.dt The Project Gutenberg eBook of Schöne Aussicht

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Transcriber’s Note

When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has
been surrounded by _underscores_.
Some corrections have been made to the printed text. These
are listed in a second transcriber’s note at the end of the text.
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Schöne Aussicht

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<l>A Journal
of Our Trip Abroad</l>


By
<l>Louise Spilker</l>
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Illustrated by the Author
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New York
The Knickerbocker Press
1901
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<sc>Copyright</sc>, 1901
BY
LOUISE SPILKER
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PREFACE

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SOONER
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Sooner
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or later the average mortal must be
tempted in order to see whether or not he
will be found wanting. Naturally the
sooner the ordeal is over, the better. Just now
it is a consuming desire to record my first impressions
abroad, to convince myself, if no one
else in this cold and venal world, that while enjoying
this privilege of foreign sights, I lived with
my eyes open, trying to see things intelligently and
thoughtfully. Not enough of a travelled worldling
to be able to assimilate new impressions and
views of life, or to be modified by new surroundings
without yielding to this temptation, I have
had recourse to the English language (as a vehicle
to express my confusion of ideas), whose words are
cheap and easy substitutes for thought. However,
it is not written with the determination to give information,
or to temper it with any sort of humor
or guide-book instruction; but mitigated by actual
knowledge of the places and things talked about.
It may prove that I really think I can tell what I
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saw, just as a color-blind man thinks he can pick
out red or blue; but the color-blind man, be he ever
so teachable, can never know what he misses; and
likewise the writer, without a heaven-sent sense
or birthright for book-making, never knows how
ineffective her narration of sights in book-form
really is. It may be equally obvious that the
gift has not been cultivated with zeal or properly
directed; but whoever reads, I trust, will be born
with the precious gift of sympathy.

It is amazing that one is not discouraged as they
think of the better utterances upon these same subjects,
which have become so constant, so multiplied,
diffused, reported, repeated, stereotyped, telegraphed,
published, and circulated, that books, pamphlets,
speeches and reviews and reports are things that
one tries to escape from. This effort will be characterized
by haste and superficiality, caused partly
by the lack of time and thought necessary to condense,
or possibly a fear that its substance might
disappear in a process of condensation. He who
runs may read. In that great day of reckoning
there will be charged to me so many golden hours
lost between sunrise and sunset, for persistency in
writing monotonous emotions while crossing the
Atlantic for the first time.
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NEVER MIND


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Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
  No matter how strong and clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to hear,
  And scoff at your best endeavor.
For the target art has a broad expanse,
  And wherever you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bulls-eye fame
  There are those who will never admit it.
Though the house applauds while the artist plays
  And a smiling world adores him,
Somebody is there with an ennuied air
  To say that the acting bores him.
For the tower of art has a lofty spire,
  With many a stair and landing,
And those who climb seem small of time
  To one at the bottom standing.
So work along in your chosen niche
  With a steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass your way
  Relax your courage or swerve you.
The idle will flock by the Temple of Art
  For just the pleasure of gazing,
But climb to the top and do not stop
  Though they may not be all praising.
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.rj
<i>Ella Wheeler Wilcox.</i>
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CHAPTER I

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FOR
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For
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fear some of you may be deceived
about this Atlantic, which
was so serenely peaceful and angelic
in disposition when crossing
on board the Hamburg-American
liner “Pennsylvania,” July 14, 1900, I will record
later impressions and tell you what a wild, treacherous
person she is. From July 14th to July 26th,
was one of the smoothest, most placid mill-ponds
you could ever imagine, in spite of the fact that
we started on the voyage Friday, the 13th, from
the Hoboken dock, where the greatest of sea disasters
had taken place but a few hours previous.

The night before our sunrise sailing was one of
hideous recollection, being the recent scene of
such an unparalleled holocaust. The air we
breathed (when we could find time to catch it from
our warfare with Jersey mosquitoes and the heat),
was permeated with the sickening stench of decomposed
animal flesh, made all the more horrible from
the possibility of there being a little human flesh
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with it. By our side lay the charred and sunken
wrecks of the “Bremen,” “Main,” and “Salle,”
with their ghastly cargoes, which had so recently
been the scene of many expectant and happy hearts.
This terrible sight made the lump of a big empty
something harder to swallow, as we swung round
so steadily but surely from our slip, out into the
deeper water. ’Mid the wails of some and the
silent sobs of the more sincere, to the accompaniment
of the little German band, we moved slowly
but majestically down the bay, exhilarated by a
beautiful morning, before the fierce heat of the
day could burn. We watched the beloved and
familiar sky-scrapers recede; soon Bartholdi joined
them, and they were en masse things of the past,
not to be soon forgotten, however. There were
many things to engage one’s thoughts about this
time. My dreams of an ocean greyhound had always
been that it was an abiding-place next to
heaven. Imagine my disappointment as I watched
them hiding away in her depths such unsightly
stuff as pig-iron, tallow, oils, and, worst of all,
bales and bales of that inflammable cotton; working
for days and nights to ballast this graceful
thing of beauty. Sighs are less frequent, things
are less distinct, now only a fancy, as each revolution
of the wheel of the gigantic and throbbing
engine widens that gulf of all gulfs—the ocean—which
I think the most magnificent object under
heaven, and I cannot but feel a slight disgust for the
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multitudes that view it without emotion; yet it is
with a shudder that I think of its grim, tragic side,
its rough billows and war of waves.

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“Worlds of water heaped up on high,
Rolling like mountains in wild wilderness,
Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cry.”
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In all its various forms it is an object of all others
the most suited to affect us with lasting impressions
of the awful power that created and controls it.
The first breakfast was
quite a feature; the bugle
call from one of the little
German band was clearly
heard by all. We read of
ocean greyhounds, record-breaking
trips, the laying
of submarine cables, the
practical subduing of the
Atlantic; then we consult
our maps to discover
it but a small pond. We
read of things Americans
have done in England
recently: won the Derby,
bought the underground
railway, merchant delegates entertained by the
King of England, great gifts made to Scotch universities,
large shares of government loans taken, etc.,
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until we think that the Atlantic has been misrepresented.
One has but to take his maiden voyage to
have this impression corrected; he can vouch that
it is still the roughest and wildest of oceans. Ten
or twelve days’ passage over the Atlantic, with all
means to annihilate distance, one thinks its three
thousand or more tedious miles have been partly
done away with; but I can assure you they are all
there. When we have travelled a thousand miles
east and find we are nowhere in particular, but
realize we are still pitching about on an uneasy sea,
with an unconstant sky, and that a thousand miles
more will not make any perceptible change, we begin
to have some conception of an unconquerable
sea. I can never listen with quite the same satisfaction
to the songs about the sea, “Life on the
Ocean Wave,” “What Are the Wild Waves Saying?”
without thinking of its inability to stand still
for one brief second. The narrow berth plays
shuffle-board with your anatomy all night long.
You walk up-hill to your “zimmer,” and upon
arriving there, discover that your stateroom is at
the bottom of the hill, and to open the door is equivalent
to opening a trap-door. You attempt to sit
down, find you are sitting up, and in promenading
the deck (more than two squares long), you discover
everybody who is not shooting to his stateroom,
is reaching out blindly for the guard-rail, and
is walking on a slant, as though a heavy wind were
blowing; the propeller is out of the water more than
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under, making with its many revolutions more terrific
noise than the cannonading of heavy artillery.
Then if you are fortunate enough to look at food,
have your plate, glass, knife, and fork in a rack,
and consider yourself in great luck if your soup is
not in the lap of your best gown, which was made
with a view of enduring the entire trip.

How novel it all is for the first week; after that,
you wish the band would play a greater distance
from your stateroom. The freaks that aroused
your keenest interest at first promenading the deck
bareheaded, when you were shivering under the
largest steamer rug you could buy, tire you. Even
the celebrities on board, who have so charmingly
entertained you with their wit and music, cease to
attract your attention. Not even our Poultney Bigelow
(who is certainly great in his own mind) could
amuse. Nor is “Barnaby,” of the famous “Ideal
Quartette,” as interesting as he once was. The
Polish Jew is now the most persistent in his call for
aid for a family of paupers from his native land
whom Uncle Sam fails to receive into his bosom
and returns right side up with care. Even the
waltz with the fat “Deutsch” captain fails to amuse;
only the taking of the ship’s log, which promises
you soon a view of the ever welcome sight of land,
interests you. We passed the Scilly Islands, with
their menacing, grim rocks, late in the evening of
the 24th, the first sign, for twelve long days, that
some human friend was watching and waiting for
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us. No more welcome sound than the scream of
the seagull; no lovelier sight will we see abroad,
than the little English village, Plymouth, nestled
at the edge of the sea,—the luxuriant green bluff and
red and white sails which fleck the deep blue sea,
together with thousands of white seagulls who came
out to meet us and escort us in. Having at last set
foot on terra firma, we certainly have a more profound
respect for the grand old ocean. The sunset
on July 25th tried to make a lasting impression on
us; for it was certainly a most beautiful symphony
in rose, gold and sea-foam green, with all the indescribable
tints that the blendings of these three
gorgeous colors could produce. How I would like
to have painted her wonderful color, which the sun
dashed upon her sparkling surface! The young
moon, lying in the lap of the old one, superintended
the beautiful sunset, thinking, no doubt, how soon
she would quiet these splendid hues into a silvery
sleep, as Wordsworth so perfectly phrases it:

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“This sea that bares her bosom to the moon.”
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Nothing more clearly shows than extensive travel
that humanity in every clime is made with one
nature. We are so cogently convinced of being
warmed and cooled by the same sun; grunting and
sweating under every pulsation of the sun and air,
and are truly “bone of her bone, and flesh of her
flesh.” How readily we adapt ourselves to her
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every humor. That nature shows a particular
partiality for man, seems evident from the fact
that he is the only animal who can survive and
subsist in all the moods of all her climates.
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CHAPTER II

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WE
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We
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were dropped at Cuxhaven on July
26th, and from here a train carried
us to Hamburg, arriving on the
morning of the 26th of July.
With the name of Hamburg, the
idea of seaport is associated; and one can see
at its harbor a forest of masts, but is greatly
astonished when he learns the sea is one hundred
kilometres distant. In fact, the grandeur of our
New York harbor is never so emphasized as when
you realize that the large ocean liners that can lie
at her very door are unable to enter European
harbors. Little tenders carry all passengers to
and fro. The Elbe between Hamburg and Cuxhaven
is in reality an artificially constructed inlet
of the sea, formed by vast dykes, and filled by the
mighty waters of the Elbe, driving back the sea
itself. The tide, however, brings no sea water to
Hamburg; it only holds back the waters of the
Elbe, making its effect felt thirty-six kilometres
beyond the seaport. It is hard to understand why
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this German city is such a wonderful shipping
point, until you are told that the Hamburg
dock possesses the invaluable advantage of being
at all times accessible for ocean steamers, an advantage
that is wanting in most seaports, such as
Antwerp, London, Liverpool, etc. They consist of
a so-called “tide-havens,” in contradistinction to
“dock-havens.” We will now traverse an old
country but a new empire; for the Germany of to-day
measures its existence by comparatively few
decades. Our Civil War was a thing of the past
before German unity was an accomplished fact.

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Our introduction into Germany was certainly a
satisfactory one. We were surprised to find, upon
our arrival the first evening, that it was daylight
until 9.30 o’clock and twilight after 10 o’clock; in
fact, one could read the paper at that time; daylight
again at 3 <sc>A.M.</sc> The night seemed delayed
and dawn hastened, thus robbing the night of some
hours at each end. It began to be a serious question
as to when Morpheus would operate, but we found
upon awakening next morning it was 12 <sc>M.</sc> (mid-day),
not interfering in the least with our slumbers.
What a scene of beauty greeted us upon looking out
of the window! A beautiful lake, miles long, running
right through the centre of the city; graceful swans
by the hundreds gliding over its azure depths; fairy
launches here, there, and everywhere. The eye
rests on beauty—beauty. Pavilions dot its borders,
where the happy German and his family are drinking
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their beer and listening to the music (which is
always good in Germany); thoroughly enjoying
themselves in their characteristic way, so enviable.
The city possesses beautiful streets and picturesque
squares; its beauty is greatly enhanced by two artificially
constructed lakes called the outer and inner
Alster,—“Aussen Alster,” “Binnen Alster,”—the
boulevard, as we would say, but known there as the
“Jungfernstieg,” is one of the most beautiful promenades
in all Europe. Most of the important buildings,
monuments, and attractive coffee houses
cluster around the “Inner Alster.” The landscape
beauty of Hamburg is beyond description. “Schöne
Aussicht” greets you in bold letters everywhere you
glance, to remind you if you are careless and indifferent
to their beauty. Usually four rows of lindens
will run the entire length of the streets; drives
through the residence portion are quite unlike those
of our American cities. The exclusiveness of their
homes is a distinct feature. They are hidden almost
from view by dense but highly cultivated
foliage. Flowers are in greatest profusion about
every home, from the palace to the peasant’s home
at Cuxhaven. The dogs pulling the milk wagons
through the streets, the women carrying their wares
and green stuffs on their shoulders, suspended in
baskets from wooden sticks, reminds one that he
is not in an American city, which for the moment is
forgotten in their more modern haunts. There is
simply a wilderness of foliage in this city; they give
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it constant care. Their slavish attention along all
artistic lines proves that the German, while he sips
his beer and cannot reverse in the waltz or dance
the two-step, does not lose his love for art; and the
high state of its development here shows him to be
above the average American in his merciless greed
for wealth.

