wife, but to all my friends. This book exhales 
 hot breaths of Italian sensuality. The hero himself is a 
 vigorous, lusty Venetian, who is chased by a full pack of 
 hounds, who has run through all countries, who comes in 
 contact with all the most distinguished men, and into still 
 closer intimacy with the women. There is not a single line 
 in the book which is in accord with my sentiments, nor a 
 single-line that I have read with pleasure. 
 
 The second part ought to be out now, but it cannot be 
 procured here as yet, for I hear that the Censor yesterday 
 again made a descent upon the publishing house of Brock- 
 haus. At the moment very few good things have appeared 
 in the domain of belles-lettres. Fouque has brought out a 
 new novel entitled Du Verfolgle. It is with the poetical 
 world as with the musical world. Of poets there is no 
 lack; the lack is of good poems. We may expect some 
 good things in autumn, however. Kochy (he is not a 
 Berlinese), who gave us some time ago a very ample work 
 upon the stage, is about to publish a volume of poems; 
 and the specimen proofs I chanced to see warrant the 
 highest expectations. They are instinct with pure senti- 
 ment, rare tenderness, a depth of feeling untroubled by any 
 bitterness in a word, with true poetry. Neither is there a 
 superabundance of dramatic talent; but I have great expec- 
 tation of the young poet, Von Vechtritz (also no Berlinese), 
 who has written several dramas that have been praised to 
 the skies by connoisseurs. One of these, Der Heilige
 
 1 66 HEINE. 
 
 Clirysostomus, will appear in print before long, and will, I 
 believe, receive considerable notice. I have heard passages 
 read from it which are worthy of the great masters. 
 
 In my last letter I promised to tell you concerning 
 Hoffmann's Meister Floh (Master Flea). The inquiry 
 against the author has been suspended. He is always 
 ailing somewhat. I have at last succeeded in seeing this 
 much discussed novel. I could not find in it a single line 
 that referred to demagogic disturbances. The title of the 
 book at first seemed to me very embarrassing; the mention 
 of it in society brought a maiden-like blush to my cheeks, 
 and I always lisped " Hoffmann's romance," with respect be 
 it spoken. However, in Knigge's Umgang mit Menschen 
 (" Intercourse with Men ") (part iii. chap, ix., upon the way 
 to live with animals; chapter x. treats of intercourse with 
 writers) I found a paragraph which dealt with how to live 
 with fleas, wherein I saw that these are not so disreputable 
 as "certain other little animals," which this profound student 
 of men and of beasts himself does not name. This humane 
 citation prefects Hoffmann ; I call to mind also the song of 
 Mephistopheles 
 
 " There was once a king 
 Who had a big flea." 
 
 The hero of the romance, however, is not a flea, but a man 
 whose name is Peregrinus Tyss, who lives in a state of semi- 
 somnambulism, and by chance came across the Lord 
 of the Fleas, and carries on with him very diverting dis- 
 courses. This last-named Master Flea is a really clever 
 fellow, a little timorous, but nevertheless very belligerent, 
 and wears golden top-boots, with diamond spurs on his thin 
 legs, as represented on the cover of the book. He is 
 accompanied by a certain Dortje Elverdink, who, it is said,
 
 LETTERS FROM BERLIN. 167 
 
 is intended to represent the demagogues. George Pepusch 
 is a fine type of student, who is no other than the thistle 
 Zeherith, and flourished once in Famagusta; he is in love 
 with the aforesaid Elverdink, who, in reality, is the Princess 
 Gamahe, the daughter of King Sekakis. The contrast 
 with ordinary life, which the Indian myth thus forms in this 
 book, is not so piquant as in Goldene Topf (Golden Pot) 
 and other of Hoffmann's romances, wherein the same coup de 
 theatre is employed by the aid of natural philosophy. The 
 world of feeling, which Hoffmann so wel lunderstood how 
 to delineate, is herein treated somewhat colourlessly. The 
 first chapter of the book is divine, the others are unendur- 
 able. It has no action, no great central interest, no grit. 
 Had the binder arbitrarily shuffled the leaves, certainly no 
 one would have noticed it. The great allegory, the con- 
 fluent in which all the streams ultimately flow, did not 
 satisfy me. Possibly others may have been amused by 
 the book; for myself I think that a novel should not be an 
 allegory. The severity or acerbity with which I speak 
 concerning this romance proceeds from the fact that I like 
 and esteem all Hoffmann's other works so much. They rank 
 among the most remarkable productions of our time. All 
 bear the stamp of the extraordinary No one could fail 
 keenly to enjoy his Phantasienstucke, 
 
 In the Elexieren des Teufels is to be found all that the 
 mind can conceive of horrible and terrible. How weak 
 The Monk by Lewis is in comparison, though it treats of 
 the same subject I A student at Gottingen is said to have 
 gone mad after reading this romance. In the Nacht- 
 stucken the author out-Herods himself in the description 
 of the gruesome and the ghastly. The devil himself could 
 do nothing more devilish. The short stories, which are 
 collected under the title of Serapion Bruder, and with which
 
 1 68 HEINE. 
 
 Kleines Zaches must also be ranked, are not so terrible, 
 and have each serene and graceful scenes. The Theater 
 Direktor is a mediocre sort of scamp. In the Elementar- 
 geist (Elementary Spirit), water is the element, for there 
 certainly is no spirit in it. But Prinzessen Brambilla is a 
 delicious creature, and if there be a man whose head is not 
 turned by her marvels, it is because that man has got no 
 head to turn. Hoffmann is quite original. They who call 
 him an imitator of Jean Paul understand neither the one 
 nor the other. The inventiveness of even two writers is 
 totally different in character. A novel by Jean Paul begins 
 in a very burlesque manner, and so continues; but suddenly, 
 and before one is aware, there emerges a beautiful pure 
 world of sentiment, a rosy, blooming island of palms 
 irradiated by moonlight; an island which, with all its quiet 
 and perfumed splendours, will soon be submerged in the 
 hideous, strident, shrilling waves of an eccentric humour. 
 The foregrounds of Hoffmann's novels are usually peaceful, 
 flowery, and often full of soft emotions; wonderful and 
 mysterious beings dance athwart them, pious figures stride 
 to and fro, capricious little beings give friendly and un- 
 expected greeting; but from out of the heart of this delicious 
 picture there grins the hideously contorted masque of an 
 old woman, who, after having made the most frightful 
 grimaces with the most mysterious haste, disappears once 
 more and again leaves free field to the scared-away cheery 
 little figures, who recommence their droll capers, but with- 
 out being able in turn to dispel the nauseating impression 
 borne in upon our mind. 
 
 In my next letters I will speak of the novels of other 
 authors in Berlin. They all bear the same character. It 
 is the character of the German novel in general. This is 
 easily understood when it is compared with the novel
 
 LE TTERS FR OM BERLIN. 1 69 
 
 of other nations, as, for example, with French or English, 
 etc., etc. It will easily be seen how the outward conditions 
 of the author stamp the novels of a country with a peculiar 
 character. The English author travels with the equipages 
 of a lord or of an apostle. Regardless as to whether he be 
 rich through honorariums or whether he shall be poor, he 
 travels mute and self-centred; he observes the customs, the 
 passions, the ways of mankind, and mirrors the real world, 
 real life, in his novels, sometimes serene (Goldsmith), some- 
 times sinister (Smollett), but always realistic and true 
 (Fielding). The French author lives constantly in society, 
 even in high society, however poor and titleless he may be. 
 Princes and princesses flatter Jean Jacque the music-copyist, 
 and in Paris salons a minister is called Monsieur, and a 
 duchess Madame. Hence French novels are permeated 
 by that light society-tone, that suppleness, politeness, and 
 urbanity which can be acquired only through intercourse 
 with men. Hence, also, the family resemblance between 
 all French novels; their language appears always to be the 
 same, because it is the polite speech of society. 
 
 But the poor German author usually receives very small 
 honorariums; he seldom has any private means, and there- 
 fore has no money wherewith to travel, or, at best, travels 
 late in life, when he has already acquired a certain style. 
 He rarely possesses position or a title which open to him 
 the gracious portals of high society. Not infrequently he 
 lacks a black coat, which would permit him to frequent the 
 society of the middle classes. The poor German shuts 
 himself in his solitary attic, creates a world for himself, and 
 in a wonderful self-involved style of speech he writes a 
 novel wherein figures and types live who are beautiful, 
 divine, and highly poetic, but who never existed. All our 
 novels bear this fantastic character, the good and bad
 
 1 70 HEINE. 
 
 alike, from the earliest days of Speiss, Cramer, and Vulpius, 
 to Arnim, Fouque, Horn, Hoffmann, etc. All are reflected 
 from the character of the people, and we Germans are of all 
 nations the most sensitive and susceptible to mysticism, 
 secret societies, natural philosophy, absurdities, love, and 
 poetry !
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 1 
 
 THE Gallic cock has just crowed twice, and in Germany, 
 also, day is breaking. Mysterious shades and spectres take 
 flight to remote monasteries, to castles, to Hanseatic towns, 
 to all such remaining haunts of the Middle Ages. The sun- 
 rays glisten; we rub our eyes, the cheerful light penetrates 
 into our heart. Reawakened life stirs around us, we are 
 amazed, and we ask of one another, "What did you do to 
 us during the past night ? " 
 
 Yes, of a truth we dreamed in our German fashion; 
 that is to say, we philosophised. Not, indeed, over the 
 truth of things which touched us most closely, or which 
 would be highly expedient for us at the time; but we 
 philosophised over the reality of things in and for them- 
 selves, over the ultimate reason of things, and similar 
 metaphysical and transcendental dreams. Therein at 
 times we were disturbed by the horrible uproar made by 
 our western neighbours, a highly inconvenient noise, for 
 not unseldom the French musket balls whistled through 
 our philosophical system and carried away whole strips of 
 it. It is singular that the practical action of our neigh- 
 bours on the further side of the Rhine has nevertheless a 
 
 1 In the original this section is entitled: introduction to "Kahldorf 
 on the Nobles."
 
 172 HEINE. 
 
 peculiar affinity with our philosophic dreams in our peace- 
 ful Germany. If only a comparison be made between the 
 history of the French Revolution and the history of German 
 philosophy, it will then be realised that the French, who 
 were engrossed with so many real occupations over which 
 it was incumbent upon them to keep watch, must have 
 besought us, we Germans, during that time, to sleep and 
 to dream in their stead; and that our German philosophy 
 is nothing else than the dream of the French Revolution. 
 Thus, with us, there came about a rupture between routine 
 and tradition in the realm of thought; as with the French 
 in the routine of social life. Our Jacobin philosophers 
 rallied to the criticism of pure reason and swept away 
 everything that could not pass the standard of that 
 criticism. Kant was our Robespierre. Thereafter came 
 Fichte, the Napoleon of Philosophy, with his Ego, the 
 highest love, the supreme egoism, autocracy of thought, 
 and sovereignty of will, and rapidly improvised a universal 
 empire that as rapidly disappeared the despotic and 
 terribly solitary idealism. From beneath his steps trembled 
 the mysterious flowers spared by Kant's guillotine, or 
 that since then had blossomed forth unnoticed. The 
 oppressed earth-spirit arose, the ground trembled, the 
 counter-revolution broke out, and, under Schelling, the past 
 with its traditional interests was once more recognised, even 
 indemnified. Then, in the new restoration, the philosophy 
 of nature, there reigned the grey-headed emigrants who 
 had always intrigued against the sovereignty of pure reason 
 and of idea: mysticism, pietism, Jesuitism, legitimacy, 
 romanticism, teutomania, sentimentality. , . . Till, finally, 
 Hegel, the heir-apparent of philosophy, founded, or rather 
 arranged a new regime, an eclectic regime in which he him- 
 self was certainly of little personal importance, but of which
 
 THE OLD REGIME, 173 
 
 he is the head, and in which he assigned an assured and 
 constitutional position to the old Jacobin Hantists, to the 
 Fichte Buonapartists, to the Schelling peers, and to his own 
 creatures. 
 
 Now that we have successfully completed the grand circle 
 of philosophy, it is natural that we should pass on to politics. 
 Shall we observe a similar method ? Shall we open the 
 course with the system of the Committee of Public Weal, 
 or with that of the system of the Ordre legal? These 
 questions cause every heart to tremble; whosoever has 
 aught precious to lose, were it but his head, whispers 
 apprehensively, "Will the German revolution be a dry 
 revolution, or one wet with blood?" 
 
 Aristocrats and priests threaten us constantly with the 
 ghastly pictures ot the Days of Terror. Liberals and 
 humanitarians promise us, as a contrast, the beautiful 
 scenes of the Great Week and the later Pacific fetes; both 
 parties deceive, or wish to deceive, each other. For it 
 cannot be inferred that because the '92 French Revolution 
 was so terrible and bloody, or because that of July was so 
 humane and beautiful, therefore a revolution in Germany 
 must of necessity partake of either the one or other char- 
 acter. Only when the same conditions exist can the same 
 results be awaited. The character of the French Revolution 
 was from all time determined by the moral condition of the 
 people, and in particular by their political development. 
 Before the first revolutionary outbreak in France, there 
 existed, undeniably, an already formulated civilisation; but 
 only among the highest classes, and here and there in the 
 middle classes. But, intellectually, the lower classes were 
 neglected and hindered by a narrow-hearted despotism from 
 all noble endeavour. Political culture was lacking not alone 
 among the inferior classes but even among the privileged.
 
 174 HEINE. 
 
 These were cognisant only of the petty little manoeuvres 
 between rival corporations, of a system of reciprocal en- 
 feeblement, of traditional routine, of the art of equivocal 
 formulas, of the influence of mistresses, and similar State- 
 miseries. Montesquieu aroused only a relatively small 
 number of spirits. As he always started from an historical 
 standpoint, he gained but little influence over the mass of 
 an enthusiastic people extremely susceptible to all ideas 
 which well forth fresh and spontaneous from the heart, 
 as in Rousseau's writings. But, however, when he, this 
 Hamlet of France, had gauged the hostile spirit, and had 
 exposed the depravity of spirit of the crowned Poison- 
 mixer, the brilliant inanity of courtesans, the inept lies of 
 court-etiquette, and the universal corruption, he cried aloud 
 in his sorrow, "The whole world is unhinged, woe to me 
 that I should have set it aright ! " when Jean Jacques 
 Rousseau, with a mad despair, half real, half simulated, 
 had upraised his great plaint and his accusations; when 
 Voltaire, the Lucian of Christianity, had laughed the life 
 out of the knavery of Romish priesthood and of the divine 
 right of despotism dependent upon it; when Lafayette, 
 the hero of two worlds and of two centuries, had returned 
 from America with his argonauts of liberty, bringing with 
 him as Golden Fleece the idea of a free constitution; when 
 Necker calculated, Sieyes defined, Mirabeau spoke; when 
 the thunders of the constituted assembly rolled over the 
 exhausted monarchy and its flourishing deficit, and new 
 thoughts, economical and political, streamed forth like 
 sudden lightning, then only were the French able to 
 learn the great science of Liberty, Politics : and these 
 first rudiments cost them dear, cost them their best 
 blood. 
 
 If, then, the French had to pay so dearly for their school-
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 175 
 
 ing, the fault lies with that imbecile light-shunning despotism 
 which sought, as we have already said, to keep the people 
 in an intellectual minority, that prevented all political en- 
 lightenment, confided the censorship of books to Jesuits 
 and obscurantists of the Sorbonne, and even paralysed the 
 periodic press, the most powerful organ of progress for 
 popular intelligence. If one reads in Mercier's Tableau 
 de Paris the article on Censure before the Revolution, it 
 is impossible to wonder any longer over the crass political 
 ignorance of the French, in consequence of which they were 
 binded rather than illumined by the new ideas, heated 
 rather than warmed, so that they relied upon the word of 
 every pamphleteer and journalist, and could be led into 
 the greatest excesses by the first self-deceiving fanatic, 
 and by every intriguer in the pay of Pitt. That, precisely, 
 is the benefit of the Freedom of the Press ; it robs the bold 
 speech of the Demagogue of all its cl.arm of novelty, it 
 neutralises the passionate word by a counter-word as passion- 
 ate, it strangles in their birth lying rumours sown by chance 
 or by malevolence, which flourish unabashed in obscurity, 
 similar to those venomous plants which flourish only in the 
 sombre marshy forests, or in the shadow of old ruined 
 castles and churches, but wither up miserably in the bright 
 light of the sun. It is true that this bright light of the sun 
 of liberty of the press is detested by the slave who prefers 
 to be kicked in shadow by the most illustrious of feet, and 
 equally by the despot who does care to see his isolation and 
 his weakness. The Censure is much appreciated by the 
 people, it is true. But it is none the less true that the 
 Censure, in lending its aid for a time to despotism, ends by 
 destroying itself, together with the despotism; and that, 
 wherever the guillotining of ideas takes place, there the 
 censorship of men is introduced, so that the very slave who
 
 i ?6 HEINE. 
 
 kills ideas is he who with equal sangfroid scores the name 
 of his master from the book of life. 
 
 Alas ! these spiritual executioners make criminals of 
 us all ; and the writer, while he writes, finds himself like a 
 pregnant woman, in a state of grave excitement, and in this 
 condition very often commits child-murder of his thought, 
 precisely from a mad anxiety before the judgment knife of 
 the Censor. 
 
 At this moment I myself stifle some innocent new-born 
 reflections, upon the patience and forbearance of spirit with 
 which my dear compatriots for so many years have endured 
 a spiritually murderous law, which in France required only 
 to be promulgated by Polignac to bring about a revolution. 
 I speak of those celebrated ordinances, the most important 
 of which established a severe censure over the daily papers, 
 that filled the noble hearts in Paris with stupefaction. The 
 most peaceful citizens seized their weapons, the streets were 
 barricaded, there were fights, assaults, cannons thundered, 
 bells tolled, leaden nightingales whistled, the young brood 
 of the dead eagle, L'Ecole politechnique, fluttered from their 
 nest with lightning in their claws ; old pelicans of liberty 
 threw themselves upon the bayonets and nourished the 
 enthusiasm of the young with their blood. Lafayette sprang 
 to horse, Lafayette the incomparable, whose like Nature 
 could not repeat, and therefore economist that she is ! 
 utilised him for two worlds and for two centuries. After 
 three heroic days slavery lay on the ground with its red 
 sergeants and its white lilies, and the holy tricolour, gleaming 
 with the halo of victory, waved from the Church Tower of 
 our beloved Notre Dame de Paris. 
 
 There were no horrors, no deliberate massacres, there 
 arose no arch-christian guillotine; no atrocious jokes were 
 played, such, for example, as that famous return from
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 177 
 
 Versailles when the procession carried in front for a 
 standard the bloody heads of Deshuttes and Baricourt, 
 stopping at Sevres to have them washed and elegantly 
 dressed by a citizen hairdresser. No, since those days of 
 awful memory, the French Press has imbued the people of 
 Paris with better sentiments, with less sanguinary humour; 
 it has ousted ignorance from their hearts and has sowed 
 the seeds of intelligence in its stead. The result of 
 such sowing was that historical moderation and touching 
 humanity of the Parisian people during the great week; 
 and as a matter of fact, if, later, Polignac did not physi- 
 cally lose his head, he owed this good luck exclusively to 
 the temperate after-influences of the same freedom of 
 the Press which, like a madman, he had endeavoured to 
 suppress. 
 
 Thus the sandal-tree refreshed with its delicious perfumes 
 the very enemies who wantonly had injured its bark. 
 
 With these cursory remarks I have, I consider, sufficiently 
 indicated how every question upon the character which a 
 revolution in Germany might assume must take the form 
 of a question upon the civilisation and political culture of 
 the German people; how culture depends primarily on 
 the liberty of the press; how it should be our most 
 urgent wish that, by its means, a great flood of light be 
 spread abroad before the hour cometh wherein darkness 
 shall be more pernicious than passion, wherein opinions 
 and ideas shall work with more disastrous potency upon 
 the blind crowd, in exact ratio as these ideas have been 
 previously openly discussed and used as party watch- 
 words. 
 
 Civil equality, in Germany as in France, might now be 
 the first watch-word of the Revolution. Friends of the 
 Fatherland should lose no time, if they wish to influence 
 
 12
 
 178 HEINE. 
 
 the debate On the Nobility, to be regulated and adjusted 
 by means of peaceable discussion, before intractable dis- 
 putants join in with their all-too-telling arguments, against 
 which neither the lock-and-key remonstrances of the police, 
 nor the sharp arguments of the infantry and cavalry, not 
 even an Ultima ratio regt's, which could so easily be changed 
 into an Ultimi ratio regis, would have any avail. From 
 this standpoint I hold that the publication of the present 
 work is a meritorious act. I think that the tone of moder- 
 ation which reigns therein answers to the aim in view. 
 The author combats with Hindoo patience a pamphlet 
 entitled: "Upon tJie Nobility and its relationship with the 
 Burgherdom. By Count M. von Moltke, chamberlain to 
 his Majesty the King of Denmark, and member of the High 
 Tribunal of GottorflT. Hamburg, 1830." 
 
