Queen Louisa's Monument.
The Lion's Bridge In The Thiergarten.
The Hotel Kaiserhoff.
The Interior Of The Mausoleum.
" It stands where northern willows weep, A temple fair and lone; Soft shadows o'er the marble sweep, From cypress branches thrown.
And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptured woman's form ; Lovely, in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm; Yet not in death, but slumber, lies The solemn sweetness of those eyes.
She slumbered, - but it came, it came;
Her land's redeeming hour, With the glad shout and signal flame
Set on from tower to tower. Fast through the realm a spirit moved, 'T was hers, the lofty and the loved !
Then was her name a note that rung To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial poured
To sanctify the avenger's sword.
And the crowned eagle spread again
Her pinion to the sun ; And the strong land shook off its chain ;
So was the triumph won! But woe for earth, where sorrow's tone Still blends with victory's, - She was gone."
" Lovely, In Perfect Rest Reclined."
The Emperor William Memorial Church.
A few miles from Berlin is a fine chateau, which was frequently occupied by old Emperor William in summer. It is the Palace of Babelsberg. In its retirement and beautiful tranquillity it is, apparently, the very place for one engaged in literary pursuits; yet, as every one knows, William I. was no scholar. He had not even literary tastes. After his death a gentleman visited his palace in Berlin, and had the curiosity to see what books had adorned the Kaiser's library and table. Without exception, they were all military handbooks. Of literature, properly so called, he did not find a single specimen. In this respect, what a contrast existed between the late Emperor and Frederick the Great, who, though a most successful soldier, had nevertheless his charming rooms at Sans Souci filled with the choicest books from every land! The bedroom of William I., at Babelsberg, was simply furnished. I noticed that the principal table ornaments were silver candlesticks, for the Kaiser always preferred wax candles to gas in his sleeping-room. As for the bed, despite its handsome canopy, I observed that the old German style was still maintained; that is to say, a narrow couch upon which balances a feather-bed in place of clothes. Without doubt there are persons who can sleep well on German beds thus made, and seemingly the Emperor could do so; but how they accomplish it, is to me a marvel. In all other parts of the world with which I am acquainted, a bed is - a bed. Thus, an English bed, a Spanish bed, a French, American, or Italian bed is a couch with a mattress, more or less hard, and with clothes that can be tucked in at the foot and sides. But in the Fatherland, an old-style bed compels you to lie on a space not much wider than that of a coffin, beneath a bag of feathers called a decke, and to remain there motionless, without the slightest toss or turn. Otherwise the feather-bed will roll off on the floor, leaving your body exposed to sciatic rheumatism, and your mind in a condition which can be mildly described as that of nervous irritability. What wonder, then, that Coleridge, when traveling in the Fatherland, declared that rather than sleep in one of those German beds, he preferred to imitate the American Indian and carry his blanket around with him ?
The Chateau At Babelsberg.