After a day and night at Nienburg (the birthplace
of George W. Spilker), we took the “Schnell Zug”
for Berlin, making a short stop-over at Hanover.
We were agreeably surprised in their railway systems.
While there is considerably more jostle than
on one of our good trains, there is a degree of comfort
enjoyed in second-class travel that is in some
ways superior to our first-class. We ran about
fifty-seven miles an hour, a whole compartment to
ourselves; remarking it “was the pleasantest long
ride that we had ever taken on a railroad train.”
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CHAPTER III

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WE
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We
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are in Berlin, magnificent
Berlin: what can I say for it?
better, what can’t I say for it?
It seems to be a city where
all requirements are met and
filled; nothing being left undone
that would gratify the taste of
the most critical connoisseur.
Here we see the best in art; royalty, your next-door
neighbor, keeping a respectful distance, however.
Beauty everywhere, stores laden with the choicest
wares (reasonable, too), more soldiers than you
could ever possibly look at; at every turn, nook,
and corner, one of these uniform knights bobs up in
sight; and wherever you read the word “Verboden”
it means exactly that, and you quietly acquiesce.
If it were not for some of these little differences you
could scarcely realize you were anywhere else but
in an American city. Berlin, like Paris and London,
knows no night, as social evil is equally as
great here as in these two other great cities. They
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are lax in their treatment of these night prowlers.
You can’t help but think that its splendor will soon
equal that of Rome, and its licentiousness not far
behind. At the close of the Thirty Years’ War, 1648,
Berlin had only a few hundred inhabitants. It is now
one of the world’s great cities. The phenomenal
rise of Prussia and its predominance in German
affairs gave to its leading city immense influence
and remarkable prosperity, Prussia making herself
the leader of the movement that finally
welded together the twenty-six states now constituting
the German Empire, with the Prussian
King as Kaiser. It is essentially modern, and, despite
the disadvantages of its location, is without
doubt one of the handsomest cities of Europe. Notable
among its many fine buildings are the Royal
Palace and that of the Emperor and Crown Prince,
and the Royal Library, containing a million volumes.
We visited the winter and summer homes (palaces)
of the present king and queen, the Mausoleum at
Charlottenburg, and the palace of Frederick the
Great at Potsdam. We passed through the park,
Sans Souci, with its great fountain, around whose
basin stand eight marble figures, of which the Venus
(Pigalle) is the most beautiful. Straight ahead we
ascended a broad flight of steps, sixty-six feet high,
broken by six terraces, edged by the most beautiful
roses extending their vast length, then by the graves
of Frederick the Great’s dogs. The Emperor himself
wished to be buried here, that he might truly
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be sans souci. We now enter the palace of Sans
Souci, consisting of only one story. The rooms
are in the same order as Frederick left them. The
most interesting apartment throughout was the
room of Voltaire, with its curious wood-carving and
painted walls, designed by Frederick to represent
the character of the French—the peacock typifying
his vanity, the ape his mimicry, the parrot his garrulity.
The great infidel visited and died here,
where he taught the king French, and at one time
criticising the king’s efforts at bookmaking so
severely that he was held in great disfavor by
Frederick. We had an extra privilege in the new
palace, the summer home of the present Emperor,
he being absent on a visit to some of his fifty or
more palaces. We were allowed entrée, the palace
being closed to visitors from May till November.
It contains two hundred apartments, the Imperial
family residing in the north wing. The Shell salon
is most beautiful, its entire ceiling and walls decorated
with gorgeous shells and precious stones—souvenirs
brought back by William II. from his
travels. Some of the amethysts and topazes are
as large as huge blocks of coal.

We listened to Sousa play at the Royal Garden
(for one mark). This is a bewilderingly beautiful
spot, lying adjacent to the Tier gardens, so enchanting
in the twilight. As we came down the
Grand Boulevard (which runs the full length of this
wilderness of beauty), we saw groups (very close
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together) of the most illustrious statuary in pure
white marble, standing the entire length of the
wooded <target id='boulevard'>boulevard, like silent sentinels keeping
watch over this beautiful domain. Some of these
were not yet unveiled. All of them were the gift of
the Kaiser. While lingering in this enchanted spot,
sipping wine and listening to Sousa playing his inimitable
“Washington Post,” we met at the same
table a gentleman who spoke good English—the
very first we had heard since we left home. We
found him to be a celebrated musician, the head of
the Conservatory of Music, and he had been fifteen
years with Theodore Thomas in Cincinnati. He
thoroughly enjoyed Sousa, and said “the Germans
were perfectly delighted with Sousa’s rendition of
Wagner.” What greater compliment could he
expect?—their loved Wagner. We conjectured
a great deal on why Berlin should be so great a city,
lying away in the interior of the Empire, with no
waterways; and why it should be selected as the
nucleus of the modern world of art, with its grand
institutions of learning, and constantly changing
collections of all that is truly new and admirable.
One finds here the most varied products of industrial
art, such as bronze, brasswork, glass, porcelain,
etchings, lithographs, and carbon prints, side
by side with the most costly productions of modern
art. If one only had the time, they would have
but to walk in some of the large salons, where in
rapid succession appear the works of both native
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and foreign artists, where they can be enjoyed at
one’s ease. “Unter den Linden,” with its double
rows of lime trees forming a fine avenue, is the
finest Street in Berlin. We were domiciled at the
corner of “Unter den Linden” and “Friedrich Strasse.”
Around this street great numbers of celebrated
buildings are erected, from the close of the seventeenth
century up to the present, including the
School of Arts and Sciences, royal stables, universities
and palaces of Kaiser Wilhelm I; the old
Museum, a beautiful building in Greek style, all
abounding in collections of choice antiques, art,
in the way of frescos, bronzes, gems, vases, pictures,
stationery, and everything on earth to delight
the eye of the connoisseur as well as to tire it;
so that royalty and its environs lose half their interest
when forced to gorge oneself day in and day
out. To say that every school of art on earth, from
early Italian to Dutch, Flemish, on down to modern
art, is represented in a marked degree of excellence,
would be putting it mildly. We were taken by the
gentleman we met in the Royal Garden, after the
concert, to the “Kaiser Keller,” the well-known
Delmonico or Sherry of Berlin. The edifice calls
for the admiration of all. “The Keller” is the
corporation of an idea which has floated in Schönner’s
fancy for many years. It is the expression in
stone, iron, and wood of “Hauff’s Phantasy” in Brerner
Raths Keller. The happy manner in which the
architect has managed to clothe his conception renders
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a walk through the vault and its rooms (and a
stop-over for a drink) very attractive.

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For a few days we turn our heads away from the
glitter and display of royalty, to drink of the famous
Wiesbaden waters and rest our eyes, for a time at
least. In Germany the average American, who
rests so securely under
his time-honored banner,
the Stars and Stripes, enjoying
all the comforts
of modern civilization,
cares very little about
Germany’s standing army
or navy; for he feels
sure that Uncle Sam can,
with a week’s notice or
less, summon to his
command an army or
navy that could lick any
army they could encounter,
or sink any foreign
fleet they decided upon.
This large army of troops,
ever in evidence, seems to be as much in earnest as
though the enemy lay in camp about them. We see
a little less of the military pomp and trappings in
Wiesbaden than Berlin, but every few steps stands
a soldier by the gaudy portal of his miniature home.
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CHAPTER IV

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WIESBADEN,
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Wiesbaden,
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admittedly
the queen
of Continental
spas, is a dream
of a town of over
80,000 inhabitants,
lying in a
sheltered valley
on the southern
slope of the
Taunus Range.
It creeps along
the spurs of the
surrounding hill
to within one
half-hour’s distance
of the
Rhine. These
hills are densely wooded, a veritable wilderness,
traversed by the most romantic walks and paths.
The woods are so dense—apparently all young trees
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(by the size only I judge)—that not an inch of
the blue canopy could be seen at any step of the
walk; thus sheltering this delightful watering-place
from the bleak winds of the north and east, consequently
affording a climate so mild that the chestnut,
almond, and magnolia, and other of like trees
flourish in the open air, the temperature never
reaching zero in their bleakest winters. It is attractive
in every way. Its “Kurhaus,” with its
Ionic columns and great flower gardens, looks
across to the “Friedrichsplatz,” connected by the
old and new colonnades. Here is the scene of constant
merriment afternoon and evening; grand
music, Sousa occupying the grand-stand the week
prior to our arrival. We attended one of the mid-summer
fête balls in this grand “Kurhaus,” which is
conducted very differently from our American Assembly
balls. There are in all three or four beautiful
dance halls, gigantic in size and glorious in appointment.
The German band, in the intermissions,
leads the entire assemblage from room to room (all
connected by arches) in the grand march, where
they simply proceed with the dance as they left off.
Several Americans, dancing the glide waltz and
two-step, were frequently applauded.

On the south side of the new colonnade rises the
Royal Court Theatre, a handsome pile, with its rich
boroque interior, where nothing but grand opera is
played. From here we made a side trip to Frankfort-on-Main
to hear “Tannhäuser.”
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The Wiesbaden Springs have been known from
Roman times. The waters are drunk mostly from
Kochbrunnen Spring, which supplies the immense
“Drink Halle.” After consulting an eminent specialist,
we found three glasses were the most taken
per day; telling us to drink but one. This half-way
disgusted us, who had been accustomed to ten or
twelve pints per day. Then, too, to find it was specially
beneficial for aged people, we became less
impressed. Our environs were so charming here,
that we lingered longer than at any place in the
province. One delightful day was spent at Mainz,
where we drove in a carry-all with a charming company.
The conveyance, which held eleven persons,
represented five nationalities—a Russian and his
wife; the ex-President of the Argentine Republic,
South America, with his wife and daughter (French
and Spanish); an Englishman; several Germans,
and ourselves. The daughter was one of the most
exquisite pieces of femininity, both as to manner
and dress, that it is your privilege to meet; her
father, having served as minister to both Chili and
Peru, possessed vast wealth; they were able to give
us many ideas of South America’s importance,
both socially and financially. They were equally
proud to say they were Americans.

We witnessed what we would probably term an
“Imperial Review,” Kaiser Wilhelm reviewing a
grand body of cavalry and artillery at Mainz-on-the-Rhine.
From the frequency of these affairs, you
.bn p027.png
would think the Emperor has no idea of peaceful
intentions at any time. This review came off in the
morning. The troops were pouring in by the thousands
when we arrived. Train-loads of soldiers and
horses. All Germany must have been there that
day. All roads leading to the training ground were
filled with pedestrians and carriages,—many royal
personages. The big hollow square was a noble
ground, of level greensward, perhaps a mile square,
hedged about by one of those beautiful dense woods.
It was bordered by thousands of people in their holiday
attire, which always adds to the charm. The
whole was a brilliant spectacle. Your attention was
divided between the place where the Imperial party
stood, the central attraction of the group being the
Emperor on a gray horse, backed by his gay and
glittering guard, with their banners and insignia—as
brave a show as chivalry ever made—and the
field of green with its long lines in martial array.
Every variety of splendid uniform; their love of gay
and dazzling combinations, combined with their
shining brass and gleaming steel, and, last but not
least, their magnificent horses of war, made it a
splendid sight. These regiments of black, gray, and
bay lined up to a straight line in the review before
his Majesty with the graceful precision that was not
surpassed by the best-drilled old veterans. Over it
all was one of those beautiful German skies—the
sun hidden, and just an atmospheric condition to
make it restful and interesting to the artist. I
.bn p028.png
understand now much better why the artist longs for
a German sky, and the benefits derived from fellowship
with those of similar tastes and feelings. The
Emperor kept changing horses, so as not to be exactly
located. A few days before King Humbert of
Italy had been assassinated, hence his extra precaution.
The manœuvrings were such as to stir the
blood of the least sanguine. A regiment, full front,
perfectly drilled, would charge down on a dead run
from the far field, men shouting, sabres flashing,
horses prancing, toward the Imperial party, then
they would gallop off and disappear in the woods to
scout the enemy. Others galloping take their places,
some coming up the centre, while their predecessors
filed down the sides, so that the whole field in one
minute was a moving mass of splendid color and
glistening steel; the next, all drawn up in precise
lines, so that it was a constant wonder how they
could bring order out of such confusion. This display
was followed by flying artillery; battalion after
battalion came clattering by, stretching over the
large field. The great guns kept up a repeated
discharging during the sham battle, which waked
all the surrounding country with echoes. The great
advantage of smokeless powder was here demonstrated.
What seemed to us a hundred thousand
soldiers was said to have been only thirty thousand.
Then followed the rush of the people and vehicles
to see the royal party, pushing and smashing and
tiptoeing, driving at full speed as though there were
.bn p029.png
no crowd, each trying to get into position to see
the Emperor and his guard ride by. It was minus
any Yankee Doodle cheering. We were absolutely
too close to the Emperor to take a snap-shot, as it
proved.
.bn p030.png



.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER V||THE RHINE

.sp 2
.if h
.di p030i.jpg 185 250 1.0
THIS
.if-
.if t
This
.if-
beautiful and wonderful river,
the cause of much contention and
many songs, was less than one
half-hour’s ride. Who has not
talked and lectured with stereopticon
views on the Rhine the past
winter? Every woman’s club has
at least from two to five to give
guide-book descriptions, and expects
their fair listeners to believe
that in the few hours passing down
this stream in a “schnell Dampfschiffahrt”
they are able to tell all its history. We
were near enough to this noble stream to enjoy it
many times, but there was one of our trips more
notable than others. We had taken rate tickets to
Coblenz to see its grand monument and other points
of interest. Those who are able to travel up-stream,
as it was our good fortune many times to do, perhaps
.bn p031.png
had a better opportunity to enjoy the varied
and romantic scenery which comes into view at
every turn in the river. We had gone to Coblenz
for the day, but the trip was perverted and twisted
to mean anything by a busybody who could not lay
aside her gossip long enough to enjoy the few hours
she was fortunate enough to be on this noble stream.
In after years what a loss to her when she misplaces
her guide-book, and her little mind fails to remember
one thing she saw! Rhenish castles lost their
charm as she devoured two people who happened to
be on the same boat because they had a right to be
there, and could afford to enjoy this privilege. But
the Rhine! We have all seen pictures of it and read
its legends. You know that the Rhenish province
is the richest in Germany, and it is to Germany what
the Nile was to the Egyptians—a real delight and a
theme of song and story. They say over there,
“Our Rhine is like your Hudson.” Don’t think
so. I am living near the banks of the latter and
have gone its length many times, but it reminded me
often of the canyons of Colorado in this way: it winds
among the craggy hills of splendid form, turning so
abruptly as to leave you often shut in, with no visible
outlet from the wall of rock and vineyards.
The castles were gazed upon, with their ruins, some
with feudal towers and battlements still perfect, and
hanging on the crags, or standing sharp against the
sky, or nestling by the stream. The most beautiful
one to me is Burg Rheinstein. I don’t know whether
.bn p032.png
it is admired because of its claim that Cæsar crossed
here or a couple of miles upstream, or that it was
the birthplace of some feudal baron; it is probably
better known for the fine brand of wine made
there. Whether its vine-clad hills resemble a crazy-quilt
or not, with its many shades of green fastened
.bn p033.png
together with stone-wall terraces one way, and
joined together with sticks like bean-poles another
way, it is satisfying, and you’ve seen the Rhine,
and you can lord it over some by saying, “When we
were on the Rhine.” In some respects it resembles
our own New York. The mercenary wretches you
encounter at every point sort of make one forget
about its legendary reputation.