 As a matter of fact, neither this pamphlet nor the response 
 exhausts the subject; the one and the other treat only of the 
 general, or, so to say, dogmatic part of the dispute. The 
 noble champion, seated upon his tourney-horse, lustily 
 defends the ignoble saying of the Middle Ages, that noble 
 breeding produces better blood than burgher breeding; he 
 pleads for privileges of birth, for the right of nobles to 
 occupy the lucrative posts at Court, in the army, and 
 ambassadorial posts, as lawful recompense for the trouble 
 they have given themselves in being born, etc. Against 
 him arises a combatant who attacks these bestial and 
 absurd assertions piece by piece, and beats down other 
 aristocratic opinions, until the field of combat is strewn 
 with the brilliant shreds of prejudice, and splinters of the 
 weapons of the old insolent nobility. This burgher knight 
 also fights with closed vizier; the title-page of this writing 
 designates him by only a borrowed name, which later may 
 perhaps become an excellent nom de guerre. I know very
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 179 
 
 little more to relate of him save that his father was a forger 
 of swords, and made good blades. 
 
 It is hardly necessary for me to say that I am not the 
 author of this writing, but that I merely prepare it for the 
 press. I could never have discussed with such moderation 
 the pretensions and hereditary lies of the nobles. How 
 impetuous I was once, when a charming little count, my 
 best friend, who paced with me up and down the terrace of 
 a castle, sought to demonstrate to me the superiority of 
 noble blood. While we were disputing, his domestic 
 committed some slight fault, and the high-born gentleman 
 struck the low-born knave in the face, so that the non-noble 
 blood broke forth. Moreover, he kicked him down the 
 terrace steps. I was then ten years younger than I am 
 now, and I immediately threw the noble count over the 
 terrace he was my best friend and he broke his leg. 
 
 When I saw him again after his recovery he still limped 
 a little he was not even then cured of his pride of noble 
 birth, and he asserted anew that the nobility was placed 
 as mediator between people and king, in accordance with 
 the example of God, for between himself and mankind He 
 had placed the angels, who stand next His throne as the 
 nobility of heaven. "Gracious angel," I answered him, 
 "walk a few steps to and fro." He did so and the 
 comparison halted. 
 
 No less lame is an analogous comparison used by Count 
 von Moltke. In order to give an example of his manner 
 I will quote his own words: 
 
 "The attempt to abolish the nobility, in whom transi- 
 tory esteem incarnates itself in enduring form, would isolate 
 man, would raise him to an unsteady height void of the 
 necessary ties between him and the subordinate masses, 
 would surround him with instruments of his own caprice,
 
 i8o HEINE. 
 
 who, as has often been seen in the East, would put the 
 existence of the ruler in a position of danger. Burke calls 
 the nobility the Corinthian capital of a well-ordered state. 
 The high-minded spirit of this extraordinary man, whose 
 whole life was devoted to the service of a reasonable 
 freedom, proves that it was on his part not a mere 
 figure of rhetoric." 
 
 This example shows clearly to what extent the noble 
 count is deceived by appearances. Burke, in reality, does 
 in nowise deserve the praise which is here given him ; for 
 he lacks that consistency which the English hold to be 
 the first virtue of a statesman. Burke possessed only a 
 rhetorical talent wherewith he combated, in the second 
 part of his life, the Liberal principles which he had 
 honoured earlier. Did he intend by this change of 
 opinions to gain the favour of the great ? Did Sheridan's 
 liberal triumphs in the chapel of St. Stephen's determine 
 him, out of jealousy and spite, to become champion of the 
 past, of the Middle Ages which afforded a fertile field for 
 romantic tirades and oratorical figures ? Was he a knave 
 or a fool ? I cannot tell. But I think there is always 
 something suspicious when a man's change of principles 
 is to the profit of the reigning power; he for ever after 
 remains an insecure guarantee. A man who is in this 
 position said one day, "The nobles are not the supports 
 but the caryatides of the throne." I believe this comparison 
 is juster than that of the Corinthian column. In any case, 
 we shall refrain as much as possible from drawing attention 
 to this comparison; for the capital pretension might occur 
 to certain well-known capitalists to raise themselves up 
 as the Corinthian capitals of the State pillars in the place 
 of the nobles. And that would indeed be a most unsightly 
 spectacle 1
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 181 
 
 But here I touch upon a point which should not be 
 brought to light until a later work, wherein the special and 
 practical aspect of the question upon the Nobility may 
 be discussed in an appropriate manner. For, as I have 
 pointed out above, the present writing is concerned only 
 with the principle. It combats the claims based upon legiti- 
 macy; its aim is to show how the so-called nobility is a 
 contradiction to reason, to our era, and to itself. 
 
 The special and practical aspect, however, concerns 
 those victorious usurpations, those false pretensions of 
 the nobles which daily threaten and more and more 
 undermine the well-being of the people. Indeed, it seems 
 to me as though the nobles themselves no longer believe 
 in their own pretensions, but that they prate about them 
 as a bait to polemics, that the burgher mind may thus 
 be occupied, its attention and energies turned from the 
 central subject This central idea does not consist in 
 the institution ot the nobility as such; not in settled 
 privileges, not in the rights of feudal service and of 
 jurisdiction, and in all sorts of exemptions and traditional 
 immunities. It consists much more in the intangible 
 compact between those who can lay claim to such and 
 such a number of ancestors, in the tacit agreement to hold 
 in possession the whole directing power of the State; so 
 that, with one accord thrusting aside the plebeians, they 
 can monopolise nearly every high military appointment, 
 and all the ambassadorial posts. Thus they can, by means 
 of the soldiers under their control, hold the people in an 
 attitude of respect, and incite the one against the other 
 whenever either attempt to shake off the chains of aristo- 
 cracy, or conclude a fraternal alliance between themselves. 
 
 Since the commencement of the French Revolution the 
 nobles have thus been on a war-footing against the people;
 
 1 82 HEINE. 
 
 they combat openly or in secret the principle of Liberty, 
 and so are against the French, the upholders of this 
 principle. 
 
 The English nobility, the most powerful of all by reason 
 of its privileges and possessions, became the standard- 
 bearer of European aristocracy, and John Bull paid for 
 this post of honour with his best guineas, and was 
 victorious to the point of bankruptcy. During the peace 
 that followed this pitiable victory, Austria carried the noble 
 banner and represented the interests of the nobles. Upon 
 every cowardly petty treaty that was concluded against 
 Liberalism there glittered the well-known sealing-wax, and, 
 like their luckless leader, the people themselves were thus 
 also held under strict surveillance. All Europe became a 
 St. Helena whose Hudson Lowe was Metternich. 
 
 But vengeance can be taken only upon the mortal body 
 of the Revolution, upon that Revolution become incarnate, 
 who, booted and spurred and spattered with the blood of 
 the battle-field, stepped into the bed and soiled the white 
 sheets of Hapsburg; that Revolution only could be allowed 
 to die of a cancer in the stomach. The spirit of the 
 Revolution is immortal, and does not lie beneath the 
 weeping-willow of Longwood; and, in the great July week, 
 the Revolution was born again, not as an isolated indi- 
 vidual, but as a whole people, who in this incarnation 
 mocked at their gaoler, and he, in his fear, allowed his 
 bunch of keys to drop from his hands. 
 
 What an embarrassment for the noble ! He had certainly 
 somewhat recovered during the long time of peace from his 
 previous fatigues, and since then, in order to strengthen 
 himself, he has taken a daily course of asses' milk, the milk 
 of the papal ass, in fact. In spite of this he still lacks the 
 necessary strength for a new struggle. The English Bull
 
 THE OLD REGIME. 1^3 
 
 can to-day less than any one else make headway against the 
 enemy; as heretofore, it is he who is most exhausted, and, 
 in consequence of his intermittent ministerial fever, he feels 
 a weakness in all his limbs. A radical cure, even a hunger- 
 cure, is prescribed for him, over and above which the 
 diseased member, Ireland, must be amputated. Neither 
 does Austria feel sufficiently heroically inclined to play the 
 part of the Agamemnon of the aristocracy against France; 
 Staberle 1 does not willingly don his war gear, and he knows 
 very well that his umbrella will not protect him against a 
 rain of bullets. Moreover, the Hungarians frighten him 
 with their bristling moustachios; in Italy he is obliged to 
 place a sentinel before every enthusiastic lemon-tree, and 
 at home he has to produce archduchesses wherewith in 
 case of necessity to propitiate the monster of the Revolu- 
 tion. "That kills off one beast," says Staberle. 
 
 But in France the sun of Liberty flames ever more 
 powerfully and illumines the whole world with its rays. 
 Daily, the idea penetrates deeper of a citizen king without 
 court etiquette, without noble valets, without courtesans, 
 without intermediaries, without drink, money, or diamonds, 
 and such-like luxuries. But the Chamber of Peers is 
 already regarded as a hospital for the incurables of the old 
 regime^ that is tolerated only out of pity, and in due 
 time will be done away with. Strange revolution ! In its 
 distress the nobility turns to that state which till quite 
 recently she regarded and hated as the worst enemy to her 
 interests; it turns to Russia. The great Tzar, who formerly 
 had been the standard-bearer of Liberty, because he was 
 especially hostile to the feudal aristocracy, and seemed 
 impelled to make imminent war upon it; precisely this Tzar 
 is now elected by that very aristocracy to be its standard- 
 1 A masque or play of the old folk-theatre of the Austrians.
 
 1 84 HEINE. 
 
 bearer, and he is importuned to become its champion. 
 For, although the Russian state rests upon the anti-feudal 
 principle of equality of citizenship, absolute Tzardom is, 
 on the other hand, incompatible with the ideas of a con- 
 stitutional liberty which can protect the meanest subject 
 from the benevolent arbitrariness of the prince. Moreover, 
 if the Emperor Nicholas I. was hated by the feudalists on 
 account of this principle of civil equality; if, moreover, as 
 open enemy of England and secret enemy of Austria, he 
 was, in fact, with all his power, the representative of the 
 Liberals, he has, nevertheless, since the end of July become 
 their greatest adversary now that their victorious ideas of 
 constitutional liberty threaten his absolutism; and it is 
 precisely in his quality of autocrat that the European 
 aristocracy know how to entice him into the field against 
 free and frank France. The English bull has already lost 
 his horns in one such combat, and now it is the Russian 
 wolf who is to take his place. The high European nobility 
 is cunning enough to know how to employ for its own 
 profit, and how advantageously to play upon the terror of 
 the Muscovite forests, and the terrible guest is not a little 
 flattered that he is expected to champion the cause of the old 
 royalty by-the-grace-of-God, against the detractors of princes 
 and the gainsayers of the nobility. He takes a pleasure in 
 allowing the moth-eaten purple mantle to hang from his 
 shoulders with all its Byzantine inheritance of golden 
 fripperies, and he allows himself to be presented by the 
 venerable Emperor of Germany with the old, worn breeches 
 of the holy Roman Empire, and he sets on his head the old 
 Frankish diamond-covered cap of Charlemagne. Alas ! 
 the wolf has put on the garments of the old grandmother, 
 and he tears you to pieces, you poor little red-caps of 
 Freedom !
 
 THE OLD REGIME 185 
 
 It seems to me, while I write this, as though the blood of 
 Warsaw spurted over my paper, as though I heard the 
 shouts of joy of the Berlin officers and diplomatists. Do 
 they rejoice a little too soon ? I do not know, but I and 
 all of us are so afraid of the Russian wolf, I tremble lest our 
 little German red-caps also soon fill grandmother's foolish 
 long hands and great maw. Therefore we must hold our- 
 selves prepared in marching array in order to fight with 
 France ? Good God ! Against France ? Yes, hurrah ! We 
 march against France, and the Ukasinists and the Knout- 
 ologists of Berlin pretend that again, as in 1815, we are the 
 Saviours of God, King, and Fatherland; that Korner's 
 Lyre and Sword shall again be imposed upon us, that to it 
 Fouque will add some new battle verses; that Gorres will 
 again be bought by the Jesuits to continue the Rhine 
 Mercury; that the volunteers of the holy war will receive an 
 oak branch to wear in their caps, will be called " Sir," and 
 that later they will receive a free entrance to the theatre, or, 
 at all events, will be considered as children and pay only 
 half-price and, to ensure extraordinary patriotic efforts, the 
 whole people, in addition, shall be promised a constitution. 
 
 Free entrance to a theatre is always a pleasant thing, but 
 a constitution would also be no bad thing. Yes, we may in 
 time even reach the point of longing for one. Not that we 
 doubt the absolute good, or the good absolutism of our 
 monarchs; on the contrary, we know that they are quite 
 charming people; and if, from time to time, there be one 
 among them who does dishonour the State as, for example, 
 His Majesty the King Don Miguel he is merely an excep- 
 tion; and if his very exalted colleagues do not put an end 
 to his bloody scandal, as they could easily do, it is merely 
 so that by contrast with such a crowned wight they may 
 appear more humanely noble, and their subjects may love
 
 1 86 HEINE. 
 
 them the more. Yet a good constitution has its good side, 
 and it must not be taken amiss if even from the best of 
 monarchs the people beg a written word concerning matters 
 of life and death. A wise father acts very reasonably when 
 he builds a few salutary barriers before the precipices of 
 sovereign power, so that no misfortune may befall his 
 children if they one day gallop too daringly on the high 
 horse of pride in company with groups of vaunting noble 
 youths. I know a king's child who, in a bad riding-school 
 for nobles, learned in advance how to dare the most 
 perilous jumps. For such royal children barriers of double 
 height must be created, their golden spur must be carefully 
 covered, a quiet horse must be apportioned to each, and 
 pacific burgherly companions. I know a hunting tale by 
 Saint Hubert ! I also know some one who would give a 
 thousand Prussian thalers that it could be denied. 
 
 Alas ! the whole history of our time is but a hunting tale. 
 It is the time of the grand hunt against liberal ideas, and 
 their sovereign majesties are more eager than ever; their 
 hunters in uniform shoot at every loyal heart which harbours 
 liberal ideas; there is no lack of learned dogs who carry 
 back the bleeding word as good prey. Berlin nourishes the 
 best couple, and already I can hear the whole pack yelping 
 at this book. 
 
 1831.
 
 i8 7 
 
 JUNE DAYS. 
 
 PARIS, June yh. 
 
 THE funeral procession of General Lamarque, un convoi 
 d'opposition as the Philippists say, has just left the 
 Madeleine for the Place de la Bastille. There were more 
 people in mourning and more spectators present than at the 
 obsequies of Casimir Perier. The people themselves drew 
 the hearse. It was especially remarkable to see the foreign 
 patriots whose national banners were carried in file. Among 
 these I noticed a flag whose colours were black, red, and 
 gold. Towards one o'clock a heavy rain fell, which lasted 
 during thirty minutes ; nevertheless the crowd, for the 
 most part bare-headed, remained on the Boulevards. 
 When the procession reached the Varietes Theatre, and 
 at the moment of passing under the column of the friend of 
 the people^ many democrats began to call out " Vive la 
 Republique." A sergeant of police tried to intervene, but 
 he was seized roughly, his sword was broken, and a horrible 
 tumult arose, and was repressed with the greatest difficulty. 
 The spectacle of such an uproar, which threw some hundred 
 thousand of people into commotion, was certainly remark- 
 able and suggestive. 
 
 It was rumoured yesterday in the Tuileries that the 
 Duchesse de Berry had been arrested at Nantes. If this
 
 1 88 HEINE. 
 
 be the case, Louis Philippe will be placed in great em- 
 barrassment, for he cannot deliver up to justice the niece 
 of the Queen who has greatly importuned him ; while he 
 dare not arouse any suspicion of being in amicable relation- 
 ship with his family at Holyrood. As to Marshal Bourmont, 
 it is certain that he has been arrested. If he be taken 
 before a council of war, he will die like Ney, only less 
 gloriously, and less respected. 
 
 PARIS, June 6th. 
 
 I DO not remember if I mentioned in my last letter that 
 towards evening a riot began. 
 
 When Lamarque's funeral procession reached the 
 Boulevards, and the incident at the Theatre des Varie'te's 
 took place, a general foreboding of evil was felt instinctively. 
 It is difficult to say on which side lay the onus of this 
 terrible outbreak. The most contradictory rumours are 
 still current concerning the commencement of hostilities, 
 the events of the night, and the general condition of affairs. 
 I will report one occurrence which has been confirmed in 
 many quarters by most trustworthy authority. When 
 Lafayette, whose presence in the procession had every- 
 where excited the greatest enthusiasm, had finished his 
 discourse on the Place du Pont d'Austerlitz, where the 
 funeral ceremonies were solemnised, a crown of immortelles 
 was placed on his head. At the same moment a Phrygian 
 cap was hoisted above a red flag which had already at- 
 tracted much notice, and a scholar of the Polytechnic 
 School raised himself on the shoulders of his neighbours, 
 brandished his naked sword over the red cap, and shouted 
 " Vive la Liberte" ! " or, according to other reports, " Vive 
 la Rdpublique ! "
 
 JUNE DAYS. 189 
 
 Lafayette appears then to have placed his crown of 
 immortelles on the red cap of Liberty ; trustworthy people 
 declare that they saw this with their own eyes. It is 
 possible that these symbolical actions were the result either 
 of conspiracy or of sudden caprice; possibly, also, they 
 were due to mere exuberance, but unobserved on account 
 of the great crush. It is said by some that after this mani- 
 festation there was a desire to carry the crowned red cap in 
 triumph through the town, and that the fight began when 
 the municipal guards and the sergeants of police offered 
 opposition arms in hand. This much is certain, that 
 when Lafayette, wearied with his four hours' march, stepped 
 into a cab, the people unharnessed the horses, and with 
 their own hands dragged their old and faithful friend 
 through the Boulevards amid tremendous applause. A 
 number of workmen had torn young trees up by the roots, 
 and ran with them like savages beside the carriage, which 
 every instant seemed in danger of being overturned by the 
 disorderly rabble. It is said that two shots were fired at 
 the cairage. I can, however, find no circumstantial account 
 of this singular incident. 
 
 Many persons whom I have interrogated concerning the 
 actual outbreak assert that the bloody conflict began close 
 to the Austerlitz Bridge over the body of the dead hero; for 
 one section of the patriots wished to carry the coffin to the 
 Pantheon, another to accompany it as far as the next village; 
 both intentions were promptly opposed by the municipal 
 guards and the sergeants of police. Therefore this strife, 
 fought with bitter fury, as in olden days before the gate of 
 Troy over the body of Patroclus. Much blood was spilt in 
 the Place de la Bastille. Towards half-past six the fighting 
 had spread to the Porte St. Denis, where the people had 
 thrown up barricades. Many important posts were carried;
 
 1 9 o HEINE. 
 
 the National Guards, who had occupied them defended them- 
 selves feebly, and ultimately gave up their arms. Thus the 
 people gained numerous weapons. The Place de Notre 
 Dame des Victoires I found given over to tumultuous 
 righting; the " Patriots " had placed three posts at the 
 Bank. When I wandered towards the Boulevards I noticed 
 that all the shops were closed, I saw few people, and almost 
 no women, who, even in serious riots, are wont fearlessly 
 to gratify their desire for a spectacle. Every one looked 
 very serious. Foot soldiers and cuirassiers passed here and 
 there; ordnance officers with anxious faces galloped by; 
 in the distance, shots and powder smoke. The weather 
 was no longer lowering, and towards evening it cleared. 
 
 Matters looked serious for the Government when the 
 rumour spread that the National Guard had declared itself 
 on the side of the people. The mistake arose through 
 several patriots having yesterday worn the uniform of 
 the National Guards; the National Guards, in fact, had a 
 moment's indecision as to whom they should support. In 
 all probability the women, during last night, demonstrated 
 to their husbands that only that party should be supported 
 which offered most guarantee for life and property; that 
 Louis Philippe answered this requirement better than 
 the Republicans, who were very poor and usually very 
 hurtful to commerce and industry. Thus, to-day, the 
 National Guard is wholly against the Republicans; the 
 matter is decided. "The blow has miscarried," the 
 people say. Troops of the line arrive in Paris from all 
 quarters. 
 
 A number of cannons stand loaded on the Place de la 
 Concorde, even on the other side of the Tuileries, also in 
 the Place de la Carousel. 
 
 The Citizen-King is surrounded by citizen cannons ;
 
 JUNE DAYS. 191 
 
 "where could he fare better than in the bosom of his 
 family ? " 
 
 It is now four o'clock, and the rain falls heavily. This is 
 very unfavourable for the "patriots," who, for the most part, 
 have barricaded themselves in the Quartier St. Martin, and 
 receive but few reinforcements. They are hemmed in on 
 all sides, and at this very moment I hear a loud cannonade. 
 The rumour runs that two hours ago the insurgents still 
 held great hopes of victory, but now there is nothing left 
 them but to die heroically. There are many who will. As 
 I live near to the Porte St. Denis, I have passed a sleepless 
 night, the firing having continued almost unbrokenly. The 
 thunder of the cannon awakes the most mournful echo 
 in my heart. 
 
