DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0212
204
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
But the pleasantest scene of all in the Wood-yard is when
the bell for noontide prayer sounds from the near Francis-
can chapel: the tolling of the bell comes fitfully across
the trees upon the balmy April breeze—the turf is studded
with golden ficaries and dandelions and trefoil and silver
daisies — round-faced children from the neighbouring
suburb have strayed into the Wood-yard, they are ma,king
little nosegays and garlands with the flowers—they are a
group to delight the heart of Ludwig Richter, the Dresden
artist: away above the stretch of the grey acres of stacked
wood rises a line of noble trees, the frontier trees of the
English Garden, and above them sweep the azure spring
heavens with streaks of cirrus-cloud enhancing their loveli-
ness. In the foreground, before a carpenter’s shed built
of grey weather-beaten planks, and its open doors revealing
heaps of shavings and a carpenter’s bench, stands a group
of workmen—youths and old men, and men of middle age :
their dress is quaint, and with dashes of rich colour about
it; here a scarlet cap, there a deep moroon or indigo jacket.
They are standing close together.
As the first toll of the monastery bell swells on the
breeze, each head bows itself upon the breast: the silver
locks of the old artisan,—the crisp dark curls of the youth,
-—the scanty grizzled hair of the man in middle life-
are uncovered to the sun. A dull murmur of prayer
breaks from their lips, and they cross themselves devoutly
upon breast and brow.
The children have flung their flowers upon the grass,
and pray also.
Easter Sunday.—This afternoon the Werffs apparently
have been rendered somewhat choleric by eating meat after
their long fast. Although it was meat blessed by the priest
—and, therefore, holy meat—they have had a grand quarrel!
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
But the pleasantest scene of all in the Wood-yard is when
the bell for noontide prayer sounds from the near Francis-
can chapel: the tolling of the bell comes fitfully across
the trees upon the balmy April breeze—the turf is studded
with golden ficaries and dandelions and trefoil and silver
daisies — round-faced children from the neighbouring
suburb have strayed into the Wood-yard, they are ma,king
little nosegays and garlands with the flowers—they are a
group to delight the heart of Ludwig Richter, the Dresden
artist: away above the stretch of the grey acres of stacked
wood rises a line of noble trees, the frontier trees of the
English Garden, and above them sweep the azure spring
heavens with streaks of cirrus-cloud enhancing their loveli-
ness. In the foreground, before a carpenter’s shed built
of grey weather-beaten planks, and its open doors revealing
heaps of shavings and a carpenter’s bench, stands a group
of workmen—youths and old men, and men of middle age :
their dress is quaint, and with dashes of rich colour about
it; here a scarlet cap, there a deep moroon or indigo jacket.
They are standing close together.
As the first toll of the monastery bell swells on the
breeze, each head bows itself upon the breast: the silver
locks of the old artisan,—the crisp dark curls of the youth,
-—the scanty grizzled hair of the man in middle life-
are uncovered to the sun. A dull murmur of prayer
breaks from their lips, and they cross themselves devoutly
upon breast and brow.
The children have flung their flowers upon the grass,
and pray also.
Easter Sunday.—This afternoon the Werffs apparently
have been rendered somewhat choleric by eating meat after
their long fast. Although it was meat blessed by the priest
—and, therefore, holy meat—they have had a grand quarrel!