.il fn=p032i.jpg w=398px

Like all Continental Europe a mercenary atmosphere
is omnipresent. You have to buy all your
views. The national monument at Rhüdesheim-on-the-Rhine
is one of its most interesting spots,
just opposite Bingen-on-the-Rhine. This grand
monument commands a view of about ninety miles
on a clear day in this part of Germany. There is an
inclined railway to it from the village below; but
we took a carriage, driving up its steep hillside, with
the vineyards stretching away in rows for miles on
either side. The little houses clinging to the hillsides
are quaint and queer. As we wended our way
through the little village, they seemed jammed into
the crevices between the steep hills. The streets
are all cobble-stoned, and, as we clattered up them,
above the clatter of the horses’ feet we could hear
the bells ring loudly for matins, the sound reverberating
in the narrow way, and following us with
its benediction when we were far up the hillside.
A splendid forest of trees covered the hilltop, not
trimmed and cut into allées of arches, as we too
frequently see on this side of the Atlantic.
.bn p034.png

Sometimes one feels that the castles come so
thick that our appreciation would have been greater
if they had been fewer. A shifting panorama of
vine-clad hills or mountains, with here and there
an old feudal tower. About the only variation is
in the English people you are meeting at every turn.
The variety seems almost infinite, but they all impress
you as a people with no nonsense and very
strong individuality, and whatever information they
give you you can rely upon it, “don cher know!”
The American impatience is manifested everywhere—first
on boats and trains and first off. You can
bet on them every time. The New York “step
lively” gait.

What shall we do? This was the question as we
sat in a most delicious place in “Kur” Garden in
one of those cozy nooks overlooking extensive
grounds under grand old trees (no mosquitoes),
listening to the band playing in its gilded bower,
and surrounded by the choicest art, which for the
time being paled the moon which was rising in
the same regal splendor that characterizes her on the
western hemisphere. Shall we continue our daily
walks through winding ways up terraced hills,
flanked by splendid masonry and hidden in trees, and
palaces as a rich façade for a background? Here
the field sports were being indulged in by great numbers.
Shall we sit here and dream in floods of golden
sunlight, or shall we proceed to Munich by way
of Nürnberg?
.bn p035.png



.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VI

.sp 2
.if h
.di p035i.jpg 100 139 1.2
WE
.if-
.if t
We
.if-
are on our way to Nürnberg
next morning—one of the
pleasant railroad rides of our
tour—ever-changing pictures,
from undulating stretches to
rugged mountains; we had but
to look pleasantly at the conductor
and accompany the billet
with a mark—that meant that
we could probably have the entire
carriage to ourselves for the long ride. Thus
it proved. Amid cushions and books we spent another
delightful day, so that we were ready and in
earnest after our delightful rest at Wiesbaden for
sight-seeing. The advantage a trip has with neither
laid-out plans nor places to make within a limited
number of days or hours, was clearly shown to us.
We never knew where we were going, and seldom
went where we set forth. Nürnberg is such an exceedingly
interesting town that most tourists you
meet say, “Don’t miss Nürnberg.” Why it is such
.bn p036.png
a city was the question. All we could find out that
they did there to make it such a busy centre, was
the manufacture of toys and fancy articles.

Nürnberg is characteristically South German,
and the quaintest town in the Empire. In order to
preserve that unity of mediæval aspect for which it
is remarkable, the municipal surveyors insist on all
new erections being designed in keeping with the
older structures. Through the centre of the town
flows the many-bridged Pegnitz. Here are old
bridges, obelisks, and memorials of triumphal entries
of conquerors and princes. Around the older
district runs a well-preserved wall, with nearly fourscore
towers. We visited the old castle standing
on the hill overlooking the old town, and saw the
“Deutsche Mädchen” drop the water in the deep, deep
well that takes six seconds to reach the bottom, by
actual count. Here soldiers had to come a half-mile
underground for their drinking-water. We gazed
on the house in which Albrecht Dürer lived; this
still possesses many interesting relics of that great
German artist. We noticed the “Rathaus,” whose
interior contains a considerable quantity of mediæval
German work, including specimens of Dürer.
A relief facing “Rathaus” is considered the finest of
Krafft’s works; the interior contains some painted
glass by Hirschvogel, and Peter Vischer’s masterpiece,
the Sebaldus tomb. One more thing—St.
Lorenzkirche—a beautiful Gothic, dating back to
the thirteenth century; the most striking points of
.bn p037.png
the exterior are the western façade and its porch,
with a splendid rose window above it. It contains
magnificent stained-glass works of art, from the fifteenth
to the sixteenth centuries, including the so-called
pyramid, designed and executed by Adam
Krafft, the most exquisite thing I ever saw; and a
candelabra by Peter Vischer. I insisted upon lingering
in this artistic atmosphere of the fifteenth
century, but my constant companion balked, saying,
“It might be an artistic atmosphere to some,
but it was a nasty, musty old one to him.”

These old Gothic builders let their fancy riot in
grotesque figures of animals, saints, and imps.
Saints and angels and monkeys climb over one portal
of the Cathedral. From the ground to the top
is one mass of rich stonework, the creation of genius
that hundreds of years ago knew no other way
to write its poems than with the chisel. This city
is a “has-beener,” no “is-er.” It lives upon the
memory of what it has been, and trades upon relics
of its former fame. What it ever would have been
without Albrecht Dürer, and Adam Krafft the stone
mason, and Peter Vischer the bronze-worker, and
Viet Stoss the wood-carver, and Hans Sachs the
shoemaker and poet-minstrel it is difficult to say.
Truly their works live after them, their statues are
set up in the streets, their works in almost every
church and city building. Pictures and groups in
stone and wood and all sorts of carving are reproduced
in all shop windows for sale. The city is
.bn p038.png
full of their memories, and the business of the city,
aside from its manufactory of endless toys, seems
to consist in reproducing them and their endless
works to sell to strangers. Nürnberg lives in the
past, and (like some people we know) traffics on its
ancient reputation. At the fish market we see odd
old women with Rembrandt colors in faces and costumes.
During our drive through crooked, narrow
streets, with houses overhanging and thrusting out
gables, we saw many with quaint carvings and odd
little windows above, with panes of glass—hexagons—resembling
sections of honeycomb; with
stairs on the outside, and stone floors in the upper
passages; others with dozens of dormer windows,
hanging balconies of stone (carved and figure-beset)
and no end of queer rooms.

While we strayed about this strange city, the
chimes from lofty towers fell down. What history
crowds upon us, portions of it as old as the tenth
century!
.bn p039.png



.sp 4
.il fn=p039i-1.jpg w=500px



.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VII

.sp 2
.if h
.di p039i-2.jpg 100 150 1.2
WHAT
.if-
.if t
What
.if-
next! A glass of good
Münchner beer, and away we
go to Munich on the “Schnell
Zug” (fast train), over a rolling,
pleasant country, past pretty
railway stations covered with vines
and gay with flowers, as all German
windows are; past switchmen in
flaming scarlet jackets, who stand
at the switches, raising their hand
to their temple in a military salute
as we go by. As you travel by rail through Bavaria
you see the conductors and guards dismount
from the train at the little country stations to replenish
their mugs. Beer takes the place of water.
When you arrive at Munich, pre-eminently the beer
capital of the world, the porters set their mugs down
on the platforms anywhere to solicit your custom.
The ever-present stein stands beside the cab-wheel.
Next to London, Paris, and Berlin, Munich is visited
by more travellers than any other European city.
.bn p040.png
Gradually this influence has modernized it, but
there still remain sufficient of the old Bavarian
curiosities of life to entertain and instruct the travelled
worldling. Nobody here thinks of doing anything
without an accompaniment of beer. It is
always in order: before breakfast, after dinner, the
inevitable nightcap. The youngsters sit at table
and sip it when they are too young to leave their
mothers’ laps. We have listened to loud yelps go
up over the contention for the stein between babies;
still they are not a nation of drunkards. The law
prescribes how much beer you shall give your servants
daily. Thank fortune, it has no power to
regulate the appetite of the private consumer. You
sweeten all chores, whether to chop wood, shovel
coal, or chaperon a party to an art gallery, with a
glass or stein of beer. Strange as it seems here,
where art has attained its highest, the consumption
of beer seems to be the prime business. One of the
curious decorations of Munich streets is its mugs
and bottles; some full, some empty, hem one in on
all sides. They are left indifferently by the owners,
but none are ever stolen. The cardinal command
for every Bavarian is, “You shall not steal my
beer.” It is a panacea, food, and drink. If you
don’t drink beer at all, the Bavarian does not think
you are merely odd, but he thinks you are in danger
in mind and body.

Munich was rebuilt after the great fire, and extended
by Emperor Ludwig, the Bavarian. Indeed,
.bn p041.png
the rulers of Bavaria have spared neither pains nor
expense to make their capital beautiful and attractive.
Artistic buildings and monuments are distributed
everywhere. The “Propylæn,” a magnificent
gateway across the handsome “Brienner Strasse,” is
an imitation of that on the Acropolis at Athens, with
its Doric columns on the outside and Ionic within;
the pediment groups are scenes in modern Greek history.
Wherever you go, through churches, palaces,
galleries, streets, parks, and gardens, you find frescoes
so crowded out of the way, and rooms so overloaded
with statuary and pictures, all so good, as to
sacrifice all effect. Such overproduction as this
gives one the feeling that art has been forced beyond
use in Munich. But when you consider the army
of artists there in the way of painters, sculptors, and
plasterers, working with that great unrest and desire
to do something, it is no wonder that everything
is painted and bedecked; seemingly determined
to leave nothing for the sweet growth and blossoming
of time. It is the cheapest thing in the world
to criticise when you are filled with their foaming
beer (three and a half cents a quart), which is said
by antiquarians to be a good deal better than the
mead drunk in Odin’s Halls; then view the city in
a cheerful, open light, cram-jam full of works of
art, ancient and modern, and its architecture a study
of all styles. The long, wide “Ludwig Strasse” is a
street of palaces, built up by the old king. All the
buildings, in Romanesque style, are, in a degree, monotonous.
.bn p042.png
A street with no pretty shop windows,
neither shade nor fountain, leading nowhere, never
attracts, no matter how many kings dictated it.

It has so much that could be criticised, but should
not be, by a passing tourist, if he is a little wearied
by repetition. Munich seems to be the home of the
dove; a regular colony is domesticated in the decorations
on the façades of the buildings; they, too,
seem seized with the decorative spirit. My companion
differed with me again, when I thought it
added to the artistic interest; the fact that they were
doves seemed to make no difference, “Wouldn’t
want them ruining a home of mine.”

The royal palace is a building of great solidity, but
plain. The Emperor’s room contains valuable
jewels and precious stones, including a large blue
diamond called the “Hausdiamant,” and the “Palatinate
Pearl”; an interesting relic of Mary Stuart;
also a work ascribed to Michael Angelo. After you
make an effort to see these things, with slippers
drawn over your shoes to protect their highly polished
floor, you are easily satiated. A visit to our
own Tiffany is much more to our taste, with the
musty smell and sliding feet barred out. The palace,
built in late Renaissance style, has its main
façade toward the Hof Garden. In a suite of six
rooms, strikingly frescoed, representing scenes from
the “Odyssee,” are reliefs by Schwanthaler; portraits
of thirty-six beautiful women are in the banquet
hall, with forty-one paintings of various battles. Its
.bn p043.png
throne-room contains twelve large gilded statues by
Schwanthaler. The Royal Chapel is built in Byzantine
style (1837). North of this is the Hof Garden,
a beautiful square whose two sides have arcades,
decorated with frescoes by Kaulbach, Rottmann,
and others. Attached to it are the premises of the
Art Union, containing a permanent exhibition of
work of leading masters. To the west lies the
“Odeonplatz,” embellished with an equestrian
Statue of King Ludwig I. Opposite the Palace rises
the handsome “Theatiner Kirche,” in Italian
baroque style (1675 <sc>A.D.</sc>), with all its portals bestatued
and bedecked. The palace of Duke Max
has a porch embellished with statues of the four
Evangelists, by Schwanthaler. It contains celebrated
frescoes of the “Day of Judgment,” the
most important of Cornelius’s pictures. Cornelius
is of the “Düsseldorf” school, a rival of the Munich
schools.