 It is a miserable occurrence which will have miserable 
 consequences/ 
 
 PARIS, June 1th, 
 
 As I went yesterday to throw my letter into the central 
 post-box, I found the whole group of speculators congre- 
 gated under the colonnade on the broad steps of the Bourse. 
 The news had at that moment arrived that the defeat of the 
 " Patriots " was a certainty, and the sweetest satisfaction 
 dawned in every face ; it might be said that the whole 
 Bourse smiled. At the sound of the cannons the stocks 
 rose ten sous. The firing went on till five o'clock ; at six 
 o'clock the whole revolutionary attempt was suppressed. 
 The journals have therefore been able to-day to publish just 
 as much information as they deem advisable. The Constitu- 
 tional and the Journal des Debats seem to give a sufficiently 
 correct account of the main events. Only the colour and 
 the proportions are false. I have just come from the theatre
 
 192 HEINE. 
 
 of yesterday's combat, and I am convinced that it would be 
 extremely difficult to ascertain the whole truth. This 
 spot is, in fact, one of the largest and most populous 
 streets of Paris, the Rue St. Martin, which begins at the 
 gate of the same name on the Boulevard and continues to 
 the Seine at the bridge of Notre Dame. At both ends of 
 the street, I heard the number of the " Patriots," or as they 
 are to-day called " the rebels," who fought there given as 
 five hundred and as one thousand men ; towards the centre 
 of the street the number decreased, and finished by being 
 as low as fifty. What is truth ? asked Pontius Pilate. 
 
 The number of the troops of the line is more easily ascer- 
 tained. There is stated to have been (according to the 
 Journal des Dkbats) 40,000 fighting men yesterday in Paris. 
 Add to this at least 20,000 National Guards. The handful 
 of insurgents, therefore, was pitted against 60,000 men. 
 The recognition of the heroic bravery of these audacious 
 madmen is unanimous. They shouted continuously, " Vive 
 la Republique," a cry that found no echo in the hearts of 
 the people. Had they, instead, called out " Vive Napoleon," 
 then, according to the assertions of all the groups of people 
 to-day, the troops would with difficulty have been induced 
 to fire upon them : and the great mass of workmen would 
 have gone to their aid. But they disdained the lie. They 
 were the purest, if not the cleverest, friends of Liberty. And 
 yet, to-day, people are idiots enough to accuse them of an 
 understanding with the " Carlists." Of a truth, they who die 
 so heroically for the sacred error of their hearts, for the 
 beautiful illusion of an ideal future, do not ally themselves 
 with the cowardly scum which the past has bequeathed to 
 us under the name of "Carlist." I am, by God, no Re- 
 publican ; I know that if the Republicans gained the day 
 they would cut my throat, because I do not admire
 
 JUNE DAYS. 193 
 
 exactly what they admire, yet to-day my eyes filled with 
 tears when I trod upon those spots still red with their blood. 
 I would rather that I, and all my fellow-moderates, had died 
 in the place of those Republicans. 
 
 The National Guards rejoice greatly over their victory. 
 In their intoxication they nearly sent an unfriendly ball into 
 my body, although I am one of their party; that is to say, 
 they heroically fired on whomsoever approached too near 
 to their posts. ... It was a rainy, starless, sinister evening. 
 There was scant light in the streets, because nearly all the 
 shops remained shut, as they had been throughout the day. 
 To-day, there is everywhere the usual bright animation; so 
 much so that one would think nothing had happened. 
 Even in the Rue St. Martin the shops are all open. Al- 
 though it is very difficult to pass along on account of the 
 torn-up pavements and the remains of barricades, yet an 
 immense mass of people streamed from curiosity through 
 that very long and rather narrow street, with its unusually high 
 houses. The shock of the cannons has broken all the 
 window-panes, and everywhere can be seen fresh marks of 
 balls, for the guns were fired from both ends of the street 
 until the Republicans found themselves in a cul-de-sac either 
 way. I was told yesterday that they were finally hemmed in 
 on all sides in the Church of St. Mery. But this assertion I 
 heard contradicted at the place itself. Their head-quarters 
 appears to have been a projecting house called the Cafe 
 Leclerc, situated at the angle of the little street St. Me>y. 
 Here was where they made their most sustained resistance, 
 and here was their last stand. They asked no quarter, and 
 most of them were bayoneted. Here fell the students of 
 the Alfort School. Here ran the most ardent blood in 
 France. It is a thorough mistake to suppose that the Re- 
 publicans are composed merely of young firebrands. Many
 
 194 HETNE. 
 
 elderly people fought with them. A young woman to whom 
 I spoke near the church of St. Mery lamented the death of 
 her grandfather. 
 
 " Till then we had lived so contentedly; but when he saw 
 the red flag, and heard the cry of ' Vive la Rdpublique,' he 
 ran with an old pike among the young people and died with 
 them." Poor old grey head ! He heard the cow-bells of 
 La Montague, the memory of his first love of Liberty 
 reawoke, and he wanted once again to dream the dream of 
 his youth ! Soft be his sleep ! 
 
 It is easy to foresee the consequences of this revolution. 
 Over a thousand men are arrested, and among them, it is 
 said, one deputy, Gamier Pages. The Liberal journals are 
 suppressed. Trade is jubilant, egoism is rampant, and 
 many of the best men must wear mourning. The theory 
 of intimidation will claim yet more victims. Already the 
 National Guard trembles at its own strength; heroes are 
 afraid when they look at themselves in the glass. The 
 king, the great, strong, and powerful Louis Philippe, will 
 distribute many crosses of honour. Paid wits will revile 
 the Friends of Liberty even in their graves, whom they now 
 call the enemies of public peace, murderers, etc., etc. This 
 morning, in the Place de la Vendome, a tailor who ventured 
 to refer to the good intentions of the Republicans was well 
 cudgelled by a strong woman, probably his own wife. This 
 is the counter-revolution. 
 
 PARIS, June 8/A. 
 
 IT appears that it was not a wholly red flag, but a red, gold, 
 and black flag, which Lafayette crowned with immortelles 
 at Lemarque's funeral. This already half-mythical banner
 
 JUNE DAYS. 195 
 
 seems to have been mistaken by many for a Republican flag. 
 Ah, I knew it very well; I thought at once, "Great heavens ! 
 they are the colours of our Burschenschaft ! to-day a mis- 
 fortune or a blunder will happen ! " Alas ! both happened. 
 When, at the commencement of hostilities, the dragoons 
 sprang upon the Germans who followed the flag, these took 
 refuge behind the great wooden beams of a carpenter's yard. 
 Later they retired to the Jardin des Plantes, and the flag, 
 though in a sorry plight, was saved. 
 
 I have conscientiously told the Frenchmen who have 
 asked me concerning the signification of this red-black- 
 golden flag, that the Emperor Barbarossa, who for several 
 centuries has lived at Kyffhauser, has sent us this banner 
 as a sign that the old dream of a great empire still exists, 
 and that he himself will come again with sword and sceptre. 
 For myself, I do not believe it will happen so soon; too 
 many black ravens still flutter around the mountain. 
 
 Here in Paris affairs are in strange suspense; bayonets 
 and watchful military faces are in all the streets. At first I 
 took the announcement of a State of Siege in Paris to be an 
 unimportant scare; moreover, it was rumoured that any such 
 condition would be of brief duration. But when yesterday 
 I saw cannon after cannon pass along the Rue de Richelieu, 
 I observed that the defeat of the Republicans might be 
 made use of to suppress other opponents of the Govern- 
 ment namely, the journalists. It is now a question 
 whether "good-will" is backed by requisite force. The 
 astounding victory of the National Guards who took part 
 in the violent measures against the Republicans is being 
 exploited just now, and Louis Philippe dispenses as urbanely 
 as before the hand-shake of comradeship. As the Carlists 
 are hated and the Republicans disapproved of, the people 
 uphold the king as the preserver of order; he, therefore, is
 
 196 HEINE. 
 
 as popular as necessity itself. Yes, I heard " Long live the 
 King ! " shouted, when the king rode down the Boulevards ; 
 but I also saw a tall figure, not far from the Faubourg 
 Montmartre, go boldly towards him, crying out, "Down 
 with Louis Philippe ! " Several riders in the king's suite 
 jumped instantly from their horses, seized the protestor, 
 and dragged him away with them. 
 
 I have never seen Paris so crammed as yesterday evening. 
 In spite of the bad weather, crowds filled the public places. 
 In the garden of the Palais-Royal were groups of people 
 discussing politics; but they spoke softly, very softly, in 
 fact; for might one not suddenly be dragged before a 
 Council of War, and see oneself shot within twenty-four 
 hours ! I begin to yearn for the slow-going jurisdiction of 
 my Germany. The lawless condition of the moment is 
 odious; it is a worse evil than cholera. Just as formerly, 
 when the cholera raged here, one's alarm was increased 
 by an exaggerated death-roll, so now one is alarmed when 
 one hears of the enormous number of arrests, of the secret 
 fusillades, of the thousand dark rumours which, as was 
 the case yesterday afternoon, circulate in the dark. To-day, 
 in the daylight, there is more reassurance. It is admitted 
 that the alarm was exaggerated yesterday, and one is more 
 annoyed than frightened. A juste-milieu terror now reigns ! 
 
 The journals are moderate in their protestations, yet in 
 nowise dejected. The National and the Temps speak fear- 
 lessly, as beseems free men. I have nothing newer to tell 
 you than is to be found in to-day's papers. Every one is 
 tranquil, and matters are allowed tranquilly to take their 
 course. The Government is perhaps amazed at the enor- 
 mous power it sees in its own hands. It has raised itself 
 above law a dangerous situation; for it is said with good 
 reason, "He who is above the law is beyond the pale
 
 JUNE DAYS. 197 
 
 of the law." The reason wherewith many true friends 
 of Liberty condone present violent measures is that demo- 
 cratic royalty must of necessity strengthen itself from within 
 in order afterwards to act more powerfully from without. 
 
 PARIS, June loth. 
 
 YESTERDAY Paris -was quiet. The rumour, which even 
 yesterday evening the most trustworthy people were spread- 
 ing abroad of numerous fusillades, has been satisfactorily 
 contradicted by those who stand nearest the Government. 
 A great number of arrests, however, are admitted. Of this 
 any one could convince himself with his own eyes; yester- 
 day, and still more the day before yesterday, everywhere 
 one saw persons under arrest, conducted along by the 
 communal guard or the soldiers of the line. At times it 
 was like a procession; men, young and old, in shabby 
 garments, accompanied by lamenting relatives. It is said 
 that each one will be at once taken before a Council of War 
 and shot within four-and-twenty hours at Vincennes. 
 
 In all directions groups of men stood before the houses 
 that had been searched. This was especially the case in 
 the streets which had been the scene of the fight. In 
 many of the houses the refugees, when they realised that 
 their cause was desperate, had hidden themselves until 
 betrayed by some traitor. The people congregated thickly 
 along the quays, talking and looking in particular towards 
 the Rue St. Martin, which was constantly filled with curious 
 folk, and around the Palais de Justice, whither so many 
 prisoners were being conducted. There was a crowd round 
 the Morgue also to see the dead bodies exposed ; the most 
 heart-rending scenes of recognition took place there. The
 
 198 HEINE. 
 
 town presented the most lugubrious aspect; everywhere 
 groups of people with misery on their faces, patrols of 
 soldiers, and funeral processions of National Guards who had 
 fallen in the fray. 
 
 Society, since yesterday, has not disquieted itself in the 
 slightest ; it knows its people, it knows that the juste-milieu 
 itself feels very uncomfortable in the plenitude of its present 
 power. It holds the great sword of Justice, but it lacks the 
 strong hand wherewith to wield it. At the least stroke it 
 fears to wound itself. Intoxicated with the victory, which 
 in the first place was due to Marshal Soult, it allowed itself 
 to be dragged into a military measure proposed probably by 
 that old soldier, who is still imbued with the desire of the 
 Empire. This man is now, in fact, at the head of the 
 ministerial councils, and his colleagues and others of the 
 juste-milieu fear that he may attain to the presidentship so 
 ardently wished for by him. They are making an effort 
 gently to retrace their steps, and to extricate themselves 
 from an attitude of heroism: to that end all the mild 
 definitions tend that are to-day given of the ordinance for 
 the present State of Siege. It is easy to see the alarm of 
 \\iQJuste-ntilieu at its own power, which it holds convulsively 
 in its hands, and will perhaps not abandon till pardon is 
 asked of it. In its desperation it will perhaps sacrifice a 
 few insignificant heads; it will perhaps feign the most 
 ludicrous anger in order to alarm its enemies; it will 
 commit ghastly stupidities; it will 
 
 But it is impossible to foresee all that fear may do when 
 it is barricaded in the heart of the powerful, and sees itself 
 hemmed round with mockery and death. The acts of a 
 coward, like those of a genius, lie outside of all reckoning. 
 In any case, the higher public here feels that the extra-legal 
 condition in which they stand is only a formula.
 
 JUNE DAYS. 199 
 
 Whenever laws live in the consciousness of a people, the 
 Government cannot destroy them by a sudden ordinance. 
 Here, de facto, there is greater security for life and property 
 than elsewhere in Europe, with the exception of England 
 and Holland. Despite this institution of military tribunals, 
 the liberty of the press still actually exists here, and 
 journalists discuss government procedure more freely than 
 in many countries on the continent where the liberty of the 
 press is sanctioned on paper. 
 
 The post to-day (Sunday) goes at midday, therefore I 
 can tell you nothing of to-day's events ! I must refer 
 you to the papers. Their tone is more portentous than 
 the things they say. Moreover, they are without a doubt 
 again filled with lies. Since early morning there has been a 
 deafening beat of drums. It is the day of the great Review. 
 My servant tells me that the Boulevards, and in particular 
 the whole stretch, from the Barriere du Trone as far as 
 the Barriere de 1'Etoile, is covered with foot soldiers and 
 National Guards. Louis Philippe, the father of the country, 
 the conqueror of the Catilines of the 5th June, the Cicero 
 on horseback, the enemy of the guillotine and paper money, 
 the protector of lives and of shops, the citizen-king, will in 
 a few hours show himself to his people. A great cheer will 
 greet him; he will be much touched; he will shake many 
 hands, and the police will not fail to take special measures 
 of security and for an extra show of enthusiasm. 
 
 PARIS, June nth. 
 SPLENDID weather favoured yesterday's Review. 
 
 On the Boulevards, in front of the Barriere de 1'Etoile, 
 there were perhaps 50,000 troops of the line and National 
 Guards; while an innumerable mass of spectators, on foot or
 
 200 HEINE. 
 
 at the windows, awaited with curiosity to see how the king 
 would look and how he would be received after such extra- 
 ordinary events. Towards one o'clock his Majesty, with 
 his staff-general, drew near the Porte St. Denis, where I had 
 placed myself on an over-turned milestone in order better to 
 observe. The king did not ride in the middle, but at the 
 right side, where the National Guards were ranged, and all 
 along the route he bent sideways from his horse in order 
 everywhere to press the hands of the National Guards. 
 When he returned, two hours later, he rode on the left side, 
 where he continued the manoeuvre. I should not be sur- 
 prised if, in consequence of this twisted posture, he suffers 
 great pains in his chest or has dislocated his ribs. The extra- 
 ordinary patience of the king is incomprehensible. He had, 
 moreover, to smile continuously. But under the fat friend- 
 liness of that face there lay, I thought, much sadness and 
 care. The sight of the man filled me with deep pity. He 
 is greatly changed since I saw him this winter at a ball at 
 the Tuileries. The flesh of his face, then red and full, was 
 yesterday slack and yellow; his black whiskers have turned 
 grey, so that it looks as though even his cheeks were 
 tremulous at present or imminent blows of fortune; at 
 all events it is a sign of worry that he has not thought of 
 dyeing his whiskers black. The three-cornered hat thrust 
 low upon his forehead gave him an additional look of un- 
 happiness. With his eyes he seemed to beg both for good- 
 will and for pardon. Of a truth it was not difficult to per- 
 ceive that there was the man who had put us all into a 
 state of siege. Not the slightest sign of ill-will was shown 
 him, and I must admit that great cheering met him every- 
 where; they, especially, whose hand he had shaken, shouted 
 frantic acclamations after him, and thousands of women's 
 voices yelled a repeated "Vive le roi."
 
 JUNE DA YS. 201 
 
 I saw one old woman poke her husband in the ribs 
 because he had not shouted loud enough. A feeling of 
 bitterness seized me when I thought that these people 
 who now cheered this poor hand-shaking Louis Philippe, 
 are the same French people who so often saw Napoleon 
 Buonaparte ride past with his marble Caesar face, his 
 immovable eyes, and " inaccessible " hands. 
 
 After Louis Philippe had held the Review, or, so to say, 
 had felt the pulse of the army, in order to convince him- 
 self that it really exists, the military tumult lasted several 
 hours longer. The different corps shouted a continual 
 exchange of compliments as they marched past one another. 
 " Long live the Line ! " from the National Guard was 
 answered by " Long live the National Guard ! " They 
 fraternised. Here and there National Guards and soldiers 
 of the line were seen linked symbolically arm in arm; and, 
 as a similar symbolical act, they divided between them their 
 sausages, bread, and wine. There was not the slightest 
 disorder. 
 
 I must, however, state that the most frequent cry was that 
 of " Vive la Liberte " ; and when one heard these words 
 shouted from the full breasts of armed men, one felt 
 cheered and reassured in spite of the State of Siege and of 
 military tribunals. That is it exactly; Louis Philippe will 
 never willingly oppose public opinion. He will always 
 know how to spy out its most urgent requirements and to 
 act accordingly. That is the important meaning of 
 yesterday's Review. Louis Philippe felt the need of 
 seeing the people en masse, to convince himself that his 
 cannon-shots and ordinances had not been taken in bad 
 part; that he was not looked upon as a wicked, violent 
 king; that, at all events, no misunderstanding existed be- 
 tween them. But the people also, on their side, wished to
 
 202 HEINE. 
 
 observe their Louis Philippe attentively, to assure them- 
 selves that he is still the submissive courtier of their 
 sovereign will, that he still remains obedient and devoted 
 to them. Thus it may well be said that the people have 
 passed the king in review, and have expressed their supreme 
 satisfaction with his manoeuvres. 
 
 PARIS, June izth. 
 
 THE great Review was the general topic of conversation 
 yesterday. The moderates see therein a satisfactory under- 
 standing between the king and the citizens. Many discreet 
 persons, nevertheless, do not trust themselves to this charm- 
 ing bond; they predict a tussle between the king and the 
 citizens, and this may easily take place the moment the 
 interests of the throne clash with those of the shop. 
 To-day, it is true, they reciprocally support one another; 
 king and burgher are mutually satisfied. According to 
 what I am told, the Place de la Vendome was yesterday 
 the spot at which this edifying unison could best be 
 observed. The king was exhilarated by the cheering with 
 which he was received on the Boulevards; and when the 
 ranks of the National Guard denied before him, one or two 
 of them stepped unceremoniously from the ranks, stretched 
 out a hand to him and said a friendly word, told him 
 briefly their opinion of the recent events, or declared to 
 him without circumlocution that they would support him 
 as long as he did not misuse his power. Louis Philippe 
 protested by all that is holy that this would never happen, 
 that he wished merely to suppress the fanatically turbulent 
 so that he may the more powerfully defend French Liberty 
 and Equality: many place confidence in his words.
 
 JUNE DA VS. 203 
 
 Impartiality compels me to make mention of these circum- 
 stances. Yes, I confess, my mistrustful heart was thereby 
 somewhat mollified. 
 
 The opposition journals seem almost desirous of wholly 
 ignoring the proceedings of the day before yesterday. 
 Altogether their tone is very remarkable. It is the kind 
 of reticence that usually precedes a terrible explosion. It 
 seems as though they wish merely to await the repeal of 
 the ordinance for the State of Siege. The tone of each 
 journal betrays to what degree it was compromised in the 
 recent events. The Tribune has to be completely silent, 
 because thus it has committed itself more than any other. 
 The National is in the same plight, but not to so great 
 a degree; it may, therefore, speak at greater length and 
 more freely. The Temps, whose voice was raised the 
 loudest and most vigorously against the ordinance of the 
 State of Siege, stands by no means badly with some of 
 the ring-leaders of the juste-milieu, and is better protected 
 than Sarrut and Carrel; but we will not allow ourselves 
 on this account to refrain from lauding M. Coste, as one 
 of the best citizens of France, because of the manly and 
 noble words spoken aloud by him in a most difficult 
 moment against the illegality and arbitrariness of the 
 Government. 
 
