or to the Pfaueninsel at Potsdam.

The country around Berlin is considered hopelessly ugly, but with great
injustice. I have convinced myself since that I do not look back as
fondly on the Pichelsbergen and the Havelufer at Potsdam, where it was
granted us to pass such happy hours in the springtime of life, because
the force of imagination has clothed them with fancied charms. No, these
places have indeed a singularly peaceful attractiveness, and if I prefer
them, as a child of the century, to real mountains, there was a time when
the artist's eye would have given them the preference over the grand
landscapes of the Alpine world.

At the beginning of the last century the latter were considered
repelling. They oppressed the soul by their immensity. No painter then
undertook to depict giant mountains with eternal snow upon summits which
towered above the clouds. A Salvator Rosa or Poussin, or even the great
Ruysdael, would have preferred to set up his easel at the Pichelsbergen
or in the country about Potsdam, rather than at the foot of Mont Blanc,
the Kunigssee, or the Eibsee, in which the rocks of the Zugspitze--my
vis-a-vis at Tutzingen--are magnificently reflected.

There is nothing more beautiful than the moderate, finely rounded heights
at these peaceful spots rich in vegetation and in water, when gilded by
the fading light of a lovely summer evening or illumined by the rosy
tinge of the afterglow. Many of our later German painters have learned
to value the charm of such a subject, while of our writers Fontane has
seized and very happily rendered all their witchery. At my brother
Ludo's manorhouse on the banks of the Dahme, at his place Dolgenbrodt, in
Mark Brandenburg, Fontane experienced all the attraction of the plain,
which I have never felt more deeply than in that very spot and on a