It seems strange to see these same people, with
their steins in hand and abdomens much in evidence,
enjoying these gems of art—largely Biblical subjects—and
the most classic music. A seat under
the trees, with open arcades on two sides for
shops, decorated with frescoes and landscapes of
historical subjects, is more interesting. The arcade
is eight hundred feet long, in the revived Italian
style, with a fine Ionic porch, and good Münchener
beer to order. The color was not a pleasing one to
me, as it was the royal dirty yellow, an imitation,
.bn p044.png
not fully carried out, of the Pitti Palace at Florence,
so I have heard. They try hard to imitate the classic
and Italian in Munich. They boast that their Royal
Court Chapel’s interior resembles St. Mark’s in Venice;
but the building needs southern sunlight to get
the right quality. The “Glyptothek,” a Grecian structure
of one story, erected to hold the treasures of
classic sculpture that the extravagant Bavarian
kings have collected, has a beautiful Ionic porch and
pediment. The outside niches are filled with statues.
In the pure sunshine and under a deep blue sky its
white marble glows with an almost ethereal beauty.
Don’t think Munich is all imitation. Its finest street,
the Maximilian, built by the late king of that name,
is of a novel and wholly modern style of architecture,
that reminds one of the new portions of Paris (the
only part of Paris that we did see). It begins with
the Post-Office, with its long colonnade and Pompeian-red
lining; then the Hof Theatre, with its pediment
frescoes, the largest opera house in Germany,
and so on. Here we saw the opera, “Die Zauberflote,”
beginning at 6.30 summer evenings.

The English Garden must not be forgotten. This
was laid out originally by the munificent American,
Count Rumford (Benjamin Thompson), born in Vermont.
Why this should be called English Garden, I
don’t know; perhaps because it is different from their
Continental style. Paris has nothing to compare
with it for natural beauty. We have our Central
Park, New York. Wearied tourists generally go to
.bn p045.png
some of the huge beer gardens and surrender themselves
to the divine influence of music, and watch
the honest Germans drink beer and gossip in friendly
fellowship.

I have referred before to the great regiments of
soldiers mounted and on guard at all times in Germany.
But nowhere outside of Berlin are they so
thick as in Munich. This little kingdom of Bavaria
is full of them. Thousands of troops are in line.
Every male must serve three years continuously;
every man between the age of twenty-one and forty-five
must go with his regiment into camp or barracks
several weeks each year, no matter if the harvest
rots in the fields or the customers desert the shops,
leaving the unsold wares on shelves. The service
takes three of the best years of a young man’s life.
You can see young soldiers with their hot-looking
uniforms, until you feel everybody is “soldiering”
for a living. You meet these young officers everywhere,
most of them fine-looking fellows—good
figures—in what, I suppose, they think handsome-looking
uniforms. On the street, salutes between
officers and men are perpetual; the hand being raised
to the temple and held there a second. Their politeness
impresses you as much more sincere than the
French. At hotels the landlord, wife, and servant
join in wishing you a good night’s sleep, while the
“Deutsche <target id='madchen'>Mädchen ‘Bitte schöne’s’” everything.
The most polite I ever knew, with one exception, at
Hotel Windsor in London: the maid there thanked
.bn p046.png
us for bringing us a pitcher of hot water. The
young German is much more stylish and prepossessing
in appearance than his fraulein. A young officer
in his shining uniform, white kids, long sword
clanking on the walk, raising his hand in a condescending
salute to a lower in rank or with affable
grace to a superior, is pleasant to see.

One always turns to the strains of the military
band and views the mounted musicians, as well as the
uniformed soldiers, mounted as if born to the saddle,
with invariably fine horses that prance in the sunshine.
The clatter of their hoofs on the cobble
pavement, the jingle of bit and sabre, an occasional
word of command, the onward sweep of the well-trained
cavalcade, continued for so long a time that
I turned to a gentleman on the sidewalk and said,
“How many men are in line?” He shrugged his
shoulders in that detestable fashion, an imitation of
the French, I suppose. I then said, “Wie viel?”—“Zehn
tausend.” I then remarked, “What a
foolish waste of time and money”; he no doubt
would have responded to this if he could.

Their chief use (the soldiers), as far as I could see,
was to make pageants in the streets and to furnish
music for the public squares.

The Isar River is one of the curiosities of Munich.
It is chiefly noted for running rapidly, and for being
nowhere near the battlefield of Hohenlinden, the
poet to the contrary notwithstanding. They say it
is a river sometimes as white as milk, at others as
.bn p047.png
green as grass; and it is probably the only river of
its size in the world that has no boats on it; nor
may one bathe in it, on account of the swiftness of
the current. Its principal use is for people to drown
themselves in. They do use it, however, for the
Isar is turned into this beautiful English Garden.
Art takes hold of it and turns it to use, causing it to
flow into more than one stream with its mountain
impetuosity, forming lakes gracefully overhung
with trees, which present ever-changing aspects of
loveliness as you walk along its banks.

There are always idlers everywhere. Everybody
has leisure in Europe. One can easily learn how
to be idle and let the world wag. They are not
troubled with “Americanitis.” They have found
out that the world will continue to turn over
every twenty-four hours without their valuable aid.
They give so many hours to recreation and amusement.

.il fn=p048i.jpg w=384px align=l

Munich has developed remarkably in commerce
and art. As an industrial town it is celebrated principally
for its enormous breweries. A German statistician—Germans
seem to be mostly statisticians—has
recently calculated that the tramways of Munich
get two thirds of their income in conveying people
to the cafés from their homes and places of business.
Once a Münchener finds a café to his taste, he goes
there the rest of his life, and is followed by his progeny,
no matter how inconvenient or how far distant.
The women spend afternoons in their favorite cafés,
.bn p048.png
taking off their wraps and bonnets and doing a little
knitting or crocheting. This industry is indulged in
even on the Sabbath. Here we see peasant women
mere beasts of burden, carrying great loads of wood
on their backs up stairways, and doing all kinds of
the heaviest menial service. Woman and her status
is really the most interesting study in all Bavaria.
But the short time
one has there, he
can only note the
most striking
things. Dogs
come in, in importance—regular
summer dogs, so
long that one chills
while they pass in
and out of doorways.
Dogs everywhere,
following
after the streetcars,
long trails of dogs, where owners are passengers.
They seem a little lower than the children
and a little higher than woman; but Munich, like
the rest of the world, is changing. “Americanisiert,”
they say, but there are still a few places
which retain many old forms and customs and
curious sights. Munich attempts to be an architectural
reproduction of classic times. In order to
achieve any success in this <target id='direction'>direction it is necessary
.bn p049.png
to have the blue heavens and golden sunshine
of Greece. Its prevailing color is gray, but its
many-tinted and frescoed fronts go far to relieve
this cheerless aspect. The old portion of the city
has some remains of other days of splendor, as it
abounds in archways and rambling alleys, that suddenly
become broad streets, then contract again; portions
of old wall and city gates, old feudal towers
standing in the market-place, still remain. But the
Munich of to-day is as if built to order. King
Ludwig I.’s flower-wreathed bust stands in these
days to remind them that he gave the impulse for
all this. The new city is laid out on a magnificent
scale of distances, with wide streets, fine open
squares, and plenty of room for gardens and art.
.bn p050.png



.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER VIII

.sp 2
.if h
.di p050i.jpg 100 99 1.2
OBER-AMMERGAU
.if-
.if t
Ober-Ammergau
.if-
and the great
Passion Play have been much
talked about. Ministers, priests,
and laymen have discoursed
and “stereopticoned” this
wonderful play, to say nothing
of the graphic descriptions of
the mighty army of club-women fortunate enough
to be an eye-witness to this great event. It has
been so much better told and illustrated, I hesitate
to make my poor effort, but more to preserve it in
my memory as a little keepsake, cherished most
fondly, than to entertain others, I will review it.

“The story that transformed the world” has been
told, sung, and reiterated throughout the length and
breadth of Christendom; yet never has it been given
in a way to so attract and convince, at the same
time so far-reaching in its effects, as these simple-minded
peasants were able to give it. The whole
world has had a lesson far more valuable and
lasting than the impressions made by generations
.bn p051.png
of broadcloth orators from high pulpits. If one
ever had a conviction or the slightest spiritual
awakening in his life, it is here that he is reminded
of it, for in the vast daily audiences of over four
thousand people sat not one inattentive listener.
The grandest rendition of the greatest operas will
fail to elicit the attention of some of their audiences;
the most climaxing and superb oratory produces
restlessness in some of its hearers; but the
close attention of this vast audience, with never a
whisper of applause, through the long hours from
8.30 <sc>A.M.</sc> to 5.30 <sc>P.M.</sc>, with one short hour for intermission,
was never equalled. Why? Because
they were listening to “the story that transformed
the world,” having come thousands of miles by
land and sea, and braving every obstacle and discouragement
to reach this place—the only place in
all the world that seems adapted to it, or sacred
enough to allow the enactment of such a tragedy.
There was no sound in this large audience but
the turning of the leaves as they closely followed the
translation in English, the play being given in the
purest German, only broken by an occasional blowing
of the nose, so popular a method for men to relieve
their surcharged tear-ducts, while the women,
with no apparent desire for concealing their emotions,
mopped their eyes incessantly. Upon our
arrival we retired to our room, which was opposite
the smoke-house and commanded ten marks per
day, the highest price paid. I retired between two
.bn p052.png
immense feather beds, with my brain on fire and
thoughts forcing themselves into my mind, rendering
sleep impossible. How I wished for those I
loved, whose perfect knowledge of the story was
an every-day delight to their hearts. How selfish
I felt with my privilege—sacred privilege! Doubtless
thousands were there who had never heard this
story before, not knowing whether Jacob was Joseph’s
father or Joseph Jacob’s father. But they
will never forget the lesson of that day. As we
started on our trip to Ober-Ammergau we were filled
with the thoughts of the great and only Passion
Play, and found our daylight ride from Munich to
Ober-Ammergau, through the German Alps, one
panoramic view of loveliness. It is impossible to
convey to you the charms of these Bavarian highlands,
with crystal-clear trout streams, lovely woods
of many tints, mountains of wild, weather-worn
shape, and, above all, that deep blue sky overhanging
the landscape. The mountains are clothed with
fir trees,—fine old trees,—making a worthy background
for an equally charming picture. The journey
from Munich takes about three hours on a
“Schnell Zug.” With an unusually long train, we
rise upwards into the mountains, passing two beautiful
lakes on the way, “Wurm See” and “Staffel
See.” After the train left Murnau, we stood on rear
platform watching our ascent, with an American,
a gentleman much travelled, and truly capable of
imparting any desired information. Such a person
.bn p053.png
always gives fresh impetus and appreciation. We
here reach higher mountain scenery, up-grade all
the way to Ober-Ammergau, with double-header
engine. As you enter this sacred village, you can
see the theatre off to the left, which stands in a
meadow at the far end of the village; the stage is
open to wind and weather, but this year for the
first time all seats are covered. The new theatre
was begun in 1899, the cost of which was borne
by the burghers. It consists of six great arches of
iron, with wooden coverings and roof, and is completely
covered with canvas, colored yellow; saints
and prophets are painted on the canvased walls.
The seats are elevated to the rear, affording each
one a good view. The performance goes on uninterruptedly,
unless it rains so hard that nothing
can be seen. On Passion Play day you have to
rise early, as the play begins early in the morning,
and the first half ends at 12 o’clock, with an hour
for luncheon. It is resumed at 1.30 <sc>P.M.</sc> and
closes at 5.30 <sc>P.M.</sc> The band parades the street at
6 o’clock in the morning, and at 7 the theatre begins
to fill. You can walk from almost any part of the
village to the theatre. Our early Sunday morning
walk was along the bank of the swift, clear stream
which rushes through its narrow banks over the
meadow. The villagers can here be seen washing
their dishes and their clothes in the stream. It was
all a scene and sensation never to be forgotten.
It is always cool up here; snow falls knee-deep
.bn p054.png
in October and stays on until May without thawing.
You order your ticket for the play at the same time
that you do your room. Every room in the village
has a ticket allotted to it; the ticket is given according
to the price paid for the room. You cannot
purchase a ticket unless you take a room. It is
necessary for you to remain in the village over
night. The play beginning at 8 <sc>A.M.</sc> necessitates
the stay in the village, which was certainly unique if
one didn’t favor sharing his boudoir with the
cows. The rooms were three marks to ten marks.
We had a ten-mark room, which entitled us to the
best seat.