 M. Sarrut is under arrest; everywhere M. Carrel is 
 sought for. People are irritated chiefly against Carrel, 
 and it is possible that it is he who was especially thought 
 of when the exceptional tribunals were instituted. Yes, 
 if it be true, as it is now pretended, that M. Thiers was 
 the author of this stroke of genius, he must certainly have 
 had his quondam colleague Carrel in his mind, for it is 
 he whom he has most cause to fear. He knows exactly 
 his own power, he knows that each party, when victorious,
 
 204 HEINE. 
 
 punishes its renegades first of all. Little Thiers' head, 
 already full of the hubbub of the Marseillaise caldrons 
 and the laudatory verses of Viennet, must certainly have 
 been completely deafened when the thunder of the cannons 
 and of the name of Carrel reached his ears. It is, in fact, 
 universally believed that M. Carrel was at the head of the 
 popular movement of the 5th June. That great building 
 in the Rue du Croissant, which contains the printing-press 
 and offices of the National, was considered to be his head- 
 quarters; and nearly two thousand people, among whom 
 were several men of importance, repaired thither to offer 
 him the assistance of themselves and of their adherents. 
 It is, however, quite certain that Carrel declined all these 
 offers, and that he predicted the failure of the projected 
 revolution because it was not properly prepared; because 
 the insurgents had not assured themselves of the sympathy 
 of the people ; because they were in want of the necessary 
 resources; even because they did not know influential 
 personages, etc. As a matter of fact, never was a 
 rising worse organised; to this day no one knows how 
 it arose and how it was formed. One of the combatants 
 in the Rue St. Martin declares that when the Republicans 
 found themselves shut in there, and looked one another in 
 the face, not one recognised the other; chance alone had 
 brought together all these men, complete strangers to one 
 another. 
 
 They, nevertheless, soon learned to know each other 
 and to fight together, and most of them died like hearty, 
 faithful brothers in arms. In like manner, to this hour, 
 no one can exactly ascertain how matters went at the 
 home-taking of Lafayette. A well-informed man assured 
 me yesterday that the Government, mistrusting the funeral 
 cortege of Lamarque, held some dragoons in reserve, and
 
 JUNE DA VS. 205 
 
 also had given the police orders, in case of any insurrec- 
 tionary outbreak, at once to seize hold of Lafayette so 
 that he should not fall into the hands of the insurgents 
 and strengthen them through the authority of his name. 
 
 Therefore, when the first shots were fired, some agents of 
 police, disguised as workmen, forcibly shoved poor Lafayette 
 into a carriage, while other police agents, similarly disguised, 
 harnessed themselves in the shafts, and with loud cries of 
 " Vive Lafayette ! " carried him off in triumph. 
 
 When the Republicans' version now is heard, they affirm 
 that if, on June 5th, the misfortune of their friends harmed 
 them greatly, the foolishness of their enemies on the day 
 following, that is to say, the ordinance for placing Paris in a 
 state of siege, was so much the more useful to them. They 
 pretend that the 5th and 6th June should be regarded as 
 outpost skirmishes, that not one of the notabilities of the 
 Republican party took part in it, and that the blood shed has 
 gained for them many new auxiliaries. What I have said 
 above seems in some degree to confirm this statement. The 
 party that represents the National^ and is accused by the 
 perfidious Gazette de France as Republican doctrinaires, took 
 no share in these disturbances; neither did the chiefs of the 
 party of the Tribune, the Montagnards, mix themselves in 
 the matter. 
 
 PARIS, June i"j/h. 
 
 PRESUMABLY, the most singular ideas of our present situa- 
 tion are entertained by outsiders and foreigners, when they 
 consider the latest events of the still unraised State of Siege, 
 and the violent antagonism between the parties. Yet 
 here, at this moment, we see so little change, that it is
 
 ao6 HEINE. 
 
 precisely the absence of any special manifestation which 
 astonishes us the most. This remark is the chief item I 
 have to impart to you, but, negative as my letter is, it will 
 certainly serve to dissipate many erroneous suppositions. 
 
 All is quite quiet here. The military tribunals issue their 
 instructions with a grim air. People laugh, mock, and 
 make jokes over the State of Siege, over the bravery of the 
 National Guards, over the wisdom of the Government. 
 
 What I foresaw is now happening; the juste-milieu does 
 not know what to do in order to extricate itself with 
 heroism ; the beleaguered, with malicious pleasure, watch 
 this desperate condition of the besiegers. The latter wish 
 to appear as terrible as possible: they rummage in the 
 archives of barbaric times in order to resuscitate execrable 
 laws, and they succeed only in making themselves ridicu- 
 lous. They wish to be tyrants, whereas nature has designed 
 them for quite other things. 
 
 The groups of well-dressed people, who promenade in the 
 gardens of the Palais-Royal, the Tuileries, and the Luxem- 
 bourg, who breathe the quiet summer coolness, watch the 
 idyllic play of the little children, or enjoy some peaceful 
 leisure, these groups, without knowing it, form the sharpest 
 satire upon the existing State of Siege. 
 
 In order that the public may believe in it to some extent 
 a house-to-house search is everywhere being made with the 
 greatest seriousness ; sick people are disturbed in their 
 beds, everything is turned topsy-turvy to discover a hidden 
 gun or a powder flask. Unfortunate strangers are the 
 most incommoded, for, on account of the State of Siege, 
 they have to present themselves at the Prefecture of the 
 Police to obtain new permits of residence. There they must 
 submit, pro forma, to all kinds of interrogations. Many 
 provincial French, especially students, are obliged by the
 
 JUNE DA VS. 207 
 
 police to sign an agreement that, during their sojourn in 
 Paris, they will undertake nothing against the Government 
 of Louis Philippe. Many have preferred to quit the town, 
 rather than give their signature. Others signed after having 
 ohtained permission to add that they were Republicans in 
 opinion. The doctrinaires have undoubtedly introduced 
 these precautionary measures, after the pattern of the 
 German universities. 
 
 The most heterogeneous persons are from time to time 
 arrested, and upon the most heterogeneous pretexts : some 
 for having taken part in the Republican revolt, others 
 on account of a newly-discovered Buonapartist conspiracy. 
 Yesterday, three Carlist peers were arrested; among them 
 Don Chateaubriand, the knight of the sad figure, the best 
 writer and the greatest fool in France. The prisons are 
 overflowing. In Sainte-Pelagie alone there are over six 
 hundred prisoners for political causes. From one of my 
 friends, who is there for debt and is writing a great work 
 to prove that Sainte-Pelagie was founded by Pelagists, I 
 received a letter yesterday, wherein he laments grievously 
 over the noise which surrounds him and disturbs his learned 
 researches. The greatest audacity reigns among the prisoners 
 of Sainte-Pelagie. They have drawn on the walls of the 
 court a huge pear with an axe above it. 
 
 Talking of the pear I must not omit to observe that the 
 print-shops have taken not the slightest notice of the State 
 of Siege. The pear, and again the pear, is repeated in every 
 caricature. The most striking of these is the representation 
 of the Place de la Concorde with the monument that is 
 dedicated to the Charter; on this monument, which is in the 
 form of an altar, lies an enormous pear with the features 
 of the king. In the long run such things tire and sicken 
 the soul of a German. These eternal printed and painted
 
 zo8 HEINE. 
 
 mockeries are calculated rather to excite a certain sympathy 
 for Louis Philippe. He is truly to be pitied now more 
 than ever. Good and gentle by nature, he is condemned 
 by military tribunals to be severe. Moreover, he feels that 
 executions will neither help nor hinder; especially as the 
 cholera, a few weeks ago, executed more than thirty-five 
 thousand persons with the most horrible tortures. Cruelties 
 of governors are more readily pardoned than the violation 
 of traditional rights, a violation involved in the reactionary 
 essence of a declaration of siege. This is why the threat of 
 military tribunal severity inspires the Republicans with so 
 superior a tone, whereas now their adversaries appear so 
 small. 
 
 PARIS, 
 
 THE exhaustion which usually follows upon any great 
 excitement is very noticeable to-day. Everywhere 
 grey ill-humour, peevishness, fatigue ; mouths that gape 
 open showing their teeth, or that yawn equally help- 
 lessly. The decision of the Court of Appeal has put 
 an end to our singular State of Siege, almost after the 
 manner of a comedy. There has been so much laughter 
 over this unforeseen catastrophe that the people have 
 almost pardoned the Government for their miscalculated 
 coup d'etat. With what glee at the street corners we 
 read M. de Montalivet's pronunciamento, in which he, as 
 it were, thanks the Parisians for having taken so little notice 
 of the State of Siege, and, moreover, for not having allowed 
 themselves to be disturbed in their amusements ! 
 
 I do not believe that Beaumarchais could have written 
 this proclamation better. Really, the present Government 
 does much for the enjoyment of the people !
 
 JUNE DAYS. 209 
 
 At the same time the French are amusing themselves 
 with a singular pastime. It consists of a Chinese puzzle, 
 whose peculiarity is that a determined-upon figure must be 
 put together by means of a few oblique and angular pieces 
 of wood. The occupation in Parisian salons is to piece 
 together a new ministry in accordance with the rules of 
 this game. 
 
 No idea can be given of the angular and oblique person- 
 ages who find themselves grouped together without any of 
 these wooden combinations resolving in one honest collec- 
 tive figure. The greatest number of attempts are made 
 with Talleyrand and Dupin the elder. Concerning the 
 first-named, the daily papers have not failed to say every 
 possible untruth. It was a cardinal mistake to attach so 
 much importance to his forming one of the new Ministry. 
 
 This man is old and worn, and came here on perhaps 
 purely personal concerns. He is reported to be ill and 
 weak, precisely because he constantly reiterates that he has 
 never felt so well and hearty as now. He travels now to 
 the baths merely to confirm his health and robustness. 
 With the wilfulness of a child who does not yet know the bad 
 side of the world, people listen to this grey-haired man, who 
 has scarcely yet learned to know the good side, and jokes 
 lightly over the complications and threatening difficulties 
 of the day. With this well-known manner of taking the 
 gravest matters lightly, he makes himself appear the em- 
 bodiment of trustworthiness and infallibility; he is thus, to a 
 certain extent, the Pope of those unbelievers whose luckless 
 church have faith neither in the Holy Spirit of the people, 
 nor in the incarnation of the divine Word. 
 
 Over Dupin's checks concerning the choice of ministers, 
 the papers have said many extraordinary, but always un- 
 founded, things. It is true that he has had some rather
 
 2io HEINE. 
 
 stiff consultations with the king, and that one day they 
 separated with reciprocal ill-feeling. It is also true that 
 Lord Granville was the cause. The following is the 
 account of the matter: 
 
 M. Dupin had previously passed his word to Louis 
 Philippe that as soon as the king should desire it he would 
 accept the presidency of the Council. Lord Granville, to 
 whom it was displeasing to see so bourgeois a man at the 
 head of the Government, and, in the spirit of his caste, 
 desired a more socially distinguished Prime Minister, must 
 have expressed to Louis Philippe some serious doubts 
 concerning the capacity of M. Dupin. When the king 
 recounted these remarks to M. Dupin, the latter became so 
 irate, and gave vent to such unseemly expressions, that a 
 rupture ensued between the king and himself. 
 
 A number of petty intrigues are, moreover, interwoven 
 with this event. Had Dupin become President of the 
 Council, most of the members of the then existing ministry 
 would have retired. A number of the other high officials 
 would have been dismissed. The ancient editor of the 
 National^ M. Thiers, would of necessity have taken another 
 post, whereas the present editor of the Temps, M. Costa, 
 would have obtained the important position previously 
 occupied by the vanished M. Kessnen namely, of chief 
 administrator of the State-treasury. 
 
 Meanwhile the inherent power of events will resolve many 
 disclosures; as soon as the Chamber recommences its 
 debates, M. Dupin is the only available minister for the 
 juste-milieu. For he alone is able to offer resistance to the 
 opposition in parliament, and, undoubtedly, the Government 
 itself will be sufficiently called to account. 
 
 Thus far Louis Philippe still continues to be his own 
 Prime Minister. This is already proved by the fact that all
 
 JUNE DAYS. sir 
 
 government acts are ascribed to him, and not to M. Mont- 
 alivet, of whom almost nothing is heard, and who is not 
 even hated. The change that seems to have taken place in 
 the king's views since the revolt of the 5th and 6th June is 
 very remarkable. He now considers himself very strong; 
 lie is convinced he can depend unreservedly on the great 
 mass of the nation; he believes himself to be the necessary 
 man to whom the nation will unconditionally attach itself 
 in event of foreign aggression; and he seems, thereupon, to 
 feel less repugnance for war than formerly. The patriot party 
 are, as a fact, in the minority; they mistrust him, and fear, 
 with reason, that he is less hostile to foreign enemies than 
 to those at home. The former threaten his crown only, the 
 latter threaten his life. The king knows well that it is so. 
 Indeed, when one reflects that Louis Philippe is convinced 
 to the depths of his soul of the sanguinary malevolence of 
 his enemies, one cannot be other than astonished at his 
 moderation. Through the declaration of the State of Siege 
 he allowed himself to be guilty of an unjustifiable illegality; 
 but he cannot be accused of having unworthily abused 
 his power. He, on the contrary, generously spared those 
 who had personally insulted him, while he sought only to 
 repress or rather to disarm those who were inimical to his 
 government. In spite of all the ill-will that may be cherished 
 against Louis Philippe the king, I am thoroughly convinced 
 that Louis Philippe the man is wide-minded and great- 
 hearted to an unusual degree. His master-passion appears 
 to be architecture. I was at the Tuileries yesterday: every- 
 where building is going on, above and below ground; room 
 walls are being torn down, great cellars are being dug out, 
 and there is a constant sound of slip-slap. The king, who 
 resides with his whole family at St. Cloud, comes daily to 
 Paris, and inspects first of all the progress of the building in
 
 212 HEINE. 
 
 the Tuileries. This palace now stands quite empty; only 
 the ministerial councils are held therein. Oh, if old blood- 
 stains could speak, as in nursery tales, good advice might 
 sometimes be audible there; for in yonder rooms of that 
 tragic house much eloquent blood has flowed. 
 
 PARIS, July \yh. 
 
 THE 1 4th of June passed tranquilly, without any symptoms 
 of the expected riot, announced by the police. It was, 
 however, an excessively hot day ; so suffocating an atmo- 
 sphere lay over the whole of Paris, that the pronunciamento 
 did not attract the usual number of curious folk to the 
 habitual theatre of such riots. Only on that Place where 
 the Revolution was inaugurated, where once the Bastille 
 was destroyed, groups of men gathered, loitering there 
 quietly in the grilling midday sun, and allowing themselves 
 more or less out of patriotism to be roasted. It was 
 rumoured some days ago that on the i4th of July the old 
 stormers of the Bastille, who are still in life and in receipt 
 of a pension, should be publicly crowned with laurels on 
 that spot A principal role in this fete was proposed for 
 Lafayette. 
 
 This project, however, must have been abandoned after 
 the events of June 5th and 6th; moreover, Lafayette does 
 not seem to wish for a new triumphal procession this 
 year. 
 
 In the groups of men in the Place de la Bastille there 
 were possibly more police than ordinary men ; for malicious, 
 bitter remarks were spoken, such as only disguised detec- 
 tives could venture to utter. Louis Philippe, they said, is 
 a traitor; the national guards are traitors; the deputies
 
 JUNE DAYS. 213 
 
 are traitors ; the July sun alone has honourable intentions. 
 And it, indeed, did its duty; it poured its glowing rays 
 upon us almost beyond endurance. For my own part 
 I made the reflection in this excessive heat, that the 
 Bastille must have been a very cool building, and must 
 certainly have afforded a very grateful shade in summer. 
 When it was destroyed five persons sat imprisoned therein. 
 Now, however, there are ten State prisons, and St. Pelagic 
 alone contains over six hundred State prisoners. St. Pelagic 
 must be very unhealthy, and is very restricted in space. 
 Otherwise it is jolly enough there : Republicans and 
 Carlisls, it is true, hold themselves apart from one another, 
 but they continually exchange witty passages, and laugh 
 and joke together. The Republicans wear red Jacobin caps, 
 the Carlists wear green caps with a white lily for their badge. 
 The one party shouts continually " Vive la Republique ! " 
 the other shouts " Vive Henri ! " The applause is unan- 
 imous if, in wilder fury, some one levels insults at Louis 
 Philippe, and this can happen with impunity, inasmuch as 
 no prisoner in St. Pelagic can be either arrested or put in 
 solitary confinement. Most of the hot-heads, who previously 
 stirred up tumult on the slightest pretext, are now there 
 under lock and key, and that is why the police latterly 
 have not succeeded in organising any riot of a productive 
 sort. The Republicans are for the moment very careful 
 not to attempt any violence. Moreover, they have no 
 weapons; the disarming has been carried out very 
 thoroughly. 
 
 To-day is the name-day of the young Henri, and some 
 Carlist excesses are anticipated. A proclamation in his 
 favour was spread about yesterday evening by rag-pickers 
 and disguised priests. Therein it was set forth that he 
 would ensure the happiness of France, and preserve the
 
 214 HEINE. 
 
 country from foreign invasion. Next year he will be of 
 age, for French kings attain their majority at the age of 
 thirteen, and are then supposed to have acquired their 
 highest attainments. 
 
 For the first time the young Henri is represented with 
 sceptre and crown, in that proclamation ; hitherto he has 
 been depicted in the dress of a pilgrim, or of a Scottish 
 highlander, climbing crags, or putting his purse into the 
 hand of a poor beggar woman, etc. Nothing redoubtable 
 is expected from these miserable efforts. The Carlists are 
 also in a very disheartened humour. The mad temerity of 
 the Duchesse de Berry had done them much harm. In vain 
 did the chief of the Parisian Carlists despatch M. Berryer to 
 the Duchess, in order to facilitate her return to Holyrood. 
 In vain has Louis Philippe made the same essay by means 
 of his agents. In vain the foreign ambassadors conjured 
 her in the name of God to relinquish her enterprise for 
 the moment. Neither reasons, menaces, nor prayers could 
 prevail upon that headstrong woman to depart. She is 
 still in the Vendee. Although wholly without resources, 
 without support from either side, she will not yield. 
 
 The key to the riddle is this, that stupid or cunning 
 priests have made a tool of her fanatical superstition, and 
 have persuaded her that if she die for her child she will 
 work a benediction on him. Consequently, she courts death 
 with the religious .ardour of a martyr and the passionate 
 love of a mother. 
 
 If no agitation is visible in public places, there is 
 so much the more disquietude observable in society. 
 Primarily it is the German affairs, the ordinances of the 
 Diet, which occupy all minds. The most aggravating 
 criticisms upon Germany are to be heard. The French in 
 their volatility erroneously suppose that our princes oppress
 
 JUNE DAYS. 215 
 
 liberty; they do not perceive that there is question only 
 of putting an end to the anarchy that reigns among German 
 Liberals, and of advancing the unity and welfare of the 
 German people. As early as the 2nd June the Temps had 
 given a digest of the six articles of the decrees of the Diet. 
 And previously to that a well-known pietist went about 
 carrying extracts from these decrees and therewith edified 
 many hearts. 
 
 Next to German affairs we are mostly here concerned 
 with those of Belgium and Holland, which are hourly 
 becoming more tangled, yet which must be brought to a 
 conclusion as quickly as possible. England is credited 
 with the intention to put an end to these complications in 
 one way or another; and it is said that this, and not Polish 
 interests, is the real purport of Durham's journey to Peters- 
 burg. In any case, the choice of messenger is considered 
 as a sign of a decisive purpose; for Lord Durham is the 
 most morose, the most prickly, and the most angular son of 
 Albion. Moreover, he is personally hostile to the Russian 
 camarilla, because the latter on the occasion of the Reform 
 Bill intrigued against him, a jealous reformer, and against 
 his father-in-law, Lord Grey, and must have sought by any 
 available means to overthrow him. The friends of peace 
 hope that he and the Emperor Nicholas will not speak 
 much with one another, because the latter can in nowise 
 be favourably disposed on account of the unbecoming and 
 even contemptuous manner in which he has been spoken 
 of in Parliament. Perhaps there may be other very 
 obvious reasons why no important interview between them 
 can take place, and everything may depend upon the 
 intermediary. Louis Philippe is still of opinion that he is 
 strong. " Look, how strong we are ! " is the refrain of all 
 discourses in the Tuileries; just as a sick man perpetually
 
 216 HEINE. 
 
 speaks of health and does not know how sufficiently to 
 affirm that he digests well, that he can stand on his legs 
 without cramp, that he breathes quite comfortably, etc., etc. 
 
 These people constantly vaunt the strength and energy 
 that they have already expended in various comminatory 
 measures, and that they may still expend. Then come 
 daily to the castle the diplomats who feel their pulse and 
 make them put out their tongue, who carefully diagnose 
 their symptoms, and then send bulletins of the political 
 health to foreign courts. Among the plenipotentiaries the 
 eternal question is asked : " Is Louis Philippe strong or 
 weak?" In the first case, their masters may tranquilly 
 conclude and carry out any wished-for measure at home; 
 in the second case, where war might be a consequence of 
 a change of French government, nothing very serious can 
 be attempted. . . . 
 
 That great question, whether Louis Philippe be weak or 
 strong, may be difficult to decide. 
 
 It is, however, easy to see that the French themselves 
 are not weak. They have found new allies in the hearts of 
 the people, whereas their adversaries at this moment do not 
 stand on the pinnacle of popularity. They have invisible 
 hordes of spirits as auxiliaries, and their corporeal army is 
 therefore in a flourishing condition. French youth is as 
 warlike and enthusiastic as in 1792. 
 
 The young conscripts parade through Paris to the strains 
 of joyous music, and wear on their hats fluttering ribbons 
 and flowers and the number they have drawn, which in a 
 manner is their great lottery. Hymns to Liberty are sung 
 and the marches of '92 are rattled on the drums. 
 
 1832.
 
 217 
 
 LETTERS FROM NORMANDY. 
 
 HAVRE, August ist, 1832. 
 
 THE question, whether Louis Philippe be strong or weak, 
 appears to belong to the category of those problems whose 
 solution is of equal interest to the people and to their 
 rulers. It occupied my thoughts constantly during my 
 excursion in the north of France. But, as concerns public 
 opinion, I have heard so many contradictory assertions, 
 that I am able to communicate nothing more definite on 
 this subject than they can discover who go for inspiration 
 to the Tuileries, or, more properly speaking, to St. Cloud. 
 The northern French, and consequently the wily Normands, 
 are not wont to express themselves as unreservedly as do 
 the people of the langue d'oc. Or is it perhaps already 
 a sign of discontent that many of the citizens of the langue 
 d'ceil, preoccupied exclusively with the national interests, 
 preserve this serious silence the moment they are inter- 
 rogated thereon ? Youth, alone, enthusiastic in the promul- 
 gation of ideas, expresses itself in unveiled language upon 
 what to it is an inevitable event namely, the Republic; 
 and the Carlists, who consider the interests of the indivi- 
 dual to be of paramount importance, insinuate in every 
 possible way their hatred of the powers that be, which they 
 depict in the most exaggerated colours, and whose fall they 
 predict as a matter of certainty. The Carlists are fairly
 
 218 HEINE. 
 
 numerous in this region. This is explained by the exist- 
 ence of a particular predilection, the attachment to certain 
 members of the fallen dynasty, who formerly spent the 
 summer in this neighbourhood, and knew how to make 
 themselves beloved; the Duchesse de Berry, for example. 
 Her adventures are the subject of daily conversation, and 
 the priests of the Catholic Church invent in addition the 
 most pious legends, redounding to the great glory of this 
 political Madonna, and the blessed fruit of her body. In 
 earlier days the priests were in nowise so satisfied with the 
 ecclesiastical zeal of the duchess, and it was precisely 
 because she excited their displeasure that she gained the 
 favour of the people. " That pretty little woman is certainly 
 not as bigoted as the others," it was said; "see with what 
 worldly coquetry she saunters along in the procession, with 
 what an air of indifference she carries her prayer-book, how 
 she amuses herself by holding her taper aslant so that the 
 wax drops on the satin train of her gloomily pious sister-in- 
 law, d'Angouleme ! " These days have passed, and the 
 merry roses have faded from poor Caroline's cheeks. She 
 has become as pious as the others, and carries her taper as 
 devoutly as the priests could wish; and, with this taper, she 
 sets light to the civil war in beautiful France as the priests 
 wish. 
 
 I cannot refrain from remarking that the influence of the 
 Catholic ecclesiastics is greater in this province than is 
 generally supposed in Paris. In funeral processions they 
 are here to be seen robed once again in their church vest- 
 ments, with cross and banners, as they chant a melancholy 
 dirge through the streets; a spectacle well calculated to 
 astonish one recently come from the capital, where all such 
 display is strictly forbidden by the police, or, more correctly, 
 by the people. During my stay in Paris I have never once
 
 LE TTERS FR OM NORM AND Y. 219 
 
 seen a priest wearing official attire in the streets; I have never 
 seen the Church represented, either by its ministers or by 
 its symbols, in any of the thousand funeral processions 
 which passed before me during the cholera time. Never- 
 theless, many people aver that religion is silently reviving 
 in Paris. This is true at any rate of the French Catholic 
 Church of the Abbe" Chattel, which increases each day; 
 the hall in the Rue Clichy has become too narrow for the 
 crowd of the faithful, and for some time past the Abbe has 
 held his services in the large building in the Boulevard 
 Bonne Nouvelle, wherein M. Martin previously exhibited 
 the animals of his menagerie, and where the following 
 inscription in large letters is now set up: Eglise Catholique 
 et Apostolique. 
 
 Frenchmen of the North, who will hear nothing either 
 of the Republic or of the miraculous child, whose sole 
 desire is for the prosperity of France, are not exactly warm 
 partisans of Louis Philippe, and do not sing praises of his 
 frankness and integrity. On the contrary, they regret 
 that he is not candid. They are, however, thoroughly 
 persuaded that he is the right man ; that he must be 
 upheld for the sake of public tranquillity; that the 
 repression of all disturbances is salutary for commerce; 
 that all further revolution and even war should be avoided 
 in order that commerce should not come to a complete stop. 
 They fear war only in the interests of commerce, which is 
 already in a sorry condition. They do not fear war as war, 
 for they are Frenchmen, and consequently are eager for 
 glory as well as warlike by nature ; and besides this, they 
 are of stronger and more solid build than the Frenchmen of 
 the South, upon whom perhaps they impose their will by 
 firmness and by an opinionative perseverance. Is this a 
 result of the admixture of the Germanic race? They resemble
 
 220 HEINE. 
 
 their great powerful horses, that are as competent to run 
 swiftly as to carry heavy burdens and to endure all hard- 
 ships of weather and of the road. These men fear neither 
 Austrians nor Russians, neither Prussians nor Baskirs. 
 They are neither partisans nor adversaries of Louis Philippe. 
 The moment war is declared they will follow the tricolour 
 flag, no matter who may be its bearer. 
 
 I am convinced, that if war were declared, all the internal 
 dissensions of the French would be promptly adjusted, 
 either by conciliation or by force, that France would 
 become a strong united power able to hold its own 
 against the rest of the world. In that moment the 
 strength or weakness of Louis Philippe would no longer 
 be a subject of controversy. Then, he must be strong, or 
 nothing. This question relates only to the preservation of 
 peace; it is under this aspect only that is of importance to 
 foreign powers. In many parts of this country I have 
 received the following answer : " The party of the king is 
 certainly imposing in point of numbers, but it is not strong." 
 I think these words afford much matter for reflection. In 
 the first place, they imply the unfortunate statement that the 
 Government is itself in subjection to a party, and to all the 
 interests of that party. The king is no longer the august 
 power that calmly watches the strife of parties from the 
 height of his throne, and knows how to maintain them in a 
 salutary equilibrium ; no, he himself has descended into the 
 arena. Odilon-Barrot, Mauguin, Carrel, Pages, Cavaignac 
 find, perhaps, no other difference between him and them- 
 selves than that of a fortuitous momentary power. This 
 is the deplorable result of the king's decision to reserve 
 to himself the Presidentship of the Council. Now Louis 
 Philippe cannot change his chosen system of government 
 without immediately falling into contradiction with his party
 
 LETTERS FROM NORMANDY. 221 
 
 and himself. Hence the press treats him as the supreme 
 head of a party; it lays upon him all the blame provoked 
 by faults of the Government; it assumes every ministerial 
 word to be his own utterance ; in the Citizen-King it sees 
 only a minister-king. When the statues of the gods descend 
 from their exalted pedestals, the holy respect with which we 
 regarded them perishes, and we judge them by their deeds 
 and their words, as though they were our equals. 
 
 With regard to the assertion that the king's party is 
 numerous, but not strong, it certainly relates nothing new, 
 since its truth has long been known. But what is remark- 
 able is that the people have made this discovery on their 
 own account ; that they do not count the heads, as is their 
 usual custom, but the hands ; that they distinguish between 
 those who applaud, and those who grasp the sword. The 
 people have narrowly observed their world, and know very 
 well that the king's party is composed of the three following 
 classes : merchants and proprietors who fear for their shops 
 and their possessions ; those who are weary of the struggle, 
 and sigh for repose above all things ; and the timid who fear 
 the Reign of Terror. This king's party, laden with property, 
 apprehensive of the slightest interference with its daily 
 comforts; this majority is face to face with a minority 
 little encumbered with baggage, unquiet and restless to the 
 last degree, that, in the impetuous, unbridled course of 
 its ideas, sees but an ally in the Terror. 
 
 In spite of the great number of heads, in spite of the 
 triumph of June 6th, the people doubt the strength of 
 the juste-milieu. It is always a sorry augury when the 
 Government is not strong in the eyes of the people. 
 
 These are thereby incited to try their strength against it ; 
 a mysterious demoniacal impulse drives men to test their 
 strength. This is the secret of Revolution.
 
 222 HEINE. 
 
 DIEPPE, 2Olh August. 
 
 IT "is not possible to give an idea of the impression pro- 
 duced upon the lower classes of the French people by the 
 death of young Napoleon. The sentimental bulletins which 
 the Temps has published concerning the prolonged dying of 
 the young prince during the last six weeks, which were 
 reprinted and sold in the streets of Paris for a sou, had 
 already begun to excite deep sadness in all the thoroughfares. 
 I have seen even young Republicans weeping; but the old 
 Republicans did not seem much affected, and it was with 
 surprise that I overheard one of these say severely, " Don't 
 cry; he was the son of the man who fired the mitrailleuse 
 against the people on the i3th Vende'miaire." It is 
 curious that when misfortune strikes a man we involuntarily 
 recall some old grievance against him of which we have 
 perhaps not thought time out of mind. In country- 
 places the Emperor is venerated without reserve. There 
 a portrait of the Man hangs in every cottage, and perhaps, 
 as la Quotidienne remarks, on the same wall hangs a picture 
 of the son of the house, as though he had not been sacri- 
 ficed by this very man on one of his hundred battle-fields. 
 Spite sometimes extorts from la Quotidienne the most naively 
 conscientious remarks, which the more jesuitically fine 
 Gazette defies in its turn. This is the chief political differ- 
 ence which exists between these two papers. I traversed 
 the greater portion of the neighbourhood of the northern 
 coasts of France while the news of the death of the young 
 Napoleon spread through it. Wherever I went I found uni- 
 versal mourning among the people. The grief of these people 
 was sincere; its source was not in the self-interests of the day, 
 but in the cherished memories of a glorious past. Especially 
 among the beautiful Normandaises was great lament made 
 over the premature death of the son of the great hero.
 
 LE TTERS FROM NORM AND Y. 223 
 
 Yes, in every cottage hangs the portrait of the Emperor. 
 Everywhere I found it crowned with a wreath of immortelles, 
 as are our images of the Saviour during Holy Week. Many 
 old soldiers wore crape. One old wooden-leg held a hand 
 out to me and said, " A present, tout est fini ! " 
 
 Undeniably, for those Buonapartists who believe in the 
 resurrection in the flesh of the Emperor, all is at an end. 
 For them Napoleon is nothing but a name, like Alexander 
 of Macedon, or Charlemagne, whose issue likewise perished 
 early. But for the Buonapartists, who believe in a resurrec- 
 tion of the Napoleonic spirit, there is a future full of high 
 hope. For these, Buonapartism is not the transmission of 
 power through direct issue. No, their Buonapartism is now 
 purified from all animal admixture, it is the idea of a 
 monarchism of the highest power, employed for the profit 
 of the people; and whosoever shall have that power and 
 shall so use it, shall be called by them Napoleon I., as 
 Caesar gave his name to authority only; so the name of 
 Napoleon will henceforth designate a new Gesardom, of 
 which the right of possession shall belong to him of greatest 
 capacity and of best will. 
 
 In certain respects Napoleon was a saint-Simonian 
 Emperor. As he had himself arrived at supreme power 
 by his intellectual superiority he furthered the interests of 
 capacity only, and he had for aim the physical and moral 
 welfare of the most numerous and the poorest class. He 
 reigned less to the profit of the tiers tat, of the middle 
 class, of the juste-milieu, than in the interest of the men 
 whose riches are in their heart and in their hand. His 
 army was a hierarchy, whose posts of honour were occupied 
 by reason of personal merit and capacity. The meanest 
 son of a peasant could, equally with the heir of the most 
 ancient race, obtain the highest dignities and win gold and
 
 224 HEINE. 
 
 stars of honour. This is why the Emperor's portrait is in the 
 hut of every peasant, on the same wall on which would have 
 hung the likeness of the son of the house, had he not fallen 
 on the field of battle before he had been promoted to be 
 general, or duke, or even king, as might many another poor 
 lad, whose talent and courage might carry him to such high 
 destiny, when the Emperor should reign again. In the 
 image of this man there are many, perhaps, who worship 
 the vanished hope of their own greatness. 
 
 Most frequently I found in these peasant huts the picture 
 of the Emperor visiting the sick at Jaffa, or that of him 
 lying on his death-bed at St. Helena. These two repre- 
 sentations bear a striking resemblance to the most holy 
 pictures of the Christian religion. In the one Napoleon 
 appears in the character of a saviour, who heals the sick; 
 in the other he also dies a death of expiation. 
 
 We, who are preoccupied by another symbol, we see no 
 expiation in the sense indicated in the martyrdom of 
 Napoleon on St. Helena. The Emperor there endures 
 the penalty of the most fatal of his errors, of his guilt of 
 infidelity towards the Revolution his mother. History 
 had long since shown that a union between the son of the 
 Revolution with the daughter of the Past could never 
 prosper, and we now see that the only fruit of this fatal 
 marriage had no life-principle in him, and that he died 
 deplorably. 
 
 Concerning the heritage of the defunct, opinions are 
 divided. The friends of Louis Philippe think that the 
 orphaned Buonapartists will attach themselves to them. 
 1 doubt, however, if these men of war and of glory will 
 pass over so promptly to the pacific juste-milieu. The 
 Carlists think that the Buonapartists will do homage to 
 their King Henry V., the unique Pretender. I really do
 
 LETTERS FROM NORMANDY. 225 
 
 not know which most to admire in men, their folly or their 
 presumption. The Republicans would seem more than all 
 the others in a condition to draw the Buonapartists to 
 them, but if it were easy once to make of uncombed 
 sans culottes the most brilliantly appointed imperialists, 
 it may prove difficult now to work a contrary metamor- 
 phosis. 
 
 It is greatly regretted that the beloved relics, the sword 
 of the Emperor, the mantle of Marengo, the world-historic 
 three-cornered hat, etc., which, in conformity with the 
 testament from St. Helena, have been delivered over to 
 young Reichstadt, do not come back to France. Each 
 party in France might easily utilise a portion of this 
 succession. Really, if I had the disposing thereof, I 
 would apportion them thus : to the Republicans the 
 sword of the Emperor, because they alone would still 
 know how to put it to profitable use. I would allow my 
 gentlemen of the juste-milieu to have the cloak of Marengo; 
 for, indeed, they are sadly in need of such a cloak where- 
 with to cover their inglorious nakedness. For the Carlists 
 I would reserve the Emperor's hat, though it is not very 
 suitable for such heads; but it may stand them in good 
 stead when again blows rain down on their heads. Yes, 
 I would even give them in addition the top-boots of the 
 Emperor, which in any case they will be able to use the 
 next time they again wish to run away. As to the staff 
 with which the Emperor walked about at Jena, I doubt 
 much if it is to be found in the Due de Reichstadt's 
 legacy, and I believe the French have it still in their 
 hands. 
 
 After the death of the young Napoleon, it was the 
 journeyings of the Duchesse de Berry that chiefly I heard 
 discussed in the provinces. The adventures of this lady
 
 226 HEINE. 
 
 are told so poetically that one would think they had boen 
 woven in hours of leisure by the grand nephews of the 
 Fabliaux poets. The wedding of Compiegne has also 
 furnished ample material for conversation ; I could impart 
 a perfect ant-heap of bad jokes on this subject that I have 
 heard debited to a Carlist castle. For example, one of the 
 orators at these festivities seems to have observed that the 
 Maid of Orleans was made prisoner at Compiegne, and 
 that it was even in Compiegne that a new Duchesse of 
 Orleans also was put in chains. Although all the French 
 papers noise abroad the intimation that the influx of 
 strangers is here very great, and especially that the life 
 at the baths of Dieppe is very brilliant this year, I, here 
 on the spot, have found it to be quite the contrary. There 
 are not more than perhaps fifty bathers altogether ; every- 
 thing is sad and dull, and the Baths which had attained 
 to so high a degree of prosperity, thanks to the visits paid 
 every summer by the Duchesse de Berry, seem irretrievably 
 ruined. Many people have in consequence sunk into abject 
 misery, and they look upon the fall of the Bourbons as the 
 cause of their misfortunes. It is, therefore, easy to under- 
 stand why there are many rabid Carlists here. At all 
 events, it would be calumniating Dieppe to maintain that 
 more than a quarter of its inhabitants are partisans of the 
 previous dynasty. Nowhere do the National Guards 
 evince greater patriotism than here; at the first beat of 
 the drum they are to be seen massing together for drill; 
 moreover, in their zeal, all wear the complete uniform. 
 The fete of Napoleon has, during these last days, 
 been celebrated with striking enthusiasm. As a rule, 
 Louis Philippe is here neither loved nor detested. His 
 maintenance on the throne is looked upon as necessary 
 to the welfare of France. As to his government, it does
 
 L E TTERS PR OM NORM AND Y. 227 
 
 not exactly excite enthusiasm. The French are in general 
 so well informed by the free press concerning the true 
 state of matters, they are so enlightened in politics, that 
 they accept lesser evils patiently so as not to run the risk 
 of greater. Concerning the personal character of the king, 
 it is rarely attacked ; he is to be a man worthy of respect. 
 
 ROUEN, ijth September. 
 
 I WRITE these lines in the old country-seat of the Dukes 
 of Normandy, in the ancient city where many old stone 
 documents recall the history of this people so renowned of 
 old for their adventurous and heroic intrepidity, and to-day 
 for their spirit of litigation and their cleverness in gain. 
 There, in that castle, sojourned Robert le Diable, whom 
 Meyerbeer has set to music; on that market-place the 
 Maid of Orleans was burnt, the great-hearted girl sung of 
 by Schiller and Voltaire ; in this cathedral rests the heart 
 of Richard the valiant king, named by men the Cceur-de- 
 Lion ; from this soil sprang the Conqueror of Hastings, 
 the sons of Tancred, and so many others of the flower of 
 Norman chivalry. 
 
 But all these are of no importance to us in the present 
 day; here we occupy ourselves much more with the 
 question : Has the pacific system of Louis Philippe taken 
 root in the warlike soil of Normandy ? Has the new citizen- 
 kingship made for itself a good or bad bed in the old 
 heroic cradle of English and Italian aristocracy, in this 
 land of Normandy ? I think I am to-day able to answer 
 this question very briefly. The large proprietors, especially 
 among the nobles, are Carlists ; the well-to-do tradesmen 
 and farmers are Philippists; the bulk of the people hate
 
 228 HEINE. 
 
 and despise the Bourbons, but love, at all events the lesser 
 number, the gigantic remembrances of the Republic, and the 
 greater number the brilliant heroism of the Empire. The 
 Carlists, like every vanquished party, are more active than 
 the Philippists, who feel themselves secure for the present ; 
 it may be said in their praise that they make great sacri- 
 fices, especially money sacrifices. The Carlists, who never 
 question their future triumph, but are persuaded that the 
 future will return all their present sacrifices to them a 
 thousandfold, give to their last sou, if they think thereby 
 to benefit their party. It is a characteristic of this class 
 less to appreciate their own belongings than to lust after 
 those of others (sui profusus> alieni appetens). Covetous- 
 ness and prodigality are sisters. The plebeian, who is not 
 wont to acquire his earthly goods by court services, the 
 favour of mistresses, by soft words and light play, holds 
 more tenaciously to what he has earned. 
 