Ober-Ammergau is a beautiful little village, standing
in a level valley of the Bavarian Alps, which
made the trip here one of beauty; at no place did
we enjoy the scenic beauty of the Alps more than on
our ride to the “Linderhof” Palace, a delicious ride
from Ober-Ammergau, the day before we witnessed
the play. Through this village the Ammer runs—the
swift Ammer river, clear as crystal. The population
of Ober-Ammergau is not more than 1300.
Everybody has a cow. It is the ideal to be realized—thirty
acres and a cow. There are about six hundred
cows in the village, who use the main street
for the coming-home milking time. They all have
bells, as well as the horses and sheep. These latter
are so far outnumbered that they are not noticed.
The presentation of the Passion Play is arranged
and performed on the basis of the entire Scriptures,
.bn p055.png
with only one object in view—the edification of the
Christian world. “Instead of setting forth the
Gospel story as it stands in the New Testament, they
take as the fundamental idea the connection of the
Passion, incident by incident, with the types, figures,
and prophecies of the Old Testament. The whole of
the Old Testament is thus made, as it were, the massive
pedestal for the Cross. The course of the narrative
of the Passion Play is perpetually interrupted or
illustrated by scenes from the older Bible, which are
supposed to prefigure the next event to be represented
on the stage. In order to explain the meaning
of the typical tableaux and to prepare the
audience for the scene which follows, recourse is
had to an ingenious arrangement whereby the interludes
between each scene are filled up with singing in
parts and in chorus by a choir of guardian angels,
the orchestra being concealed from view. Whenever
the curtain falls, they resume their old places
and the singing proceeds. It is a fine attempt at
grand opera made by these peasant villagers; the
music is very impressive, and the oftener you hear it
the more you feel its force and pathos. Their costumes
are very effective. In the centre of the stage,
bright scarlet, with white undertunics with golden
edging, yellow leather sandals, stockings same color
as the robes which fall from their shoulders, held
in place by gold cord and tassel; all wearing coronets
with cross in centre, producing a brilliant effect.
Twice are these brilliant robes exchanged for black,
.bn p056.png
immediately before and after the Crucifixion; the
bright robes are resumed at the close, when the play
closes with a burst of hallelujahs and a jubilant triumph
over the Ascension of our Lord.” As we
walked away, still under the spell that holds one
from start to finish, we sat down at one of the many
little tables in front of the homes on the sidewalk
to refresh ourselves. We fortunately were joined
by an elegant gentleman, a German general, late
from the Boer War. He was trying equally as hard
to understand our crude German as we were his
miserable English. He was as refreshing as the
big stein of good Münchener beer which we, with
thousands of others, were making disappear. We
were in sight, all day long, of hundreds of priests
in their clerical robes, who were equally enjoying
the beer, as well as most of the players, who were
anxious to quench their thirst after their long engagement.

To return to the villagers. They were washing
their dishes in the stream that flows through village,
having come down only a few steps from their
homes. This river would seem like a branch, were
it not for its swiftness. We could hardly be satisfied
to think we could not drink from this clear mountain
stream. It certainly is an ideal picture of an
ideal village. The clean white walls of the houses
with their green window-shutters could be seen
grouped round the church, which, with its mosque-like
minaret, forms the living centre of the place,
.bn p057.png
architecturally and morally the keystone of the
arch. Seen at sunset or sunrise, the red-tiled roofs,
quaint in shape, under the shade of the surrounding
hills, is most beautiful. The homes of most of the
players are also the homes of their cattle. The
people occupy upper floors. We were at the foot of
the lofty “Koful” Crag, where, high overhead, stood
the white cross. In the irregular streets (for streets
and sidewalks are one), can be seen Tyrolese mountaineers,
strolling and laughing, in their picturesque
costumes, who always bare their heads and remain
so, until the bells, pealing forth the solemn angelus
hours, cease. They seem to be more Swiss than
German. They inhabit the mass of mountains
which divides the flat lands of Germany from the
plains of Italy, and are a fine species of the human
race. They are an isolated little community, secured
by its rocky ramparts against any intermeddling
of distant governments, and are necessarily
independent and live under a most simple but sound
government. Nearly every man is a landholder,
the poorest owning three acres; the richest, sixty
acres.

.sp 2
.h3
THE VOW

As far back, it is said, as the twelfth century,
there has been a Passion Play performed in the little
village, but towards the close of the sixteenth century
the wars that wasted Germany left but little time to
the dwellers of these remote highlands for dramatic
.bn p058.png
representation. They played dreadful havoc with
their homes and fortunes. Among these unfortunates
were the Bavarians of the Tyrol, and as an after
consequence of the wide-wasting Thirty Years’ War,
a great pestilence broke out in the villages surrounding
Ober-Ammergau. Whole families were swept
off. In one village two married couples were left
alive; a visitation somewhat similar to our “Black
Death.” While village after village fell a prey to
its ravages, the people of Ober-Ammergau remained
untouched, and enforced a vigorous quarantine
against all the outside world. As always happens,
one person, Casper Schuchler, broke through the
sanitary regulations. This good man, who was
working in the plague-stricken village of Eschenlohe,
felt an uncontrollable desire to return to his
wife and children, who were living in Ober-Ammergau.
The terrible retribution followed. In two
days he was dead, and the plague, which he had
brought with him, spread with such fatal haste from
house to house that in thirty-three days eighty-four
other villagers had perished, all sanitary measures
having failed. Unless the plague were stayed, there
would soon not be enough to bury the dead. They
assembled to discuss their desperate plight. It was
said, “It was as men looking into the hollow eye-sockets
of death.” They cried aloud to God, they
would repent their sins, and in token of their penitence,
and as a sign of gratitude for their deliverance,
if they were delivered, they would every ten
.bn p059.png
years perform this Passion Play. From that hour
it ceased; those who were already smitten with
the plague recovered. There were no more victims
of the pestilence. It is said that not since
“Moses lifted up the brazen serpent in the wilderness”
has there been so signal a deliverance
from mortal illness on such simple terms. Thus it
was that the Passion Play became a fixed institution
in Ober-Ammergau, and has been performed with
few variations, due to wars, ever since. The performance
of the Passion Play, like the angel with
the drawn sword which stands at the summit of the
castle of San Angelo, is the pious recognition of a
miraculous interposition for the stay of the pestilence.
But for Casper Schuchler it would have gone
the way of all other Passion plays. He sinned and
suffered, but out of his sin and sorrow has come the
Passion Play, the one solitary survivor of what was
at one time a great instrument of religious teaching
almost throughout Europe. As we returned to the
village in the quiet of the evening, we were awe-stricken
by the perfectly blue, cloudless sky over-reaching
these sacred hills. The crowd of that day
had departed; all was peace; the whole dramatic
troupe were pursuing the even tenor of their ordinary
lives. Most of the best players were wood-carvers,
others peasants or local tradesmen, who were
named Matthew, Luke, and John from their cradles,
imitating the lives of these characters from their
birth up. Their royal robes, or rabbinical costumes,
.bn p060.png
were laid aside, and they would go about their work
as ordinary mortals. But what a revelation, when
you consider the latent capacity—musical, dramatical,
intellectual—that a single mountain village
can furnish under capable guidance! Just think,—tinkers,
tailors, bakers, and ploughmen being able
to produce such a play! It proves mankind is not
lacking in native capacity. With a guided, active
brain, patient love, and careful education, and the
stimulus and inspiration of a great idea, nothing
seems impossible.

We were driven in “Ein Spänner” (one-horse carriage)
to Linderhof Palace by a young Tyrolese, with
a little chicken feather in his Alpine hat. Knowing
that all villagers were going through the Passion
Play, I asked why he was not there. He said “he
was not born in Ober-Ammergau, therefore could
not take part in the play.” He said this in German,
and seemed quite pleased that we could understand.
On our return trip from Linderhof he pointed out
Prince Leopold in his carriage, with advance-guard.
The roadway was quite narrow at this place, so we
took a good look at him. He was quite gray,—the
successor of the mad King Ludwig. They gallantly
raised their chapeaux, but we impolite Americans
were so intense in our desire to see nobility, that we
in turn forgot our breeding. All along the various
waysides pious souls have erected shrines. The
contours and outlines of those splendid mountains
were as graceful as mobile waves: some rugged
.bn p061.png
and sharp crags hidden by the clouds—so high;
others clearly defined in color against the sky. If
there was anything inharmonious, the atmosphere—that
friendly veil—toned all down into a repose of
matchless beauty. The atmosphere here seems to
act as a drapery, dipped in dyes of the gods. You
can’t account for the prismatic coloring, often seen
but never told, by pen or pencil or brush; not just
plain, simple, thin sunshine, but a royal profusion
of a golden substance; a sort of transforming quality,—a
vesture of splendor. Amidst this beauty
rests the palace of the late mad king, which seems
golden from the covering of the exterior to the exquisite
golden interior. Even the waters of its
fountains and lakes spraying through figures of
gold. This palace, no larger than a metropolitan
club-house, contains everything in the way of art
that an abnormal imagination, backed by the
coffers of a kingdom, could suggest and buy. The
beautiful marble statue of the young king stands in
front of the palace on a marble elevation, with a
beautiful marble peristyle for a background. The
ermine on the royal robe is so perfectly executed
in marble as to cause a desire to run one’s fingers
through the fur of same.

“Schloss Linderhof” we have all possibly heard
more about than the average castle. It shows the
characteristic as well as wilful extravagance of their
late king, Ludwig II., for whom it was erected. It
is a fine edifice in rococo style. The interior
.bn p062.png
displays a magnificence of ornament and a wealth
of color and gold which render it too ornate for
the taste of some; but to me it was ideal, both as
to size, decorations, and appointment.

The grotto is certainly worth mention. It is made
in the side of a mountain, and the walk lies under
a shaded arbor of continuous beauty. The entrance
to the cave is one huge swinging rock, cut out of a
mountainside, and hung on a pivot, so as to open
and close itself. Within were the stalactites of the
grotto, with their beautiful masses, out of which
twinkled myriads of electric lights. On an artificial
lake was an improvised stage with perfect appointments,
where the King and his friends viewed the
grand opera from his golden barge that Cleopatra
could never have rivalled. Just outside of this grandeur,
which no human soul inhabited, was a road-house,
where the jolly mountaineers and tourists
were eating and drinking, no doubt happier than
the king and all his grandeur had ever been.

It is indeed a strange fate that seems to pursue
King Leopold’s family: one sensational climax
after another; brought to death through violence
in tragedies so unsavory that it has been found preferable
to leave them enveloped with a veil of mystery.
Surely a strange curse seems to rest upon the
reigning house of Belgium. The curtain is constantly
ringing down on Europe’s royal life tragedies;
dethroned, widowed by assassin, bereaved, and
victims of all the fates and furies of Greek mythology;
.bn p063.png
and now Victoria, Empress Frederick of Germany.
Surely there has been little of late in royal
and imperial annals to inspire common people with
envy of the exalted personages born to the purple,
and certainly will cause nobody to long for a crown.

We have now seen the German Alps,—the best
time to see them is before visiting Switzerland,—and
still have the pleasure before us of the loveliness
of the Swiss Alpine heights.
.bn p064.png



.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER IX||SWITZERLAND

.sp 2
.if h
.di p064i.jpg 150 162 1.1
THEY
.if-
.if t
They
.if-
tell you over here that
the Alps have the robust
beauty of the Alleghanies
combined with the scenic
grandeur of the Rockies;
but there is not the slightest
duplicate of the Rocky
Mountains that we discovered.
Surely nothing could
exceed in loveliness Lucerne. As we wound down
the hillside near the foot of the lake, backed by precipitous
mountains running away to where their
peaks lift up their snows, we saw below us, and
around a beautifully colored bay, Lucerne. It was
showery, as it often is, the day we went to Lucerne,
but we soon found that it only added to our excited
expectation. We enter, among real hills and enormous
tunnels, the longest I ever passed through,
sweet little valleys; Swiss cottages nestle in the hillside,
showing little else but the enormous roofs that
.bn p065.png
come nearly to the ground, giving the cottages such
a picturesque look; when suddenly, shining through
showers, appeared the Alps, like molten silver in the
early light, the clouds drifting over them, now hiding,
now disclosing, the enchanting heights. Almost
every tourist stops at Lucerne, as it possesses direct
communication with all parts of Europe. Lying in
the very heart of Switzerland, it enables travellers to
get to all important spots with comparative ease. It
is situated in a most picturesque spot, at the head of
the lake of the four Cantons, which here pours
out its clear crystal waters through the rushing
Reuss. This river has such a current tumbling right
through the main street that I experienced a great
solicitude for the inhabitants, for fear it would
get out of its banks into the buildings that line its
very edge. I finally subsided, as no one else seemed
anxious. The town itself is severed by the emerald
waters of the bridge-spanned Reuss. We walked
through and over several of them. The quaint old
“Kapell Brücke,” roofed with wood and built across
the river in a slanting line to avoid the great pressure
of the waters, is interesting. It has curious
old paintings on its arches throughout its length, and
readable German script. The further end of the
bridge opens on to “Schwanen Platz,” a fashionable
promenade of the place, and it is loved for its shady
avenues of chestnut trees and its splendid view of the
lake and the Alps. As our stay was short, we took
a cog-wheel to one of its mountain resorts, which
.bn p066.png
opened to our view the many indescribable charms
of Lucerne and its splendid lake of irregular form.
This magnificent lake runs its gulfs up among the
mountains, which are traversed by steamers. By
sitting down at one of the many “Schöne Aussichts”
we had a sweeping view of the city below and its
beautiful environments. We could enjoy its architecture,
which embraced pure Renaissance in its
Rathhaus, its “Kirche” in simple Gothic, its Jesuit
Church in baroque, its multitude of Swiss cottages;
and, above all, an exceedingly fine view of the near
ranges of the Alps. This embraced the crags of
Pilatus and Rigikuln; beyond them were the immortal
snows of the higher Alps.

We were told here to defer our shopping until we
went to Zurich, but a short distance away, situated
on a lake to which it has given its name. We found
it to be a busy, industrial city of 160,000 inhabitants,
where all merchandise could be had cheaper than in
any city in Europe. It had a prosperous appearance
throughout.