 Meanwhile, the good citizens of Normandy have perceived 
 that the journals through which the Carlists seek to work 
 upon public opinion were very dangerous to the security 
 of the State and of their possessions; they realise that they 
 must thwart these intrigues by the same means the press. 
 To this end the Estafetle du Havre has been recently 
 started, a moderate journal of the juste-milieu, which cost 
 the honourable merchants of Havre a great deal of money, 
 and upon which many Parisians are at work, notably M. de 
 Salvandy, a small, pliable, colourless nature in a long stiff 
 and dried-up body (he has been praised by Goethe). Thus 
 far, this journal is the only counter-mine opposed to the 
 Carlists in Normandy. These latter, on the contrary, are 
 indefatigable; they start their journals everywhere, their 
 fortresses of lies, against which the spirit of Liberty may 
 little by little expend its strength until succour comes from
 
 LETTERS FROM NORM AND Y. 2 29 
 
 out the West. These papers are conducted more or less 
 after the manner of La Gazette de France and La Quoti- 
 dienne; these two are, moreover, very actively distributed 
 among the people. Both are written in a, singularly clever 
 and attractive manner, but withal they are profoundly 
 wicked, perfidious, full of useful advice, of malicious 
 pleasantries; and their noble colporteurs, who often dis- 
 tribute them gratis, and perhaps give money in addition 
 to the readers, naturally find for their wares a greater 
 sale than the moderate mouthpiece of the juste-milieu. I 
 do not know how sufficiently to recommend these two 
 papers, for, from a superior point of view, I do not 
 consider them in any way dangerous to the cause of 
 liberty. On the contrary, they are helpful, because they 
 spur on and provoke the combatants to new efforts, when 
 at times weary of the struggle. These two journals are 
 true representativea of the kind of people who, when their 
 cause fails, revenge themselves on individuals; it is an 
 action old as the world. We put our feet on their 
 head, they pierce our heel. It must, however, be said 
 in praise of La Gazette Quotidienne that, if it be as much 
 a serpent as La Gazette, it nevertheless hides its wicked- 
 ness less; that its hereditary rancour betrays itself in 
 every word; that it is a kind of rattlesnake and itself 
 warns people of its approach. La Gazette, unfortunately, 
 has no such rattle. At times it speaks against its own 
 principles in order indirectly to procure a triumph ; La 
 Quotidienne, in its ardour, would rather sacrifice the victory 
 than thus deny itself in cold blood. La Gazette has the 
 calmness of Jesuitism, and does not permit itself to be 
 disturbed by the fervour of its opinions, which is so much 
 the easier, inasmuch as Jesuitism, properly speaking, has 
 no opinions, but is merely a profession. In La Quotidienne,
 
 230 HEINE. 
 
 on the contrary, imperious lordlings and rabid monks rage 
 and roar, ill-disguised in the garments of chivalrous 
 loyalty and Christian love. This last characteristic belongs 
 also to the Carlist journal which appears here, at Rouen, 
 under the title of Gazette de la Normandie. In it there 
 are lamentations over the disappearance of the good old 
 times with its chivalric figures, its crusades, its pious nuns, 
 its gentle ladies, its troubadours, and other sentimentalities, 
 which remind one strangely of a celebrated German poet, 
 in whose head blossomed more flowers than thoughts, but 
 whose heart was full of love; whereas, on the contrary, as 
 concerns the editor of the Gazette de la Normandie, his 
 head is full of crass obscurantism, and his heart of gall 
 and poison. This editor is a certain Vicomte Walsh, a long 
 grey-haired figure of about sixty years of age. I have seen 
 him in Dieppe, where he had been invited to a Carlist 
 council, and where he was much feted by the noble clique. 
 With characteristic loquacity, a little Carlist, nevertheless, 
 whispered in my ear, "C'est un fameux compere; he does 
 not belong properly to the French nobility; his father 
 Irish by birth was in the service of France at the out- 
 break of the Revolution, and when he emigrated and wished 
 to avoid the confiscation of his goods he went through the 
 form of selling them to his son. But when, later, the old 
 man returned to France, and demanded back his goods 
 from his son, the latter denied the simulated sale, pre- 
 tended that it had taken place in good faith, and thus 
 kept possession of his father's and poor sister's fortune. 
 She became maid of honour to Madame la Duchesse de 
 Berry, and the enthusiasm of her brother for Madame is 
 founded in vanity as much as in egoism, for "... I knew 
 enough. 
 
 It is difficult to form an idea with what perfidious cousc
 
 LETTERS FROM NORMANDY. 231 
 
 quences the present Government is undermined by the 
 Carlists. With what result time will show. As no man is 
 too base for them, if they can use him to their ends, neither 
 are any means too bad. Besides these canonical journals, 
 of which I have spoken above, the Carlists, alas ! work 
 through the oral transmission of every possible calumny, 
 through tradition. This black propaganda seeks to destroy 
 utterly the good repute of the present governments, especi- 
 ally that of the king. The lies, forged to this intent, are 
 often as abominable as they are absurd. "Calumniate, 
 calumniate, for every snail leaves its trail," is practically 
 the motto of their charming masters. 
 
 In a Carlist society at Dieppe a young priest said to me : 
 " You ought in your correspondence with your compatriots 
 to help the cause of truth a little, so that when war is 
 declared, if by chance Louis Philippe should still be at 
 the head of the Government, the Germans may hate him 
 more vehemently, and may fight against him with greater 
 enthusiasm." 
 
 And when I asked him if we could be certain of victory, 
 he assured me with almost a smile of pity that "the 
 Germans were the bravest people in the world, that they 
 would be opposed with only a semblance of resistance; 
 that the North as well as the South was devoted to the 
 legitimate dynasty; that Henry V. and Madame were 
 generally adored as though they were a little Saviour and 
 the immaculate Mother, that it was the religion of the 
 people, and that this legitimate fervour would sooner or 
 later break out publicly in Normandy." . . . While the 
 man of God spoke thus, a horrible disturbance arose 
 suddenly in front of the house in which we chanced to be. 
 The drums rattled, the trumpets sounded, the "Marseillaise" 
 rang out so loudly that the window-panes vibrated, and
 
 232 HEINE. 
 
 there followed the cry from full throats, "Vive Louis 
 Philippe ! A bas les Carlists ! Les Carlists a la lanterne !" 
 This took place at one o'clock in the morning, and the 
 whole company was in great alarm. I was also afraid, for I 
 remembered the old German proverb, " Taken together, 
 hanged together." However, it was only a joke on the part 
 of the National Guard at Dieppe. These good people had 
 learned that Louis Philippe had just arrived at the Chateau 
 d'Eu, and they had at once formed the resolution to march 
 there to greet the king, but they wished in starling to give 
 an alarm to the poor Carlists, and to this end they made 
 that horrible row before their houses, and sang like madmen 
 the "Marseillaise," that "Dies irae, dies ilia" of the new 
 church which announces the last judgment to the Carlists. 
 
 I can, as eye-witness, report that it was not a prompted 
 enthusiasm with which the National Guards saluted the 
 king. He passed them in review, was delighted at the 
 unrestrained joy with which they greeted him, and I am 
 bound to admit that in this time of dissension and defiance 
 this picture of union was very edifying. They were free, 
 armed citizens, who without timidity looked their king in 
 eyes, showed him their respect, weapon in hand; and, 
 sometimes, by a manly shake of the hand, assured him of 
 their fidelity and their obedience. Louis Philippe very 
 naturally I need hardly say shook hands with each. . . . 
 
 The Carlists still mock greatly over these hand-shakes, 
 and I must admit that hatred makes them at times witty 
 when they quiz that unseemly familiarity. Thus, in the 
 castle of which I have made previous mention, I saw a farce 
 performed by a select few, which in the most burlesque 
 fashion represented how Fip I., king of the grocers (epiriers\ 
 gives his son, Grand Poulet, lessons in political economy, 
 and paternally instructs him "that he must not allow
 
 LETTERS FROM NORM AND Y. 233 
 
 himself to be enticed by theoricians to see the citizen- 
 kingship in the sovereignty of the people, and still less in 
 the maintenance of the Charta; that he must give ear to 
 the babbling neither of the right side nor of the left ; it is 
 of no consequence whether France be made free at home 
 or respected abroad, still less that the throne should be 
 barricaded with republican institutions or sustained by 
 hereditary peers; that neither pledged words nor heroic 
 deeds are of any importance, that citizen-kingship and the 
 art of government consists in shaking hands with every 
 ragamuffin." 
 
 Next he shows the different kinds of hand-shakes, in 
 every position, on foot, on horse, when galloping through 
 the ranks, during a march past, etc., etc. Grand Poulet is 
 an apt pupil, and accurately repeats this governmental 
 legerdemain. He even asserts that he wishes to perfect 
 this invention of the citizen-kingship, and each time he 
 shakes hands with a citizen he will also ask him, " How are 
 you, man Vieux cochon 1 " or, what is synonymous, " How 
 are you, citoyen ? " " Yes, it is synonymous," answers the 
 king dryly, and the Carlists laugh. Grand Poulet wishes next 
 to practise shaking hands, first with a griseite, and then 
 with the Baron Louis, but he does it so abruptly that he 
 breaks the people's fingers. The whole farce was seasoned 
 with mockeries and calumnies of those celebrated men 
 whom, before the July Revolution, we honoured as lights 
 of liberalism, and whom, since then, we have degraded as 
 servile. Although I had heretofore not been much in 
 favour of the jusfe-milieu, yet I felt myself moved with a 
 certain feeling of piety for these objects of my earlier 
 reverence; my liking for them re-awoke when I saw them 
 insulted by these bad men. Yes, like him who under the 
 waters of a dark well can discern the stars in the heavens in
 
 234 HEINE. 
 
 full daylight, I, having fallen into the company of Carlist 
 obscurantism, could see again, pure and clear, the merit of 
 the men of the juste-milieu ; I felt again my early respect 
 for the former Due d'Orleans, for the doctrinaires, for a 
 Guizot, a Thiers, a Dupin, a Royer-Collard, and for other 
 stars whose brilliancy is lost in the glaring daylight of the 
 July sun. It is useful, from time to time, thus to consider 
 the matter from a deep instead of a high standpoint. Thus 
 we learn to judge men more impartially, even when we hate 
 the cause whose representatives they are. We learn to 
 distinguish the men of the juste-milieu from their system. 
 This system is bad, in our opinion, though individuals may 
 merit our esteem : especially the man whose position is 
 the most difficult in Europe. Only in the resolution of the 
 1 3th of March does he see a possibility of his existence. 
 
 This sentiment of preservation is the same in all humanity. 
 If we happen to be in the midst of Carlists, and we hear 
 them accuse this man, he rises in our esteem when we find 
 that what they blame in Louis Philippe is exactly what we 
 see in him with greatest pleasure, that those qualities of his 
 which displease us are those most to their taste. If, in the 
 eyes of the Carlists, he has the merit of being a Bourbon, 
 this merit appears to us, on the contrary, a levis nota. But 
 it would be unjust not to make an honourable distinction 
 between him with his family and the elder branch of the 
 Bourbons. The house of Orleans has attached itself so 
 completely to the French people that it has been re- 
 generated with them; it, like the people, has emerged 
 from this terrible bath of the Revolution purified, ameli- 
 orated, more wholesome, and more citizenly. Whereas 
 the Bourbons, who have not taken part in this rejuvenation, 
 belong yet wholly to that decrepit old generation which 
 Crebillon, Laclos, and Louvel have so well depicted in the
 
 LE TTERS FR OM NORM AND Y. 235 
 
 full glory of its sins, in the flower of its corruption. France, 
 become young once more, could not again belong to this 
 dynasty, to these ghosts of the past; this false semblance 
 of life became daily more insupportable. Their conversion 
 after death was a repulsive spectacle; the perfumed cor- 
 ruption was an offence to every honest nose, and one fine 
 morning in June, when the Gallic cock crew, these ghosts 
 had to vanish away. Louis Philippe and his family, on the 
 contrary, are healthy and full of life. They are the flourish- 
 ing sons of young France, chaste in spirit, fresh with youth, 
 and of good citizenly habits. It is precisely this citizen 
 quality in Louis Philippe, so displeasing to the Carlists, 
 which raises him in our esteem. I cannot, in spite of the 
 best will in the world, sufficiently divest myself of party 
 spirit to judge correctly at which point he takes the citizen- 
 kingship seriously. The grand jury of history will decide 
 whether he meant it seriously. In this case the hand- 
 shaking would in nowise be ridiculous; and the manly 
 hand-shake will, perchance, become the symbol of the new 
 citizen-kingship, as the servile genuflection was formerly 
 the symbol of feudal sovereignty. Louis Philippe, if he 
 preserve and transmit to his children his throne and his 
 honourable sentiments, may leave behind him a great name 
 in history, not only as the chief of a new dynasty, but also 
 as the founder of a new sovereignty, which may change the 
 face of the world. As the first citizen-king . . . Louis 
 Philippe, if he preserve his throne and his honourable 
 sentiments, but that is precisely the great question.
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 
 
 I. 
 
 BAREGES, /w/v 2dth, 1846. 
 
 IN the memory of man there has never been such an influx 
 of visitors to the health-giving springs of Bareges as this 
 year. 
 
 The little village of about sixty houses and of a few dozen 
 temporary shelters cannot accommodate the crowd of in- 
 valids. Late-comers could scarcely find even a miserable 
 shelter for one night, and were obliged to turn away with 
 all their aches and pains. The greater number of the 
 visitors are French military men, who have earned laurels, 
 lancer-thrusts, and rheumatism in Africa. A few old 
 officers of the Empire drag themselves about here, and seek 
 in the baths forgetfulness of the glorious mementoes that 
 cause them so much suffering with every change of weather. 
 There is also a German poet here who may have divers 
 things to have bathed out of him, yet who, until the present 
 moment, has in nowise taken leave of his senses; who, still 
 less, is shut up in a lunatic asylum, as a Berlinese corre- 
 spondent has stated in that very praiseworthy Leipziger Allge- 
 meinen Zeitung. We may, of course, be mistaken. Heinrich 
 Heine may be madder than he himself knows. But what we 
 can with assurance affirm is that here, in anarchic France, he 
 is still at liberty to come and go as he pleases, which in all
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 237 
 
 probability would not be permitted to him in Berlin, where 
 the mental sanitary police would have acted in a more sum- 
 mary manner. Be that as it may, pious souls on the banks 
 of the Spree may console themselves, inasmuch as the body 
 of the poet, if not his soul, has been sufficiently chastised 
 with paralysing infirmities; and during his journey here from 
 Paris his suffering became so intolerable that at no great 
 distance from Bagneres de Bigorre he was forced to get out 
 of the carriage and be carried across the mountain in an 
 arm-chair. During that magnificent ascent, however, he 
 enjoyed many fine gleams of light. Never had the sunshine 
 and the fresh greenness of the forest enchanted him more 
 poignantly, and the great rocky peaks, like the heads of 
 stone giants, looked at him with immeasurable compassion. 
 The Hautes Pyrenees are wonderfully beautiful. Especially 
 regenerative to the soul is the music of the mountain 
 torrents, which, like a full-sounding orchestra, precipitate 
 themselves into the so-called Gave, the noiseful river of the 
 valley. Then there is the idyllic tinkle of the sheep bells 
 from time to time, when the flocks in great numbers, headed 
 by the ewes with their long wool and the rams with their 
 Doric horns, carrying large bells round their necks, joyously 
 file down the long slopes of the hills. 
 
 After them saunters the young herd who leads them down 
 to the valley to be shorn, and who will thus have an 
 opportunity of seeing his sweetheart again. A few days 
 later the sound of the bells is less cheery. The weather in 
 the interval has grown stormy ; ash-grey cloud-mists trail 
 along the flanks of the valley, and the young shepherd with 
 his shorn, shiveringly naked lambs takes his melancholy 
 way up to his Alpine solitude. He is wrapped round in his 
 brown, well-patched Basque cloak, and perhaps the parting 
 from her was bitter.
 
 238 HEINE. 
 
 One of these glimpses reminded me vividly of Decamp's 
 masterpiece which hung in this year's Salon, and was criti- 
 cised with unjust severity by many, even by Thdophile 
 Gautier, who is so learned in matters of art. The shepherd 
 in this painting, a veritable beggar-king in his tattered 
 majesty, tries to shelter a poor little sheep under the folds 
 of his cloak from the torrents of rain ; the bulging, stormy 
 clouds with their damp grimaces, the shaggy hideous dog, 
 everything in this picture is so true to nature, so faithfully 
 Pyre'ne'an, so free from any sentimental taint, or any 
 enfeebling idealisation, that here the talent of Decamp 
 manifests itself in its most naive nudity to an almost alarming 
 extent. 
 
 The Pyre'ne'es are nowadays exploited with great success 
 by numbers of French artists, particularly on account of the 
 peasant costumes to be met with. The rendering of 
 Leleux deserve the praises which our colleague on the 
 Augsburg Gazette, with his fine penetration, awards to 
 them. In this painter's work also truth to nature is to be 
 found, but with lack of discernment ; it is emphasised too 
 crudely and degenerates into virtuosity. The costumes of 
 mountaineers, of the Bdarnais, the Basques, the frontier 
 Spaniards, are, indeed, as original and as worthy for the 
 easel as can be desired by any young enthusiast of the 
 confraternity of the brush to whom our stupid frock-coat is 
 an abomination. 
 
 The head covering of the women, the scarlet red hood 
 which falls to their hips above their black bodice, is 
 especially picturesque. 
 
 There is no more charming picture than that formed 
 by a goat-herd thus clad, seated on a high-saddled mule 
 with the old-time distaff under her arm, advancing with her 
 black-horned flock over the summit of the mountain, where
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES, 239 
 
 the adventurous procession outlines itself in purest contours 
 against the clear blue background of the heavens. 
 
 The building, wherein are situated the baths of Bareges, 
 presents the most disagreeable contrast to the environing 
 beauties of nature ; its unattractive exterior is in thorough 
 keeping with the interior; sombre, sinister cells, like 
 sepulchral vaults, with stone baths that are far too small, a 
 kind of provisionary coffin, wherein each day for an hour one 
 can practise, lying silently with legs extended and arms 
 crossed. But the most distressing inconvenience at Bareges 
 is the scarcity of water ; the healing springs do not well in 
 sufficient quantities. To remedy matters there are lament- 
 able make-shifts, called piscines, that is to say, narrow 
 reservoirs of water wherein a dozen and sometimes more 
 men bathe together in upright position. Thus there 
 are occasional contacts which are far from agreeable. 
 It is on such occasions that one understands the deep 
 meaning of the saying of the tolerant Hungarian to his com- 
 panion, "To me," he said, while stroking his moustache, 
 " to me, it matters little what a man is, whether he be 
 a Christian or Jew, Republican or Monarchist, Turk or 
 Prussian, providing he be in sound health." 
 
 II. 
 
 BAREGES, August "jth, 1846. 
 
 I WILL not venture to speak authoritatively on the thera- 
 peutic value of the baths at Bareges. Perhaps nothing 
 definite can be said on the subject. It is possible 
 chemically to analyse the waters of a spring, and to tabulate 
 exactly how much sulphur, salt, or butter it contains; but 
 no one would hazard a declaration that the action of this
 
 2-jo HEINE. 
 
 water, even in specified cases, is guaranteed to effect an 
 infallible cure. 
 
 The result depends solely on the peculiar constitution 
 of the patient. Even when two patients, say, are suffering 
 from the same illness, with identical symptoms, the bath 
 treatment will benefit one and have no effect soever upon 
 another, unless to his hurt. Just as it is with magnetism, 
 so is it with mineral waters. These possess virtues which 
 may be sufficiently recognised, but are yet not accurately 
 determined; whose full capacities, and, in truth, whose 
 essential qualities, even, still remain obscure. So much is 
 this so, that physicians themselves are in the habit of re- 
 sorting to them as a treatment only when all other means fail. 
 When the son of ./Esculapius knows of nothing further to 
 recommend to his patient, he sends him to the baths with a 
 long written " consultation," which is nothing more than a 
 letter of recommendation addressed to Chance. 
 
 The necessaries of life here are very bad, and propor- 
 tionately dear. Midday dinner is brought in high baskets 
 to the guests in their rooms by unattractive looking waiting- 
 maids exactly as at Gottingen. If only we still had here 
 the youthful academical appetite with which we once mas- 
 ticated Georgia-Augusta's most learnedly dry roast veal ! 
 The life, in a word, is as dull as on the flowering banks of 
 the Leine. 1 
 
 Nevertheless, I must not omit to mention that we have 
 enjoyed two very pretty balls, at which the dancers 
 appeared without crutches. One or two daughters of 
 Albion were not lacking, who distinguished themselves by 
 their beauty and their awkward manners; they danced as 
 
 1 A river which runs through Gottingen. The university of that 
 town is called Georgia-Augusta, after the name of the founder, George 
 II., King of England.
 
 LETTERS, FROM THE PYRENEES. 241 
 
 though they were riding on asses. Among the French- 
 women shone the daughter of the celebrated Cellarius, 
 who what an honour for little Bareges danced the polka 
 here on his own feet ! Also some young nymphs from 
 the Grand Opera at Paris of those who are called rats 
 among others the silver-footed Mademoiselle Lelhomme, 
 whirled their entrechats here, and at the sight I thought again 
 with affection of my dear Paris, where I had been able to hold 
 out no longer at last on account of the dancing and the 
 music, and where, nevertheless, my heart would fain be 
 to-day. Marvellous and foolish enchantment ! Through 
 dint of pleasures and wild amusements Paris at last becomes 
 so fatiguing, so overpowering, all pleasures there are pro- 
 ductive of so exhausting a tension, that one can hardly 
 contain oneself for joy at escaping at last from this tread- 
 mill of pleasure. Yet scarcely have we been away from it 
 a few months than a certain waltz melody, or the mere 
 shadow of a lancer's leg, suffices to awake in our breast a 
 languorous home-sickness for Paris ! But this can only 
 happen to the befogged heads at these sweet bagnos, and not 
 to the young fellows fresh from our German Student Lands- 
 mannschaft, 1 who, after a short term spent in Paris, complain 
 piteously that there they are not so serenely quiet as when 
 on the other side of the Rhine, where the cell system 
 of solitary meditation has been introduced; that they cannot 
 meet together as peaceably as, for instance, at Magdeburg 
 or at Spandau; that the moral conscience is drowned in the 
 noise of the waves of pleasure which sweep over it; that the 
 tide of dissipation there is too great. Yes, indeed, dis 
 sipation is certainly too great in Paris, for while we give 
 ourselves up to it, our money dissipates itself at the same 
 time. 
 
 1 Association. 
 
 1 6.
 
 242 HEINE. 
 
 Ah ! that money ! it knows even here at Bareges how to 
 dissipate itself in spite of the dreariness of this health nest. 
 The expense of a sojourn here is beyond all comprehen- 
 sion, more than double that ot any other baths in the 
 Pyre'ne'es. And what avarice among these dwellers in the 
 mountains, whom usually we vaunt as children of nature, 
 remnants of a guileless race ! They revere money with a 
 fervour that borders on fanaticism ; it is their peculiar 
 national religion. But is not money the God of the 
 whole world to-day an Almighty God, whom even the 
 most obdurate atheist could not deny for three days 
 consecutively? for without its divine aid the baker would 
 not deliver over the smallest roll of bread. 
 
 During these last days of intense heat whole swarms of 
 English have arrived at Bareges ; healthy red faces fed 
 upon beef-steaks, an almost insulting contrast to the pale- 
 faced tribe of bathers. The most important of these new 
 arrivals is a member of Parliament, enormously rich, toler- 
 ably well known, and a Tory to boot. This gentleman 
 seems not to care for the French, but, on the contrary, to 
 have the greatest sympathy with us Germans. He praises 
 in particular our integrity and fidelity. Moreover, in Paris, 
 where he thinks of passing the winter, he intends to have 
 no French servants, but will employ only Germans. I 
 thanked him for the confidence he reposed in us, and recom- 
 mended certain compatriots of the historical school to him. 
 
 We count also among the present Bath guests the Due 
 de Nemours, who with his family lives at Luz, a few miles 
 distant from Bareges; though he drives here daily in order to 
 take his bath. When he came with this intent for the first 
 time to Bareges he drove in an open vehicle, in spite of the 
 miserable mist-clouds which obscured the day ; from which 
 I concluded that he must be in perfectly good health, or at
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 243 
 
 all events, that he was not afraid of catching cold. His 
 first visit was devoted to the military hospital, where he 
 conversed familiarly with the sick soldiers; he inquired 
 concerning their wounds, their term of service, etc. A 
 demonstration of this kind, though it be but the well- 
 worn flourish of trumpets by means of which so many 
 illustrious personages have made known their exceeding 
 worth, never fails of its aim; and when the prince arrived 
 at the bathing establishment, where the curious public 
 awaited him, he was already moderately popular. 1 
 
 The Due de Nemours is not so beloved as his dead 
 brother, whose qualities showed themselves more openly. 
 This admirable man, or, to express it better, this admirable 
 human poem that was entitled Ferdinand d'Orleans, was 
 written to some extent in a popular and generally intel- 
 ligible style, whereas his brother Nemours screens himself 
 in a form of art less accessible to the apprehension of the 
 masses. 
 
 These two princes have always outwardly presented a 
 
 1 The following paragraph is in the original letter to the Augsburger 
 Allgemeinen Zeitung: " As this regent-designate has a great future be- 
 fore him, and as his personality may have an influence upon the destinies 
 of the whole of Europe, I scrutinised him with especial attention, 
 and sought to discern from his outward appearance the sign of his 
 inner nature. I was speedily disarmed during this rather trust-lacking 
 occupation by the tranquil grace which to some degree distinguished 
 this slender, elegantly dressed young man, and then by the fine com- 
 passionate look with which his eyes rested on the suffering faces 
 grouped around him. This look had in it nothing official, nothing 
 studied ; it was the pure and sincere outcome of a noble humane soul. 
 The compassion which his eyes betrayed had something touching in 
 its reserved modesty, for modesty is apparently the most beautiful trait 
 in his character. We have observed this same modesty in his brother, 
 the Due d'Orleans, who fell prematurely on the battle-field of life. 
 The Due de Nemours is not so beloved," etc.
 
 244 HEINE. 
 
 remarkable contrast. The Due d'Orleans was at once 
 nonchalant and knightly ; the other is rather something 
 of the fine patrician. The first was frankly the young 
 French officer, bubbling over with the most light-hearted 
 bravery, one of those who throw themselves with equal zest 
 into the storming of a fortress or of a woman's heart. 
 Nemours is said to be a good soldier, in point of cool- 
 headed courage, rather than of warlike zeal. 1 
 
 If he succeed to the Regency he will not allow himself to 
 be so easily allured by Bellona's trumpet-call as his brother 
 
 1 Instead of the above sentences, the following is to be found in the 
 Augsburger Allgemeinen Zeitung: "Nemours looks much more like a 
 statesman, but one who has a conscience, and unites prudence to 
 the noblest intentions. Did I wish to elucidate myself by means of an 
 example, I should best select it from the domain of poetry, and it seems 
 to me as though Goethe had partially depicted these two princes under 
 the names of Egmont and Oranien. Persons situated near him tell me 
 that the Due de Nemours possesses wide knowledge of and clear insight 
 into home and foreign affairs ; he sets himself zealously to understand 
 all essentials; he is himself, however, very uncommunicative, whether 
 by reason of shyness or taciturnity is not known. He is praised for his 
 trustworthiness, as a foremost characteristic; he rarely makes a promise, 
 and only with reluctance, but his word is as steadfast as a rock. He is 
 a good soldier, of a cold-blooded courage, but not very warlike. He is 
 passionately attached to his family, and his clever father knew well to 
 whose hands he committed the welfare of the house of Orleans. What 
 especial securities did this man offer in the interests of France, and 
 especially of humanity ? I believe the best. In any case, we must 
 pronounce it as far better than that offered to us by his brother of 
 blessed memory. He is less popular than was the other; for the same 
 reason he risks less if once the acquired property of the Revolution 
 comes into conflict with the needs of the Government; 
 
 "Beloved Regents who enjoy blind confidence are at times very 
 dangerous to Freedom. Nemours knows that he is narrowly watched ; 
 and he will cei'ainly beware of any act of treachery. Moreover, he 
 will not allow himself to be so easily allured by Bellona's trumpet- 
 call," etc.
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 245 
 
 would have been; which is highly satisfactory for us, for we 
 can easily presage what dear country would have become 
 the battle-field, and what innocent people would have had at 
 the last to defray the expenses of the war. One thing only 
 I should like to know: I mean, whether the Due de Nemours 
 is possessed of as much patience as his glorious father, who, 
 by means of this quality lacked by all his French adver- 
 saries was indefatigably victorious, and preserved peace for 
 beautiful France and for the whole world. 
 
 III. 
 
 BAREGES, August 20tk, 1846. 
 
 YES, the Due de Nemours is patient. That he possesses 
 this cardinal virtue I am certain from the equanimity with 
 which he endures delays when his bath is being prepared. 
 He in nowise recalls his great uncle, with his famous " J'ai 
 failli attendre ! " The Due de Nemours understands how 
 to wait, and I have observed a no less excellent quality in 
 him, that he does not keep others waiting. I am his 
 successor (at the baths, of course), and I must give him due 
 praise that he takes his leave as punctually as any ordinary 
 mortal, to whom the hour is measured out to the minute. He 
 comes here daily, usually in an open carriage, and drives 
 himself, while beside him sits a coachman with lazy, sulky 
 face, and behind him a corpulent German footman. 
 
 Often, when the weather is fine, the Prince runs 
 beside the carriage the whole way from Luz to Bareges; 
 for he has a great partiality for physical exercise. He 
 impresses the mountaineers by his hardihood in climbing 
 the steepest acclivities. At La Breche de Roland, in the 
 Gavarnie valley, neck-breaking rocky peaks are pointed 
 out as having been scaled by the prince. He is an ex-
 
 246 HEINE. 
 
 cellent hunter, and appears recently to have put a bear into 
 great danger. With his wife, who is one of the most beauti- 
 ful of women, he also makes frequent excursions to the 
 most interesting points in the mountains. Thus recently he 
 made with her the ascent of the Pic du Midi, and while 
 the princess and her ladies-in-waiting were carried up the 
 mountain in palanquins, the young Prince strode on ahead 
 in order to be alone for a moment on the summit, there, 
 unmolested, to enjoy those colossal beauties of nature which 
 raise our soul to such ideal heights above the every-day 
 world. Every time the Prince reaches the summit of the 
 mountains he has found there, planted stock-like, three 
 gendarmes ! Now there is truly nothing in the world so 
 dispiriting and sobering to the imagination as the positive 
 table-of-the-face of a gendarme, and the horrible citron 
 yellow of his belt. All enthusiastic feelings are instantly 
 arrested in the breast au nom de la lot, and I can easily 
 understand the expression of a little Frenchwoman who, 
 last winter, was scandalised to see these gendarmes every- 
 where, even in the churches, in the pious houses of God, 
 wherein one wishes to give oneself up to feelings of 
 devotion. "The sight," she said, "destroys all my illu- 
 sions." . . 
 
 I could not refrain from smiling mournfully when it 
 was related to me how disagreeably affected the Prince was 
 with the surprise which the servile officiousness of the 
 Prefect had prepared for him on the top of the Pic du 
 Midi. Poor Prince, I thought, you deceive yourself greatly 
 if you suppose that alone and unmolested you can still 
 give vent to your enthusiasm. You are in the hands of 
 the gendarmerie ; and you will yourself, one day, need to 
 be the gendarme-in-chief, entrusted with the peace of the 
 country. Poor Prince !
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 247 
 
 Here, at Bareges, it grows daily duller. It is not the 
 lack of social distractions which is insupportable, but 
 rather that one is deprived of the advantages of solitude. 
 Endless cries and noises permit of no peaceful dreaming, 
 but at every moment awake one with a start from one's 
 thoughts. The shrill cracking of whips that national 
 music of Bareges grates upon the nerves from early 
 morning till late at night. Then, when bad weather sets in, 
 and the mountains, drunk with sleep, draw their mist-caps 
 over their ears, the hours lengthen to a wearisome eternity. 
 Then the goddess of Ennui in person, her head enveloped 
 in a cowl of lead and carrying Klopstock's Messiah in her 
 hand, walks about the streets of Bareges, and whomsoever 
 she yawns at feels the last drop of his life's courage ebb 
 from his heart ! Despondency has reached such a pitch that 
 from sheer despair I no longer try to avoid the society of our 
 patron, the English member of Parliament, who continues 
 to pay the well-merited recognition of our domestic virtues 
 and our moral qualities. Nevertheless, it seems to me that 
 he likes us less enthusiastically since I let fall the remark 
 that the Germans now feel a great desire to possess a navy; 
 that we have already invented the names of all the ships of 
 our future fleet; that the patriots wish, instead of wool as 
 hitherto, to spin only linen for sail-cloth; that the oaks of 
 the Teutoburgundian forests, which have slept since the 
 defeat of Varus, have awaked at last, and now voluntarily 
 offer themselves as masts for the ships. This communica- 
 tion much displeased the noble Briton, and he opined that 
 we would do better, we Germans, did we with undivided 
 forces continue the erection of Cologne Cathedral, that 
 great work of faith of our fathers. 
 
 PLvery time that I converse with English people concern- 
 ing my country, I observe, with profound humiliation, that
 
 248 HEINE. 
 
 the haired they feel against the French is infinitely more 
 honourable to this people than the impertinent liking which 
 they deign to accord to us Germans, and for which we have 
 to thank some lacuna in our power in the world, or in our 
 intelligence. They like us for our maritime weakness, on 
 account of which they have nothing to fear from com- 
 mercial competition on our part; they like us for our 
 political naivete, which they hope to exploit in some selfish 
 way in the event of a war with France. 
 
 One diversion in our dulness has been afforded by 
 gossiping stories, chronicles of the elections, which even 
 in these mountains have found a scandalous echo. The 
 Opposition has once again suffered a defeat in the Depart- 
 ment of the Hautes Pyrenees, which could easily have been 
 foreseen from the indifference to politics and the greed for 
 money which prevail here. 
 
 The candidate of the party of progress, who was thrown 
 out at Tarbes, must be an upright, loyal man, as he is praised 
 on account of his convictions and the fixity of his persever- 
 ance; although with him, as with so many other so-called 
 heroic characters, conviction, properly speaking, is only ar- 
 rested thought, and perseverance only a physical weakness. 
 Such people are faithful to the principles for which they have 
 already made so many sacrifices, actuated by the same 
 reasons that prevent so many .men from separating from 
 a mistress; they keep her because she has already cost 
 so much. 
 
 The papers have announced to society that M. Achille 
 Fould has been elected at Tarbes, and that he will repre- 
 sent the Hautes Pyrenees in the next Chamber of Deputies. 
 Heaven preserve me from divulging here any particulars of 
 the elections of the persons therein concerned. The man 
 is neither better nor worse than a hundred others, who with
 
 LETTERS FROM THE PYRENEES. 249 
 
 him will constitute a majority on the green seats of the 
 Bourbon Palace. The elected member is, moreover, Con- 
 servative, not Ministerial, and hitherto he has supported not 
 M. Guizot, but M. Mole. His promotion as a deputy is a 
 genuine pleasure to me, for the very simple reason that 
 the civil equality of the Israelite is sanctioned in his last 
 measure. 
 
 It is true that, for a long time past, law as well as public 
 opinion in France has recognised the principle that all the 
 State employments, without exception, shall be open to any 
 Jew who shall distinguish himself by his talents or high 
 sentiments. But tolerant as this may sound, I detect in it, 
 nevertheless, the acrid after-taste of the superannuated preju- 
 dice. Yes, as long as Jews, even without talent and devoid 
 of high sentiments, are not admitted to all employments 
 equally with the thousands of Christians who neither think 
 nor feel, nor know how to count, so long will the prejudice 
 be not wholly eradicated, and the old oppression will still 
 be in force. But the intolerance of the Middle Ages will 
 dwindle to the merest shadow the moment the Jews, also 
 without special qualifying merit, and merely with their 
 money, may, equally with their Christian brethren, attain 
 to the deputyship, the most desiderated post in France. 
 From this point of view the election of M. Achille 
 Fould is a definite victory for the principles of civil 
 equality. 
 
 Two other confessors of the Mosaic faith, with an 
 equally good monetary reputation, have also this year been 
 elected as deputies. In how far do these two elections 
 further the demociatic principle of civil equality? 
 
 Both these deputies are millionaire bankers, and in my 
 historical researches upon the national wealth of the Jews, 
 from Abraham until the present day, I shall, doubtless,
 
 250 HEINE. 
 
 again have occasion to speak of M. Renoit Fould and of 
 M. d'Eichtal. 
 
 Honi soil qui mal y pense! I wish to remark in advance, 
 so as to avoid all misunderstanding, that the result of my 
 researches into the national wealth of the Jews is a glorious 
 one, and redounds to their greatest honour. Israel, in fact, 
 owes its opulence solely to that sublime faith in God which 
 it has for thousands of years preserved intact. The Jews 
 have ever revered a supreme Being, who reigns invisibly in 
 the heavens; while the heathens, incapable of rising to the 
 conception of pure Spirit, made themselves all sorts of gods 
 of gold and silver, which they worshipped on the earth. 
 If these blind pagans had converted into money all the gold 
 and silver that they squandered in the service of their false 
 gods, and had put it out to interest, they would have become 
 as rich as the Jews, who knew how to invest their gold and 
 their silver to the greatest advantage, perhaps in Assyrio- 
 Babylonish State loans, in Nebuchadnezzarian obligations, 
 in Egyptian canals, in 5 per cent. Sidonians, and other 
 classical shares which the Lord had blessed, as he seems 
 also to bless the corresponding modern undertakings of the 
 pious Israelite. 
 
 THE WALTER SCOTT I'UESS, NKWCASTLE-ON-TVNK
 
 NEW VOLUMES IN THE 
 
 EVERY-DAY HELP SERIES 
 
 OF USEFUL HAND-BOOKS. Price 6d. each. 
 
 Contributors J. LANGDON DOWN, M.D., F.R.C P.; HENRY 
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 Common Mind Troubles. 
 
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 Sleep and Sleeplessness. 
 
 The Heart and its Function. 
 
 Personal Appearances in Health and Disease. 
 
 The House and its Surroundings. 
 
 Alcohol: Its Use and Abuse. 
 
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 Baths and Bathing. 
 
 Health in Schools. 
 
 The Skin and its Troubles. 
 
 How to make the Best of Life. 
 
 Nerves and Nerve-Troubles. 
 
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 EDITED BY 
 
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 Three Volumes , Crown Svc, Cloth^ Price 3/6 each. 
 
 Dramatic Criticism, as we now understand it the systematic appraise- 
 ment from day to day and week to week of contemporary plays and 
 acting began in England about the beginning of the present century. 
 Until very near the end of the eighteenth century, "the critics" gave 
 direct utterance to their judgments in the theatre itself, or in the coffee- 
 houses, only occasionally straying into print in letters to the news-sheets, 
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 its earliest utterances were of far more than ephemeral value. During 
 the earlier half of the present century several of the leading essayists of 
 the day men of the first literary eminence concerned themselves largely 
 with the theatre. Under the title of 
 
 "DRAMATIC ESSAYS" 
 
 will be issued, in three volumes, such of their theatrical criticisms as seem 
 to be of abiding interest. 
 
 THE FIRST SERIES will contain selections from the criticisms 
 of LEIGH HUNT, both those published in 1807 (long out of print), and 
 the admirable articles contributed more than twenty years later to The 
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 of WILLIAM HAZLITT. Hazlitt's Essays on Kean and his contem- 
 poraries have long been inaccessible, save to collectors. 
 
 THE THIRD SERIES will contain hitherto uncollected criticisms 
 by JOHN FORSTER, GEORGE HENRY LEWES, and others, with 
 selection! from the writings of WILLIAM ROBSON (The Old Playgoer). 
 
 The Essays will be concisely but adequately annotated, and each 
 volume will contain an Introduction by WILLIAM ABCHBR, and an 
 Engraved Portrait Frontispiece. 
 
 London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITKD, Paternoster Square.
 
 "BOOKLETS' 
 
 By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI. 
 
 NEW EDITIONS, REVISED. 
 
 These little stories, issued in Russia as tracts for the 
 people, having become extremely popular in England, 
 the Publishers have determined to present them in a 
 form more suitable than that in which they have 
 hitherto appeared. They are now to be had in the 
 following form : 
 
 Small I2mo, Cloth, with Embossed Design on Cover, each 
 containing Two Stories by Count Tolstoi, and Two 
 Drawings by H. R. Millar. In Box, price 2s. each. 
 
 VOLUME I. CONTAINS 
 WHERE LOVE IS, THERE GOD IS ALSO. 
 
 THE GODSON. 
 VOLUME II. CONTAINS 
 
 WHAT MEN LIVE BY. 
 WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT A MAN. 
 VOLUME III. CONTAINS 
 
 THE TWO PILGRIMS. 
 
 IF YOU NEGLECT THE FIRE, YOU 
 
 DON'T PUT IT OUT. 
 
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 THE CULT OF BEAUTY: 
 
 A MANUAL OF PERSONAL HYGIENE. 
 
 BY C. J. S. THOMPSON. 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. THE SKIN. 
 
 CHAPTER II. THE HANDS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. THE FEET. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. THE HAIR 
 CHAPTER V. THE TEETH. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. THE NOSE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. THE EYE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. THE EAR. 
 
 "'Quackery,' says Mr. Thompson, ' was never more rampant 
 than it is to-day' with regard to 'aids in beautifying the 
 person." His little book is based on purely hygienic principles, 
 and comprises recipes for toilet purposes which he warrants are 
 'practical and harmless.' These are virtues in any book of 
 health and beauty, and Mr. Thompson's advice and guidance 
 are, we find, not wanting in soundness and common-sense." 
 Saturday Revi.no. 
 
 London : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY. 
 
 Clolh, Uncut Edges, Gilt Top. Trice is. 6d. per Volume. 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY I8SDED- 
 
 I MALORY'S ROMANCE OF KING ARTHUR AND THE 
 <Juet of the Holy Grail. Kdited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 a THOREAU'S WALDEN. WITH INTRODUCTORY NOTE 
 by Will H. Dircks. 
 
 3 THOREAU'S "WEEK." WITH PREFATORY NOTE BY 
 
 Will H. Din k- 
 
 4 THOREAU'S ESSAYS. EDITED, WITH AN INTRO- 
 
 auction, by Will H. Dircks. 
 
 5 CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER, ETC 
 
 By Thonuu D Quincey. With Introductory Note by William Sharp. 
 
 6 LANDOR'S IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS. SELECTED, 
 
 with Introduction, by Harelock Kill*. 
 
 7 PLUTARCH'S LIVES (LANGHORNE). WITH INTRO- 
 
 ductory Note by B. J. Snell, H.A. 
 
 8 BROWNE'S RELIGIO MEDICI, ETC. WITH INTRO- 
 
 d action by J. Addington Syucnds. 
 