Consul Gifford, stationed at Basel, says that Switzerland’s
trade figures are especially noteworthy.
This diminutive republic, about half as large as the
State of Maine, swallowed up in our big Texas, is
commercially the most highly developed part of the
world. These remarkable results, attained by a
country without seaports, without coal or iron, in
fact, without any considerable quantity of raw material
for its manufactures, are truly wonderful.
.bn p067.png






.sp 4
.h2
CHAPTER X||PARIS

.il fn=p067i.jpg w=344px align=l

.sp 2
.if h
THE
.if-
.if t
The
.if-
question most frequently
asked upon one’s return from
Continental Europe is, “Which
city did you enjoy the
more, Paris or London?”
I could say which I enjoyed
the more, but that
would not be just to
Paris; for, with the
continued sight-seeing
of months
prior to
our arrival
at Paris,
we, in a
limited time, could
not see Paris; then
add to its innumerable
charms and
interests the Exposition
of 1900,
.bn p068.png
and it would be more honest to say what we did not
see than to relate what we really saw; which, to
tell the truth, was little, compared to its wealth of
treasures and sights unseen. You are not there long
until you realize that the cities disagree morally and
physically. The disagreeable English Channel may
cause the ill feeling between the two coasts. When
we were taken for English people by the less observing
public servants, we received scarcely civil attention;
the contrast was quite marked when we were
known as Americans, a fact apparently hard to disguise,
it seems. The contrast between these two
countries, lying so close together, could not be
greater than between different continents, and the
contrast between their capitals is even more decided.
They cannot be called rivals, for each is so great in
its own way. As we came into Paris from Lucerne
it was early in the morning, before fashion’s
hour. The country showed the highest state of
cultivation; in fact, the whole of Europe appears
as a beautifully kept park. We noticed attractive
roads leading everywhere through France—magnificent
distances, with artistically formed shade
trees, as trim and clean as though they adorned a
delightful park, when they are, to all appearances,
mere public highways. The French foliage is thin
and a little sparse, the grass light in color, their landscape
resembling our own in spring tone; a striking
contrast to the massive English trees, which have a
look of solidity in substance and color; the grass
.bn p069.png
thick and as green as emerald. Their vegetable
wealth seems as if it were tropical in luxuriance,
hardened and solidified by northern influences. We
had been told we had made a mistake by seeing the
Continent first and England later, but I don’t agree,
and felt again we could congratulate ourselves, as we
did, in seeing the Rhenish provinces before the Swiss
Alps. A striking contrast in the habits of the people
is shown in their eating and drinking. Paris is brilliant
with cafés, and the whole world seems to be out
in one grand dress parade, sipping wine, coffee, and,
very often, absinthe. They have what is known as
the “absinthe hour,” when almost everyone you
meet seems to be under its influence or some other.

Every American on his maiden trip to Europe
turns his mind in friendly delight and expectation
to Paris with almost childlike confidence. “See
Paris and die,” causes many Americans to approach
it with no lukewarm feeling. If you do not rave
over it, something is the matter with you, not
Paris; but with us it was, as in exaggerated expectations,
more in the anticipation.

My chief regret being no time to realize my fondest
hopes, as I must confess, my expectations were
more joyous and confiding concerning Paris than
any other spot. The rush of the Exposition caused
the first disappointment, all hotel rates far in advance.
It was in our everlasting search for an abiding-place
that we discovered the size of Paris and its
smells, where garlic fought for supremacy over other
.bn p070.png
less desirable odors, resembling very closely the
odors of the far East Side of New York. Then add
to this the terrors of their language. We had stumbled
through Germany with our German with <target id='american'>American
accent, but were sadly “up against it” here.
Laboring under these disadvantages we could save
neither time, money, nor energy; for the most
<target id='of'>of the last-named article was exhausted in our
effort to make them understand where we wanted to
go, and how.

We were centred in the most fashionable part of
the city—Hotel Deux Monde, on Avenue de l’Opera,
which is midway between the Palais Royal and the
Louvre. We have frequently stood on this and
other avenues for one half-hour waiting for an
omnibus to stop: they pay no attention to the
flourishing of an umbrella. Finally, wishing to
reach some remote district, you call a carriage
to your assistance out of the thousands anxiously
waiting the job, when every cab-driver for squares
starts after you, and you can imagine yourself
added to the long list of unclaimed dead, who, I
imagine, receive about as much attention as one of
the many horses you see lying dead during a short
ride. On the other hand, we could be driven in
state almost anywhere for, say, thirty cents apiece,
and only three dollars for a seat at grand opera,
which you pay five for in New York. Or you can
visit the Louvre, and feast your eyes without hindrance
upon treasures which kings cannot buy.
.bn p071.png
You can drive in the Bois or walk up the Champs
Élysées—that magnificent avenue—nowhere else is
the eye more delighted with life and color. At the
fashionable hour of the day, the Champs Élysées
its entire length is crowded with people. There
could not have been less than ten miles of spectators
in triple rows who took their place to watch the
turnout of fashion and rank; vehicles of every description,
splendid horses, and magnificent liveries.
Any place else but Paris would be a jam. Whenever
the sun shines all Paris is out, no matter what part
of the city you happen to be in. At the entrance
to the Exposition a sight greets your overstrained
optics that opens them wide. We enter the Rue de
Rivoli, with its Corinthian colonnade—the longest
in the world. Here an opportunity is afforded to
peep in on the original Redfern. We passed on to
the Place de la Concorde, the largest and most
beautiful in Paris, the memorable spot where Louis
XVI. was beheaded. In the centre rises the obelisk,
between two majestic fountains, whose springing
jets, a quivering pillow of water, matched the stone
shaft of Egypt. As you look down the avenue you
have the dancing column of water, the obelisk, the
Arc de Triomphe, all in a line, and the trees and the
golden sunset beyond. At this point (the Arc de
Triomphe) twelve beautiful avenues meet, which I
could name if I called in the assistance of a guide-book.
On the top of this edifice a splendid view
is obtained. The <target id='champs'>Champs Élysées, with its myriads
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of gas-lights, is a unique sight. It is right here
that we sat down one evening and discussed
whether we would visit the Exposition, with its
great pyrotechnic display, or sit and watch the
people enjoying themselves in their own characteristic
way. We chose the latter.

When you compare the delicious cooking of the
French with that of the Germans (which becomes
quite monotonous after many weeks), it is in favor
of the French, if you don’t know exactly what it is,
with its odds and ends. You realize a great deal for
your money in variety and quantity, and it seems to
satisfy your hunger. None of it is as good as our
own home cooking, no matter what the epicurean
may say to the contrary. One of the pleasant
things of Paris is the exquisite gentlewomanhood
that is shown you everywhere in the shopping district:
no matter how tired they may be, the customer
never sees it. A tact and delicious gaiety
shown by the saleswomen called forth my lasting
gratitude. Then, too, you “kinda” like Paris,
when for fifty cents you can buy the glove you must
pay two dollars for in our land of great industries.
These and many other things make you repel the
idea that we excel in everything. Far from it. Paris
is wide awake when more puritanical cities are fast
asleep. They seem not to want to be rushed to bed,
nor hurried out in the morning. It is all less a
moral affair with them than a physical and mental
one; they move slowly, go to bed late, and consume
.bn p073.png
equally as much time getting up. The crowded
midnight streets, with their loud and singing parties
driving by at every hour, affects one, if you have
often heard it. The streets at eight o’clock in the
morning have such a blank look that you think they
have all left on a holiday. We had seen so much
in Germany, where everything was bedecked and
bepainted, that the Exposition had not the charm that
it should have had, simply because it was a repetition
on a larger scale of what we had been feasting on
for weeks; even a thought of a palace, or the faintest
hint of a museum or art gallery, caused a panic
in our “household.” There is truly such a thing
as having too much of a good thing. My chief delight
was to visit the most fashionable shopping districts,
and cut out art entirely. Although the whole
city seems to be given over to fashion (and upon
good authority I hear that these originators and designers
of fashion make some change every six
weeks in some part of the feminine wardrobe) as a
means of filling its coffers, yet there is always one
particular part or street that is the most exclusive,
and where the most exclusive things are made and
sold. The Rue de la Paix seems to be the headquarters
for the most fashionable dressmaking and
millinery. I think it was on this street that at least
six hats were being trimmed for my inspection,
which I never inspected. They are so willing and
anxious to trim one exclusively for you, that, rather
than disappoint them, I assented. “English spoken
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here,” as you see quite often in their shops, means
this—“Do you speak English?”—“Yas, a leedle,”
and here it ends. I visited Felix, the greatest of
all designers, whose fame and work is enjoyed by
the royalty of Europe, and extends as far as some
of the Sultan’s favorites and a few of the Mikado’s
court. He is on Rue de Honore. We learned when
in company at Wiesbaden with the ex-President
of the Argentine Republic and his wife and daughter
for several weeks, that South American belles
are among some of his most extravagant patrons,
and it is certainly true, if they were fair representatives.
Paquin’s is one of the most imposing
places, as so many modistes have little shops or a
corner of a shop that has no resemblance to our
business establishments. With or without ostentation,
Paris can justly lay claim to being the capital
of the world of dress.

The Exposition suffered only by comparison with
our Fair of 1893, on account of the crowded condition
of the buildings, and the necessary absence of
the landscape beauty, which so greatly enhanced
our Chicago Fair. The United States building (as
has been frequently remarked), was especially unfortunate
in this respect. The very best view of it,
from the Alexandria Bridge was entirely shut off
by the Turkish building, which stood directly in its
way. The thing that I thought the most unattractive,
was the treatment or color-scheme of the mural
decoration on its portal; an unfortunate cold, slate-blue
.bn p075.png
tone, as I remember it, against the severe white
building made it lack warmth, and repelled rather
than invited. The German and British buildings
were much more imposing and artistic; especially
is this true of their interiors, as both countries have
priceless art treasures to draw upon. Valuable tapestries
were hung upon their walls, and the best in their
national museums were transferred to their buildings.
Of course we had no such fund to draw upon.
The part of the Exposition that impressed us most
strongly was the two Art Palaces, which are to be permanent
buildings, and are well worth a visit to the
Exposition. No words could express the beauty and
grandeur of these Art Palaces and the treasures they
contained. We experienced deep gratification as
we lingered near the statuary of MacMonnies and St.
Gaudens, whose “grand prix” were as numerous
as on the paintings in the United States exhibit. In
front of this beautiful palace we listened to the harmonious
strains of the national French air, which
seemed to touch the heart of every born Frenchman,
who not only uncovered his head, but arose
to his feet and joined loudly and feelingly in his
national hymn. As the last strain died away, leaving
a pleasant and happy feeling with all, I was
both glad and thankful for this privilege, and had a
greater respect for the Frenchman.

Whistler’s paintings at the Exposition are dreams
of color; it is said “they are the pink of Fragonard,
the brown of Rembrandt, the amber of Titian, the
.bn p076.png
gray of Whistler”; that undefinable gray called
“the gray of mist and of distance,” is made of all
the shades—a little white, a little blue, a little green.
He is called the “symphonist of half tints,” the “musician
of the rainbow.” “No other painter has understood
as well the mysterious relations of painting
to music—seven colors, as there are seven notes—and
the way to play them with what might be named
the sharps and flats of the prism. Even as a symphony
made in D or a Sonata in A, Whistler’s pictures
are orchestrated according to a tone.” “The
Lady with the Iris,” for example: the mauve flower
placed in the hand of the woman is a note signifying
that the portrait is a colored polyphony of lilacs and
violets. The Luxembourg has Whistler’s greatest
work,—the portrait of his mother. A French art
critic says concerning the picture: “What a bold
and novel line is the one of that long body, hardly
perceptible in its black gown! What a psychological
penetration is in the face! The mind of the sitter
colors with the pink of a sunset her cheeks that age
has made pale. The whites of the picture—the
white of the lace bonnet, the white of the handkerchief
held in the hand with the gesture of a communicant—are
infinitely chaste. Does not old age
bring me back to initial purity? The deep black of
the drapery, studded with small flowers, is significant.
Behind it the entire life of the woman palpitates but
disappears. To make an accord of those whites and
blacks—the gray that adheres to the walls floats in
.bn p077.png
a mist, extends the softness, makes uniform its tint
of pale ashes, as if it were the ashes of years fled from
a material heart.” Whistler and Poe, it is said, are
the greatest men of genius in Art that America has
produced. The figures that they have created have
the same haunting effect—apparitions emerging
from the twilight of backgrounds. They are enigmatic
personages. One does not know if they are
entering life or going out of it.
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CHAPTER XI||LONDON

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WE
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We
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dreaded, as every one does,
the crossing of the Channel.
It has no friends in the
world; even veteran sailors will call it
“the nastiest bit of water in the world.”
We not only crossed it, but sailed up
through its length into the North Sea, and
found it about as peaceable as any, and a very much
slandered bit of water. The hatred is so strong between
the people that line its shores, it is not to be
wondered at if it is sometimes disagreeable, just to
be agreeable. Our household was greatly disturbed
while crossing the Channel, and although the day
was cold enough for one to be snugly wrapped away
in a rug, yet nothing but a stand near the guard
rail, as far front in the bow as possible, where the
cold wind hit the hardest, would satisfy. The fish
.bn p079.png
saw rather a pale, wan face as it occasionally fed
them. After taking a train for Charing Cross, London,
we wound our way through numberless railway
tracks, sometimes over a road and sometimes
under one, now through a tunnel, then past the
chimney pots, as we came into the pale light and
thickened industry of London town. Even the ’bus
drivers tell you how disagreeable London is at times,
when everybody falls hopelessly into the dumps.
By the way, they are a coterie of highly informed
gentlemen on whatever you wish to know, and take
a keen delight in pointing out objects of interest.
Be sure and take a seat beside the driver on one of
these “double-decker omnibuses,” even if you do
have the sensation of colliding or rather taking a
header on the horses’ backs.

We were domiciled at Hotel Windsor, Westminster,
where we had an opportunity of passing
the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey
whenever we went down town, which meant Trafalgar
Square, the centre of the universe, it seems.

They can all rave about French cooking, but give
me the substantial English meal,—“a dinner off the
joint, sir,”—with what belongs to it, and a waiter
to whom you can make known any other wants, and
eating once more is a fascinating theme.

The gigantic London of the present day was once
a small town on the banks of the Thames; in its
expansion it has absorbed the more aristocratic city
of Westminster and some eighty-five villages on
.bn p080.png
both sides of the river. This fact, coupled with its
great age and the undulating character of the district
upon which it has grown, has rendered it very
irregular in appearance. Crooked roads, narrow
streets, gloomy slums, are some of the characteristics
of the British metropolis. This condition of
affairs was very much verified as we left the handsome
Tower Bridge and walked through the fish
market, with its numerous smells—a terribly congested
spot—in order to visit the Tower, historically
the most interesting building in London, or in the
whole of England. To the east of it stands the old
Roman wall. Tradition states that a fortress was
erected on this site by Julius Cæsar, but the present
structure, though part of it is Saxon, dates in the
main from the days of William the Conqueror—and
has been the scene of many tragedies. On this same
trip we visited the Monument which was raised in
commemoration of the big fire, and is near London
Bridge. I have no pleasant memory of this climb,
as, country-like, we climbed up its spiral stairway
hundreds of feet to its top, where other foolish people
have trod. I suppose we would have mounted
Eiffel Tower if it had been possible. I didn’t know
who looked and felt the silliest. We are that silly
pot of flame on its summit. I asked what this
meant, and was told: “The architect’s (Sir Christopher
Wren’s) intention was to erect the statue of
Charles II. on the summit, but he was overruled by
some inferior judgment.” If they had allowed his
.bn p081.png
designs to be carried out, London would have been
the handsomest city in the world, as he is responsible
for London’s most beautiful edifices, including St.
Paul’s Cathedral, the finest and most famous edifice
in London. They say that St. Peter’s of Rome is
finer still; how can it be possible? It is a Renaissance
structure of similar lines to St. Paul’s of
Rome. Its beautiful exterior, although spoiled by
London’s smoke, is exceedingly grand. The dome
forms a far-famed whispering gallery, and a handsome
marble pulpit; beautiful carvings by <target id='grinling'>Grinling
Gibbons, and a reredos which has given rise to
much heart-burning. The ceiling of the choir and
aspe has within recent years been decorated with
rich mosaics by Mr. Richmond, R.A. But the most
interesting parts of the building are the tombs of
Nelson, Wellington, Wren, John Howard, Dr. Johnson,
and others, and presidents of the Royal Academy;
the last occupying a spot which is styled
“Painters’ Corner.” As we took our seats under
the nave, scarcely knowing what spot or corner on
which to indulge our eyes longest, one by one
dropped down into the pews with bowed head, for a
word of silent prayer at our side; some no doubt
beset with the trials of such a gigantic city, others
lured hesitatingly from their pleasures—doubting,
questioning at strife with self—while others came,
throbbing with life and inspiration and ungratified
aspirations, all hoping, fearing, but possibly desiring
rest or peace. Did they find it? Soon the choir
.bn p082.png
voices responded to the organ, and the vox humana
stop was such a wonderful imitation that we sat
mastered by the spell; but it was not in tricks of
imitation that the organ was so wonderful, as in its
compass—its power of revealing. We realized for
the first time that we were in the midst of Vespers, a
delightful surprise. I thought as we sat spell-bound
under the influence of the music, what influences of
earth and heaven, what meetings and warrings of
aspiring souls, what struggles and contending passion
and agony of endeavor and resistance had these
silent sentimentals in marble been witness to! I
wondered how many more surviving ones they
would watch over, as they climbed the steep and
rocky way, with the world and self to conquer, before
their souls could attain the serene summit,
amid a burst of triumph from a fuller orchestra
than had ever yet been heard—the last Alpine
storm and trial over, clouds rolled by, and the sunshine
perpetual. As we left its sacred portals, the
sweet evening hymn floated through the peaceful
air. We went out into the busy street, crowded
and motley, awed and a little comforted, proceeding
in silence for some time.

Each day in passing Westminster Abbey in our
sight-seeing, we would naturally turn to it. The
exterior of this ancient building shows the ravages
of time, and particularly smoke. It was founded in
the seventh century, was destroyed by the Danes, and
rebuilt by Edward the Conqueror. As you know,
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from that day to this it has seen the coronation of
the English sovereigns, many of whom lie buried
in it, but that awakened no particular interest in
me; my eyes involuntarily wandered to the monuments
of the mighty men—a host of warriors, statesmen,
poets, and artists who rested beneath its stones.
Statues of many of them fill the edifice, dividing or
perpetually disturbing the awe-inspiring beauty of
the interior. The building consists of a nave,
flanked with aisles, a transept, and a fine choir. In
the southern transept, facing the beautiful rose window,
with its splendid tints and shades, lies the
Poets’ Corner, containing the remains of many authors,
marked by their busts. Between the Abbey
and the river rises Westminster Hall, the old Parliament
House—the greatest monument of English
liberty. As one stands and views the handsome
exterior of the west front of the Abbey, with its tall
and stately towers, the entire edifice embellished
with the richest tracery, and the morning sun bathing
its rich old stone, which has stood in the storms
for ages, it seems to tower away into heaven—a
mass of carving and sculpture. Then as he views
the interior, the old saints and martyrs who have
stood there for ages (as they have stood in their lifetime,
with patient waiting), he feels as though he
were in the best society of his lifetime. A great company,
a mighty host, in attitudes of grace and pomp,
as well as those of praise and worship. There they
were, ranks on ranks, silent in stone. It required
.bn p084.png
little fancy to feel that they had lived, and as we
passed out of the holy sepulchre I looked back at
the long procession which had such an irresistible
influence, and tried to learn a lesson from their impressive
patience as they awaited the Golden Day.

The Thames, the national highway of the greatest
city in the world, seems to London what the elevated
railway is to New York—its little steamers arriving
at its numerous piers on almost as good schedule
time (five-minute service) as our own trains.

London is not a Venice, but London’s busy river
turns and turns again, and turns up at points least
expected, and is crossed many times by some of the
finest bridges in the world. London Bridge! The
very centre of civilization, with the exception, perhaps,
of Calcutta. There is not another city in the
world whose bridge is trodden by so many feet as is
London Bridge. At nine o’clock on a summer
morning you see it at its busiest, and it is an interesting
study to note the gradual improvement that
each succeeding half hour brings in the worldly
appearance of its motley crowd, which flocks to its
occupation or its business.

.nf b
“Proud and lowly, beggar and lord,
Over the bridge they go;
Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity ’neath the sun.
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.”
.nf-

We started to the beautiful Kew Gardens one fine
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day from Charing Cross pier, which is the very centre
of hotel life in London—all streets and roads and
omnibus lines emanate from Charing Cross. This
is one of the most historically interesting reaches of
the Thames. Along this channel have passed the
Briton in his coracle, the Roman in his warship,
the Anglo-Saxon and the Dane in their galleys—the
Norman, the Tudor, and the Stuart in their resplendent
barges. Youth, beauty, and gallantry, genius
and learning, the courtier and the soldier, the prelate
and the poet, the merchant and the ’prentice, have
taken their pleasures on these waters through a
succession of ages that form no mean portion of the
world’s history. Patriots and traitors have gone
this way to their death in the sullen tower, kings and
princes have proceeded by this silver path in bridal
pomp or to festal banquets.

We steamed up the river, with every step of its
banks replete with history, every step having been
painted on canvas or commemorated in song from
time immemorial, and not only still retains its
charms, but has even added to them.

.nf b
“O veil of bliss! O softly swelling hills,
Heavens! What a goodly prospect spreads around,
Of hills and dales, and woods and lawns.”
.nf-

We got off at the pier of Kew Gardens, where
thousands land for a visit each day to this beautiful
spot. No one can afford to miss this place, even if
you are not entertained by the Duchess while there.
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There’s not such a park anywhere. What splendid
trees it has! The horse-chestnut, a rich mass
from its base—whose branches rest on the ground,
as those of so many trees do here—to its highest
dome. Hawthorns, and a variety that sweep its
turf, which is an emerald green, and so deep that
you walk with a grateful sense of drawing life
from its wonderful depths. On this beautiful turf
the boys are playing cricket in great numbers, and
the children are getting as intimate with this sweet-smelling
earth as their nurses will allow. The
beauty of the green is heightened by the masses of
color from flowers in a state of perfection; the whole
effect is one of luxury and solidity that we encounter
nowhere else, and it was with regret that we harkened
to the evening call, which was musical in its
way, to quit the garden.

The Thames is beautiful here. While waiting for
the boat, which was delayed by low tide, we entered
a little cottage (which gave notice of hospitality),
and looked out over the beautiful green of a churchyard,
where one of England’s greatest painters,
Gainsborough, lies in repose. He is still in the
minds and hearts of not only his own people, but
is appreciated by our American millionaire, Pierpont
Morgan, to the extent of $150,000, the sum expended
for the lost gem—the “Duchess of Devonshire.”
Truly, these people are surrounded by
history, tradition, and romance five or six centuries
old.
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CHAPTER XII

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THE
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The
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National Gallery on Trafalgar Square,
without taking Ruskin’s word for it, is
the most important collection of paintings
in Europe. The most expensive
purchases are the “Blenheim Raphael,”
“Blenheim Van Dyke,” the “Pisani,”
“Veronese,” the two “Correggios,” and
“Lord Radnor’s” three. They are
splendid specimens of the greatest of the
English old masters and so many of
their successors; whilst the large collection of Turner’s
is unrivalled and incomparable. In order to
insure the high level of the National Gallery in point
of quality, an act was passed in 1883 authorizing
the sale of unsuitable works, thinning out the gallery
in favor of provincial collections. The result
of this wise weeding is that, though there are many
galleries in which there are more pictures to be seen,
there are none in which they are more really worth
seeing. There is another way in which pictures
interest the spectator in after ages: a painter inevitably
shows us something of himself in his work.
.bn p088.png
He shows us something of his age—of its costumes,
its manner of life, and, if a portrait painter, the
characters and physiognomy of its men and women.
It is necessary to study them in historic order, as we
find painting has in each school been a progressive
one. I first studied the early Flemish pictures, which
are a striking contrast to the Italian pictures. There
is no feeling or beauty in them. What is it, then,
that gives these pictures their worth, and causes
their painters to be included among the greatest
masters of the world? Look at the most famous
Van Dyke; the longer you look the more you will
see its absolute fidelity to nature in dress and detail,
especially in portraiture. Here the men and women
of the time are set down precisely as they lived.
They were the first to discover the mixing of oil with
colors, and made oil painting much more popular.
Their pictures have an imperishable firmness, with
exquisite delicacy.

The French painters were poorly represented here;
especially did it seem so after viewing their wonderful
exhibit at the Exposition. The Paris school is
the chief centre of art teaching in the world; and is
marked for its excessive realism and gross sensuality.
This reminds me of one of their pictures
exhibited at the Exposition—so shockingly realistic
it should be barred from any exhibit; no place else
would it be allowed to hang. Of course, the French
are ideal painters as well; Claude Poussin and Greuze
are striking contrasts.
.bn p089.png

The chief glory of the English school of painting
consists in its treatment of landscape. The first
man who struck out a more distinctly English line
in landscape painting was Gainsborough; then followed
Constable, whom every student of Adams in
“Muncie Art School” is familiar with. How thoroughly
I enjoyed seeing the originals, Constable’s
“Valley Farm,” etc. Here they hang in all their
originality. But greater than all his predecessors,
and uniting in the course of his career the tastes and
strength of them all, is Turner. Great difference
of opinion is held upon the question wherein his
greatness consists. Was it for truths that he recorded,
or visions that he invented? It did seem
as you looked around at his vast collection—the contrast
between the dark and heavy pictures on one
wall and the bright and aerial on the other—that
“The gleam, the light that never was on sea or land—the
consecration and the poet’s dream,” was there
shown. His great aim or artistic ambition was to
give a complete knowledge, and reach a complete
representation of light in all its phases; and his
greatest pictures are where he completely attains
his aim. He was the first painter who first represented
the full beauty of sun-color. He ended by
painting such visions of the sun in his glory as in
the “Téméraire.” Turner said “the sun was
God.” How happy I was to see the real, original
“Téméraire,” that I had tried so hard to reproduce
with the assistance of J. O. Adams and Wm.
.bn p090.png
Forsythe. As for Turner’s faithful rendering of the
forms of natural objects, he was first, says Ruskin,
“to draw a mountain or a stone, no other man
having learned their organization and possessed
himself of their spirit. The first to represent the
surface of calm, or the force of agitated, water.”
Turner did this with scientific accuracy, not because
he was himself learned in science, but because of
his genius for seeing into the heart of things and
seizing their essential form and character, and that
is what is meant by saying “Turner’s landscape is
ideal,” and that is why he is the great impressionist
he is. His pictures are of scenes not as any
one might gather, but as representations of how he
himself saw them. He at all times painted his impressions.
The faculty of receiving such impressions
strongly, and reproducing them vividly, is
precisely what distinguishes the poet, whether in
language or painting. He was great because the
impressions which natural scenery made upon him
were noble impressions. He not only saw nature
in its truth and beauty, but he saw it in relation and
subjection to the human soul. He paints the loveliness
of nature, but he ever connects that loveliness
with the soul and labor of men. Looking
round this great room you cannot help note the
spirit of the pictures. I tore myself away as the
last call was heard to vacate the room. My next
was to try to appreciate Rubens, Van Dyke, Rembrandt,
of which there is a large collection, and then
.bn p091.png
Raphael. Just opposite the entrance in Room VI.
your eye rests immediately upon his great canvas,
the “Ansidei Madonna.” If you had never heard
of Raphael, the crowd that at all times surrounds
it would attract your attention. His “Garvagh
Madonna” is depicted as merely a human mother;
so is the child a purely human child, the divinity
being only indicated by a halo;—the two figures
with a little St. John, the children playing with a
pink. As late as 1171 the divinity of the Virgin was
insisted upon. I lingered by the canvas of the Holy
Family, painted by Michael Angelo. But what is
the use of trying to study that wonderful exhibition
as a whole, with its Leonardo da Vincis, its Murillos,
its Velasquezs, and so on. I lingered in front of
one of Rubens’s—a landscape painted in Italy, but
a pure Flemish scene, just because Ruskin has said:
“The Dutch painters are always contented with
their flat fields and pollards,” agreeing with the Lincolnshire
farmer in Kingsley’s “Alton Locke”:
“None o’ this here darned ups and downs o’ hills,
to shake a body’s victuals out of his inwards, but all
so vlat as a barn’s vloor for forty miles on end—this
is the country to live in!”