 9 SHELLEY'S ESSAYS AND LETTERS. EDITED, WITH 
 
 Introductory Note, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 10 SWIFT'S PROSE WRITINGS. CHOSEN AND ARRANGED, 
 
 with Introduction, by Walter Lewin. 
 
 11 MY STUDY WINDOWS. BY TAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 With Introduction by R. Garnett, LL D. 
 
 12 LOWELL'S ESSAYS ON THE ENGLISH POETS. WITH 
 
 a new Introduction by Mr. Lowell. 
 
 13 THE BIGLOW PAPERS. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 With a Prefatory Note by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 London WALTU SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY continued. 
 
 14 GREAT ENGLISH PAINTERS. SELECTED FROM 
 
 Cunningham's Littg. Edited by William Sh:u]>. 
 
 15 BYRON'S LETTERS AND JOURNALS. SELECTED, 
 
 with Introduction, by Mathikle Blind. 
 
 16 LEIGH HUNT'S ESSAYS. WITH INTRODUCTION AND 
 
 Notes by Arthur Symons. 
 
 17 LONGFELLOW'S "HYPERION," " KAVANAH," AND 
 
 "The Trouveres." With Introduction by W. Tirebuck. 
 
 18 GREAT MUSICAL COMPOSERS. BY G. F. FERRIS. 
 
 Edited, with Introduction, by Mrs. William Sharp. 
 
 19 THE MEDITATIONS OF MARCUS AURELIUS. EDITED 
 
 by Alice Zimmern. 
 
 20 THE TEACHING OF EPICTETUS. TRANSLATED FROM 
 
 the Greek, with Introduction and Notes, by T. W. Rolleston. 
 
 21 SELECTIONS FROM SENECA. WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
 by Walter Clode. 
 
 22 SPECIMEN DAYS IN AMERICA. BY WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 Revised by the Author, with fresh Preface. 
 
 23 DEMOCRATIC VISTAS, AND OTHER PAPERS. BY 
 
 Walt Whitman. (Published by arrangement with the Author.) 
 
 24 WHITE'S NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE. WITH 
 
 a Preface by Richard Jefferies. 
 
 25 DEFOE'S CAPTAIN SINGLETON. EDITED, WITH 
 
 Introduction, by 11. Ilalliday Sparling. 
 
 26 MAZZINI'S ESSAYS: LITERARY, POLITICAL, AND 
 
 Religious. With Introduction by William Clarke. 
 
 27 PROSE WRITINGS OF HEINE. WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
 by Uavelock Kill . 
 
 28 REYNOLDS'S DISCOURSES. WITH INTRODUCTION 
 
 by Ilelen Kimmern. 
 
 29 PAPERS OF STEELE AND ADDISON. EDITED BY 
 
 Walter Ltwin. 
 
 30 BURNS'S LETTERS. SELECTED AND ARRANGED, 
 
 with Introduction, by J. Logic Robertson, M.A. 
 
 London: WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY-continoed. 
 
 31 VOLSUNGA SAGA. WILLIAM MORRIS. WITH INTRO- 
 
 duction by H. H. Sparling. 
 
 32 SARTOR RESARTUS. BY THOMAS CARLYLK. WITH 
 
 Introduction by Kroeet Rhy*. 
 
 33 SELECT WRITINGS Of EMERSON. WITH INTRO- 
 
 dactioa by Perdval Chubb. 
 
 34 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF LORD HERBERT. EDITED, 
 
 with an Introduction, by Will H. Dirck. 
 
 35 ENGLISH PROSE, FROM MAUNDEVILLE TO 
 
 Thackeray. Choaen and Edited by Arthur GalUm. 
 
 36 THE PILLARS OF SOCIETY, AND OTHER PLAYS. BY 
 
 Ilrnrik Ibeen. Edited. with an Introduction by Harelock Kill*. 
 
 37 IRISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES. EDITED AND 
 
 Selected by W. a Yeela. 
 
 38 ESSAYS OF DR. JOHNSON, WITH BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 Introduction and Note* by Stuart J. Raid. 
 
 39 ESSAYS OF WILLIAM HAZL1TT. SELECTED AND 
 
 Edited. with Introduction and Notee, by Frank Carr. 
 
 40 LANDOR'S PENTAMERON, AND OTHER IMAGINARY 
 
 Conreraatioiu. Kditod, with a Preface, by H. KUK 
 
 41 POE'S TALES AND ESSAYS, EDITED, WITH INTRO- 
 
 duction. by Erawt Hbym. 
 
 42 VICAR OF WAKKFIELD. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Bditod. with Piwfae*. by Krnwt Rhy*. 
 
 43 POLITICAL ORATIONS, FROM WENTWORTH TO 
 
 MacMlay. Bditod, with Introduction, by William Clark*. 
 
 44 THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY 
 
 OUrer Wendell Holme*. 
 
 45 THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY OLIVER 
 
 \SY:, M H li 
 
 46 THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY 
 
 Oliver Wendell Ilolmee. 
 
 47 IJORD CHESTERFIELD'S LETTERS TO HIS SON. 
 Selected, with Introduction, by Cttarlea Kayle. 
 
 London WALTU Soorr, LIHITKO, PaUnoeeir Squr%
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY continued. 
 
 48 STORIES FROM CARLETON. SELECTED, WITH INTRO- 
 
 auction, by W. Yeats. 
 
 49 JANE EYRE. BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE. EDITED BY 
 
 Clement K. Shorter. 
 
 50 ELIZABETHAN ENGLAND. EDITED BY LOTHROP 
 
 Withlngton, with a Preface by Dr. FurnivalL 
 
 51 THE PROSE WRITINGS OF THOMAS DAVIS. EDITED 
 
 by T. W. Rolleston. 
 
 52 SPENCE'S ANECDOTES. A SELECTION. EDITED, 
 
 with an Introduction and Notes, by John Underbill. 
 
 53 MORE'S UTOPIA, AND LIFE OF EDWARD V. EDITED, 
 
 with an Introduction, by Maurice Adams. 
 
 54 SADI'S GULISTAN, OR FLOWER GARDEN. TRANS- 
 
 lated, with an Essay, by James Ross. 
 
 55 ENGLISH FAIRY AND FOLK TALES. EDITED BY 
 
 E. Sidney Hartland. 
 
 56 NORTHERN STUDIES. BY EDMUND GOSSE. WITH 
 
 a Note by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 57 EARLY REVIEWS OF GREAT WRITERS. EDITED BY 
 
 E. Stevenson. 
 
 58 ARISTOTLE'S ETHICS. WITH GEORGE HENRY 
 
 Lewes's Essay on Aristotle prefixed. 
 
 59 LANDOR'S PERICLES AND ASPASIA. EDITED, WITH 
 
 an Introduction, by Havelock Ellis. 
 
 60 ANNALS OF TACITUS. THOMAS GORDON'S TRANS- 
 
 lation. Edited, with an Introduction, by Arthur Galton. 
 
 61 ESSAYS OF ELIA. BY CHARLES LAMB. EDITED, 
 
 with an Introduction, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 62 BALZAC'S SHORTER STORIES. TRANSLATED BY 
 
 William Wilson and the Count Stenbock. 
 
 63 COMEDIES OF DE MUSSET. EDITED, WITH AN 
 
 Introductory Note, by S. L. Qwynn. 
 
 64 CORAL REEFS. BY CHARLES DARWIN. EDITED, 
 
 with an Introduction, by Dr. J. W. Williams. 
 
 London : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY continued. 
 
 65 SHERIDAN'S PLAYS. EDITED, WITH AN INTRO- 
 
 duction, by Rudolf Dircks. 
 
 66 OUR VILLAGE. BY MISS MITFORD. EDITED, WITH 
 
 an Introduction, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 67 MASTER HUMPHREY'S CLOCK, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 By Charles Dickens. With Introduction by Frank T. Marzials. 
 
 68 TALES FROM WONDERLAND. BY RUDOLPH 
 
 Baumbach. Translated by Helen B. Dole. 
 
 69 ESSAYS AND PAPERS BY DOUGLAS JERROLD. EDITED 
 
 by Walter Jerrold. 
 
 70 VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. BY 
 
 Mary Wollstonecraft. Introduction by Mrs. E. Robins Pennell. 
 
 71 "THE ATHENIAN ORACLE." A SELECTION. EDITED 
 
 by John Underbill, with Prefatory Note by Walter Besant. 
 
 72 ESSAYS OF SAINT -BEUVE. TRANSLATED AND 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by Elizabeth Lee. 
 
 73 SELECTIONS FROM PLATO. FROM THE TRANS- 
 
 lation of Sydenham and Taylor. Edited by T. W. Rolleston. 
 
 74 HEINE'S ITALIAN TRAVEL SKETCHES, ETC. TRANS- 
 
 lated by Elizabeth A. Sharp. With an Introduction from the French of 
 Theophile Gautier. 
 
 75 SCHILLER'S MAID pF ORLEANS. TRANSLATED, 
 
 with an Introduction, by Major-General Patrick Maxwell. 
 
 76 SELECTIONS FROM SYDNEY SMITH. EDITED, WITH 
 
 an Introduction, by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 77 THE NEW SPIRIT. BY HAVELOCK ELLIS. 
 
 78 THE BOOK OF MARVELLOUS ADVENTURES. FROM 
 
 the "Morte d'Arthur." Edited by Ernest Rhys. [This, together with 
 No. 1, forms the complete " Morte d'Arthur."] 
 
 79 ESSAYS AND APHORISMS. BY SIR ARTHUR HELPS. 
 
 With an Introduction by E. A. Helps. 
 
 80 ESSAYS OF MONTAIGNE. SELECTED, WITH A 
 
 Prefatory Note, by Percival Chubb. 
 
 81 THE LUCK OF BARRY LYNDON. BY W. M. 
 
 Thackeray. Edited by F. T. Marzials. 
 
 London : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 THE SCOTT LIBRARY continued. 
 
 82 SCHILLER'S WILLIAM TELL. TRANSLATED, WITH 
 
 an Introduction, by Major-General Patrick Maxwell. 
 
 83 CARLYLE'S ESSAYS ON GERMAN LITERATURE. 
 
 With an Introduction by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 84 PLAYS AND DRAMATIC ESSAYS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by Rudolf Dircks. 
 
 85 THE PROSE OF WORDSWORTH. SELECTED AND 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by Professor William Knight. 
 
 86 ESSAYS, DIALOGUES, AND THOUGHTS OF COUNT 
 
 Giacomo Leopardi. Translated, with an Introduction and Notes, by 
 Major-General Patrick Maxwell. 
 
 87 THE INSPECTOR-GENERAL A RUSSIAN COMEDY. 
 
 By Nikolai V. Gogol. Translated from the original, with an Introduction 
 and Notes, by Arthur A. Sykes. 
 
 88 ESSAYS AND APOTHEGMS OF FRANCIS, LORD BACON : 
 
 Edited, with an Introduction, by John Buchan. 
 
 89 PROSE OF MILTON : SELECTED AND EDITED, WITH 
 
 an Introduction, by Richard Garnett, LL.D. 
 
 90 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. TRANSLATED BY 
 
 Thomas Taylor, with an Introduction by Theodore Wratislaw. 
 
 91 PASSAGES FROM FROISSART. WITH AN INTRO- 
 
 duction by Frank T. Marzials. 
 
 92 THE PROSE AND TABLE TALK OF COLERIDGE. 
 
 .Edited by W. H. Dircka. 
 
 93 HEINE IN ART AND LETTERS TRANSLATED BY 
 
 Elizabeth A. Sharp. 
 
 94 SELECTED ESSAYS OF DE QUINCEY. WITH AN 
 
 Introduction by Sir George Douglas, Bart. 
 
 London: WALTEK SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 GREAT WRITERS. 
 
 A NEW SERIES OF CRITICAL BIOGRAPHIES. 
 
 Edited by ERIC ROBERTSON and FRANK T. MARZIALS. 
 A Complete Bibliography to each Volume, by J. P. ANDERSON, 
 British Museum, London. 
 
 Cloth, Uncut Edges, Gilt Top. Price 1/6. 
 
 VOLUMES ALREADY ISSUED 
 
 LIFE OF LONGFELLOW. By PROF. ERIC S. ROBERTSON. 
 " A most readable little work." Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 LIFE OF COLERIDGE. By HALL CAINK. 
 
 "Brief and vigorous, written throughout with spirit and great literary 
 skill." Scotsman. 
 
 LIFE OF DICKENS. By FRANK T. MARZIALS. 
 
 "Notwithstanding the mass of matter that has been printed relating 
 to Dickens and his works . . . we should, until we came across this volume, 
 have been at a loss to recommend any popular life of England's most popular 
 novelist as being really satisfactory. The difficulty is removed by Mr. 
 Marzials's little book." Athenaeum. 
 
 LIFE OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. By J. KNIOHT. 
 
 "Mr. Knight's picture of the great poet and painter is the fullest and 
 best yet presented to the public." The Graphic. 
 
 LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON. By COLONEL F. GRANT. 
 
 "Colonel Grant has performed his task with diligence, sound judgment, 
 good taste, and accuracy." Illustrated London A'ews, 
 
 LIFE OF DARWIN. By G. T. BETTANY. 
 
 "Mr. Q. T. Bettany's Life of Darwin is a sound and conscientious work." 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE. By A. BIRRELL. 
 
 "Those who know much of Charlotte Bronte will learn more, and those 
 who know nothing about her will find all that is best worth learning in Mr. 
 Birrell's pleasant book." St. James' Gazette. 
 
 LIFE OF THOMAS CARLYLE. By R. GARNETT, LL.D. 
 
 "This is an admirable book. Nothing could be more felicitous and 
 fairer than the way in which he takes us through Carlyle's life and 
 works." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 London : WALTER SCOTT, LIMITED, Paternoster Square.
 
 GREAT WRITERS continued. 
 
 LIFE OF ADAM SMITH. By R. B. HALDANB, M.P. 
 
 "Written with a perspicuity seldom exemplified when dealing with 
 economic science." Scotsman. 
 
 LIFE OF KEATS. By W. M. ROSSETTI. 
 
 "Valuable for the ample information which it contains." Cambridge 
 Independent* 
 
 LIFE OF SHELLEY. By WILLIAM SHARP. 
 
 "The criticisms . . . entitle this capital monograph to be ranked with 
 the best biographies of Shelley." Westminster Review. 
 
 LIFE OF SMOLLETT. By DAVID HANNAY. 
 
 " A capable record of a writer who still remains one of the great masters 
 of the English novel." Saturday Review. 
 
 LIFE OF GOLDSMITH. By AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
 "The story of his literary and social life in London, with all its humorous 
 and pathetic vicissitudes, is here retold, as none could tell it better." Daily 
 Hews. 
 
 LIFE OF SCOTT. By PROFESSOR YONGE. 
 
 "This is a most enjoyable book." Aberdeen Free Press. 
 
 LIFE OF BURNS. By PROFESSOR BLACKIS. 
 
 " The editor certainly made a hit when he persuaded Blackie to write 
 about Burns." Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 LIFE OF VICTOR HUGO. By FRANK T. MARZIALS. 
 
 " Mr. Marzials's volume presents to us, in a more handy form than any 
 English or even French handbook gives, the summary of what is known 
 about the life of the great poet." Saturday Review. 
 
 LIFE OF EMERSON. By RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D. 
 
 " No record of Emerson's life could be more desirable." Saturday Review. 
 
 LIFE OF GOETHE. By JAMES SIMB. 
 
 "Mr. James Sime's competence as a biographer of Goethe is beyond 
 question." Manchester Guardian. 
 
 LIFE OF CONGREVE. By EDMUND GOSSE. 
 
 "Mr. Gosse has written an admirable biography." Acadeinj. 
 
 LIFE OF BUNYAN. By CANON VENABLES. 
 
 "A most intelligent, appreciative, and valuable memoir." Scotsman. 
 
 LIFE OF CRABBE. By T. E. KEBBEL. 
 
 " No English poet since Shakespeare has observed certain aspects of 
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 THE CANTERBURY POETS. 
 
 EDITED BY WILLIAM SHARP. IN !/ MONTHLY VOLUMES. 
 
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 THE CHRISTIAN YEAR By the Rev. John Keble. 
 
 COLERIDGE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 LONGFELLOW Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 CAMPBELL Edited by John Hogben. 
 
 SHELLEY Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 WORDSWORTH Edited by A. J. Symingtoa 
 
 BLAKE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 WHITTIER Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 FOE Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 CH ATTERTON Edited by John Richmond. 
 
 BURNS. Poems Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 BURNS. Songs Edited by Joseph Skipsey. 
 
 MARLOWE Edited by Percy E. Pinkerton. 
 
 KEATS Edited by John Hogben. 
 
 HERBERT Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 HUGO Translated by Dean Carrington. 
 
 COWPER Edited by Eva Hope. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S POEMS, Etc Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 EMERSON Edited by Walter Lewin. 
 
 SONNETS OF THIS CENTURY Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 WHITMAN Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 SCOTT. Marmion, etc Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 SCOTT. Lady of the Lake, etc Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 PRAED Edited by Frederick Cooper. 
 
 HOGG Edited by his Daughter, Mrs. Garden. 
 
 GOLDSMITH Edited by William Tirebuck. 
 
 LOVE LETTERS. Etc By Eric Mackay. 
 
 SPENSER Edited by Hon. Roden Noel. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE POETS Edited by Eric S. Robertson. 
 
 JONSON Edited by J. Addington Symonda. 
 
 BYRON (2 Vols.) Edited by Mathilde Blind. 
 
 THE SONNETS OF EUROPE Edited by S. Waddington. 
 
 RAMSAY Edited by J. Logie Robertson. 
 
 DOBELL Edited by Mrs. Dobell. 
 
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 THE CANTERBURY POETS-continued, 
 
 DAYS OF THE YEAR With Introduction by William Sharp 
 
 POPE Edited by John Hogben! 
 
 HEINE Edited by Mrs. Kroeker. 
 
 BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER Edited by John S. Fletcher. 
 
 BOWLES, LAMB, &c Edited by William Tirebuck. 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH POETRY Edited by H. Macaulay Fitzgibbon. 
 
 SKA MUSIC Edited by Mrs Sharp. 
 
 HERRICK Edited by Ernest Rhys. 
 
 BALLADES AND RONDEAUS Edited by J. Oleeson White. 
 
 IRISH MINSTRELSY Edited by H. Halliday Sparling. 
 
 MILTON'S PARADISE LOST Edited by J. Bradshaw, M. A., LL.D. 
 
 JACOBITE BALLADS Edited by G. S. Macquoid. 
 
 AUSTRALIAN BALLADS Edited by D. B. W. Slarten, B. A. 
 
 MOORE Edited by John Dorrian. 
 
 BORDER BALLADS Edited by Graham B. Tomson. 
 
 SONG-TIDE By Philip Bourke Marston. 
 
 ODES OF HORACE Translations by Sir Stephen de Vere, Bt. 
 
 OSSIAN Edited by George Eyre-Todd. 
 
 ELFIN MUSIC Edited by Arthur Edward Waite. 
 
 SOUTHEY Edited by Sidney R. Thompson. 
 
 CHAUCER Edited by Frederick Noel Paton. 
 
 POEMS OF WILD LIFE Edited by Charles G. D. Roberts, .M. A. 
 
 PARADISE REGAINED Edited by J. Bradshaw, M.A., LL.D. 
 
 CRABBE Edited by E. Lamplough. 
 
 DORA GREENWELL Edited by William Dorling. 
 
 FAUST Edited by Elizabeth Craigmyle. 
 
 AMERICAN SONNETS Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 LANDOR'S POEMS Edited by Ernest Radford. 
 
 GREEK ANTHOLOGY Edited by Graham R. Tomson. 
 
 HUNT AND HOOD Edited by J. Harwood Panting. 
 
 HUMOROUS POEMS Edited by Ralph H. Caine. 
 
 LYTTON'S PLAYS Edited by R. Farquharson Sharp. 
 
 GREAT ODES Edited by William Sharp. 
 
 MEREDITH'S POEMS Edited by M. Betham- Ed wards. 
 
 PAINTER-POETS Edited by Kineton Parkes. 
 
 WOMEN POETS Edited by Mrs. Sharp. 
 
 LOVE LYRICS Edited by Percy Hulburd. 
 
 AMERICAN HUMOROUS VERSE Edited by James Barr. 
 
 MINOR SCOTCH LYRICS Edited by Sir George Douglas. 
 
 CAVALIER LYRISTS Edited by Will H. Dircks. 
 
 GERMAN BALLADS Edited by Elizabeth Craigmyle. 
 
 SONGS OF BER ANGER Translated by William Toynbee. 
 
 HON. RODEN NOEL'S POEMS. With an Introduction by R. Buchanan. 
 SONGS OF FREEDOM. Selected, with an Introduction, by H. S. Salt. 
 CANADIAN POEMS AND LAYS .... Edited by W. D. Lighthall, M.A. 
 CONTEMPORARY SCOTTISH VERSE. Edited by Sir Geo Douglas. 
 
 POEMS OF NATURE Kilited by E. W. RInder. 
 
 CRADLE SONGS Edited by Grace Rhys
 
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