The Portrait of “Gevartius,” by Van Dyke, is considered
by Van Dyke himself as his masterpiece, and
before he gained his great reputation he carried it
about with him from court to court to show what he
could do as a portrait painter. I only wish I could
reproduce it here, so as to show the liquid, living
.bn p092.png
lustre of the eye that Van Dyke puts before you in
this great portrait. Then there’s Rembrandt’s
many pictures. He is the great master of the school
who strive not at representing the color of the objects,
but the contrasts of light and shade upon them.
These effects he attains with magnificent skill and
subtlety. The strong and solitary light, with its
impenetrable obscurity around, is the characteristic
feature of many of his best works, just such an effect
as would be produced by the one ray of light admitted
into the lofty chamber of a mill, from the
small window, its ventilator. “The Woman Taken
in Adultery” is a “tour de force” in the artist’s
specialty of contrasts of light and shade; there is a
succession of these contrasts which gradually renders
the subject intelligible. The eye falls at once
on the woman who is dressed in white, passes then
to the figure of Christ, which next to her is the most
strongly lighted, and so on to Peter, to the Pharisees,
to the soldiers, till at length it perceives in the mysterious
gloom of the temple, the high altar, with
the worshippers on the steps.

But I am naturally drawn back to Turner’s wonderful
room, possibly because it seems like associating
again with dear old friends, for that which
greets my vision as I enter is Turner’s “Crossing
the Brook,” so much copied in the art school, although
the original is as large again as the copy I
attempted of J. O. Adams. It seems twice as valuable
to me since I have had the privilege of noting
.bn p093.png
the beautiful expression of tender diffused daylight
over this wide and varied landscape. I think it was
Charles Lamb who said, “My household gods are
held down by stakes deeply driven, and they cannot
be removed without drawing blood.” After all,
one’s associates and co-workers go to make up an
important part of one’s life.

I could not leave without once more turning back
to my old “Téméraire.” She, so I have read, was a
<target id='ninety'>ninety-eight-gun ship, was the second ship in Nelson’s
line at the battle of Trafalgar, 1805, and, having little
provisions or water on board, was what sailors call
“flying light.” So as to be able to keep pace with
the fast sailing “Victory,” when the latter drew
upon herself all the enemy’s fire, the “Téméraire”
tried to pass her to take it in her stead, but Nelson
himself hailed to her to keep astern. She lay with
a French 74-gun ship on each side of her,—both
her prizes,—one lashed to her mainmast and one
to her anchor. She was sold out of the service at
Sheerness in 1838, and towed to Rotherhithe to be
broken up. The flag which braved the battle and
the breeze no longer owns her. The picture was
first exhibited at the Academy in 1839, with the
above lines cited in the catalogue. Ruskin says this
about it: “Of all the pictures, not visibly involving
human pain, this is, I believe, the most pathetic
ever painted; the utmost pensiveness which can ordinarily
be given to a landscape depends on adjuncts
of ruin, but no ruin was ever so affecting as this
.bn p094.png
gliding of the vessel to the grave. This particular
ship, crowned in the Trafalgar hour of trial with
chief victory, surely if ever anything without a soul
deserved honor or affection we owe them here.
Surely some sacred care might have been left in our
thoughts for her—some quiet space amid the lapse
of English waters. Nay, not so; we have stern
keepers to trust her glory to, the fire and the worm.
Never more shall sunlight lay golden robe on her,
nor starlight tremble on the waves that part at her
gliding. Perhaps when the low gate opens to some
cottage garden, the tired traveller may ask idly, ‘Why
the moss grows so green on the rugged wood?’ And
even the sailor’s child may not answer, nor know,
that the night dew lies deep in the war rents of the
wood of the old ‘Téméraire.’” The spirit of the
picture, the pathetic contrast of the old ship’s past
glory with her present end, is caught in the contrast
of the sunset with the shadow. The cold, deadly
shadows of the twilight are gathering through every
sunbeam, and moment by moment as you look you
will fancy some new film and faintness of the night
has arisen over the vastness of the departing form.
As I remember it, Mrs. Rose B. Stewart, of the Muncie
Art School, and the writer had a fair copy of the
same, thanks to J. O. Adams.

While there is entertainment and recreation in this
delightful collection, yet for my own personal benefit,
aside from a few pets, I prefer the study and the
ownership of modern painters and the new school.
.bn p095.png



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CHAPTER XIII||SCOTLAND

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.di p095i.jpg 100 114 1.2
WE
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We
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pass castle after castle, tradition
after tradition, vouching for persecutions
and the price of blood
paid. Here are the historical surroundings
of Queen Mary and her
imprisonment, her escape from
the dungeon; there the royal property
acquired by the Earl of Rosebery; then again
a square tower resting on the northwest angle of
this pile is replete with history. A mouldering gateway
here surmounted by a crown and the initials
and year “M.R., 1561,” tradition claiming this as
the birthplace of Cromwell’s mother; and so on,
until one is dizzy with dates and towers, almost
every inch bearing some part in the history of a
country during troublesome times. But as Sir
Walter Scott is authority for a great part of this
history, I will refer you to him as a much more reliable
source of information, and will only attempt an
outdoor description of this beautiful country, whose
.bn p096.png
landscape lacks none of the fervor, picturesqueness,
and sincerity which are ascribed to it—an
appropriate background for its unequalled history in
those turbulent days.

We were well satiated by this time with royal institutions,
including palaces, schools of learning,
museums of science and art, botanical gardens, and
the zoos, with the exception of one monument in
Edinburgh,—Scott’s grand memorial,—one of the
most beautiful on the handsomest street in the
World,—Princess Street, Edinburgh,—which is unlike
any other I had ever seen.

We took what is known as the “Scotch Flyer”
from London to Edinburgh. Its schedule time in
some places is seventy miles per hour. It was about
a five-hundred-miles’ run, devoid of interest. As
we neared Edinburgh the grade became very steep,
requiring two engines to pull us up—a very long
train and crowded. The conductor told us this was
its chronic condition. The English, next to Americans,
are the greatest gad-abouts in the world. It
is hard to decide which does its work the quickest,
the “Scotch Flyer” or Scotch whiskey; while the
social evil is offensive enough in London and Paris,
here it assumes a downright animal coarseness;
the effects of Scotch whiskey in Edinburgh is alarmingly
apparent. We saw more men and real young
boys beastly drunk there than in any place on the
continent, the police taking no heed of their noise,
apparently so accustomed to it that it went as a
.bn p097.png
matter of course. Saturday afternoon is a half-holiday
in Edinburgh; the whole city seems to
scatter or seek the country highways and environs.
Everybody visits the great Forth Bridge, said to be
the greatest and grandest bridge in the world.

The strait, where this wonderful bridge crosses
the Forth at Queensferry, has from time immemorial
been recognized as the chief natural route of
communication between its northern and southern
shores. It was known among the Romans as the
“Passage Strait.” The inconvenience of being
dependent in all kinds of weather upon boats for
communication between the two sides of the coast
had long been commented upon, and when any
bold spirit talked of a bridge from one side to the
other, he was looked upon as being highly visionary.
The engineering problem involved in the condition
at Queensferry was the most serious one. It was
then proposed that a bridge formed upon the principle
of the Tay Bridge be built; the design was
by Sir Thomas Bouch, engineer of the ill-fated Tay
Bridge. He proposed to hang his erection on piers
600 feet high and across the stream by two latticed
girders of 16,000 feet each, held in position on the
suspension principle. This plan involved a double
bridge, one for each set of rails. When the Tay
Bridge fell, there fell with it previously unshaken
confidence in the great engineer, and the feeling
against the Forth Suspension bridge became so pronounced
that the Abandonment Act was the result.
.bn p098.png
Those of us who are old enough (and I regret to
chronicle that I have been on the planet long enough
to entitle me to such knowledge) will never forget
the sensation produced as they read of this long
train with its human freight signalling the time of
its departure when leaving the station on one side,
but which never signalled its arrival on the other side;
never a vestige recovered from that grasping, merciless
monster, the North Sea. In 1882 it was decided
that plans should be made on the cantilever
principle; a steel cantilever bridge should be made—a
principle as old as the science of engineering. It
had been practically known to the Chinese, but
never before had it been applied on so magnificent
a scale. A feature of the Paris Exposition was a design
for a bridge crossing the English Channel by
seventy cantilever spans, offered by an eminent
firm as an alternative to the Channel tunnel, at
an estimated cost of £34,000,000 Sterling. This
project, however, does not meet with the hearty approval
of the Englishman, who wants neither done,
having no desire to facilitate communication with
the French.

Foreign engineers all favor this principle of the
Forth Bridge, it is said, since the first publication
of the design. Practically every big bridge throughout
the world has been built on that principle. To
form some opinion yourself, the total height of the
structure from its base is fully 450 feet. Visitors
can hardly appreciate its actual magnitude until
.bn p099.png
they compare adjacent objects—ships, houses, human
beings, etc. Its relative size is seen when in
figures you compare it to all other chief erections in
the world; higher than the domes of any of the great
cathedrals of the world, or monuments of the old
world. Its rail level would be as high above the sea
as the castle esplanade was above Princess Street,
the castle built on the highest overlooking bluff in
Edinburgh, and the steel work of the bridge would
soar two hundred feet higher. The bridge was formally
inaugurated on the 4th of March, 1890, when
the Prince of Wales, now the King of England,
turned a tap clinching the last bolt; this declared
the bridge open. Her Majesty was so much delighted
with Sir John Fowler, chief engineer of this
gigantic undertaking, and Mr. Benjamin Baker, his
colleague in the engineering, that she created them
Knights Commander of the Order of St. Michael and
St. George. It has taken some time to speak of such
a huge affair. We reached Queensferry by the
daily coaches (or tally-hos) that run from Princess
Street, carrying forty people on top.

The scenery en route is delightfully attractive and
varied, and the interest is sustained throughout. In
addition to the more commanding natural beauty
of the scenery, the woods abound in picturesque
vistas—Dalmeny Castle on one side, the seat of the
Earl of Rosebery, and on the other side the seat of
the Earl of Hopetoun; both are available to the
public. But what interested us more than this
.bn p100.png
tiresome pomp and display were the hundreds of
beggars or mendicants that line or infest the public
road, going through all sorts of antics, from simply
standing on their heads in the mud in roadways
to some very clever acrobatic feats; others singing
and dancing for pennies that are thrown to them
from the passing coaches. The most comical sight
was a blind Highland fiddler and his bonnie lass
(adorned in rags) fiddling, at the same time cursing
some youngsters filled with Scotch whiskey, who
were guying the poor souls beyond endurance. I
have heard of all kinds of swearing, but never by
note.

One need not move a step from Princess Street,
Edinburgh, to be satisfied with his trip. It is the most
beautiful street in the world. We stopped at Hotel
Clarendon on Princess Street, just opposite the grand
old castle, the scene of such bloody history. The
scene from our window was unsurpassed, overlooking
the gardens and grand promenade which form
one side of this beautiful street, with the lofty and
grand Scott Monument just beyond, and the Royal
School of Design close by,—so pure in its Grecian
architecture that one could imagine he was under
the shade of the Parthenon. Holyrood Palace and
Abbey, where the Queen’s Park Drive commences,
is the finest drive in Europe. The other side of
the street teems with commercial interests, as busy
a thoroughfare as you see in any great metropolis.

Brilliant color, quick movement, and over-anxious
.bn p101.png
faces are the general rule. Too bracing an
air in these Scottish Highlands to admit of sluggish
movement. I imagined we would step out of the
whirl of modern life when we left London and came
up here, where one might breathe easier; but it
seems a headland so blessed of two elements—the
cool air and the sea—that one is energized, and I
longed to stay under its influence and enjoy the
physical loveliness of this promontory. One of our
favorite walks was a ramble among Salisbury Crags
and over Arthur’s Seat. The view here of Edinburgh
is grand. As you climb up to Arthur’s Seat
you pass over a beautiful plateau of rich meadow-land;
this Sabbath day literally alive with men and
boys playing all sorts of gambling games, from the
shaking of dice or of craps to ace-high. We wound
up the hill by terraces, great lengths affording views
over the steep wall of rock of the beautiful city below.
The air is pure and exhilarating. The city, with
its many historical domes, spires, castles, and
turrets, is seen to advantage here. As you stand
beneath the thick, strong walls, supporting for ages
these grand old castles of such great antiquity, you
can but wonder if they are capable of carrying
these vaulted roofs for generations yet to come. As
one climbed these broad, flagged terraces and lounged
on the emerald green turf, so deep and inviting, one
can scarcely realize that in the same spots, over
these steep bluffs, both monks and soldiers climbed
centuries ago, and they are still perfectly intact, while
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in the last two thousand years, on the coasts, temples
and palaces of two generations have tumbled
into the sea. Old and young have been sitting on
these rocks all the while, high above change,
worry, and decay, gossiping and loving. There
are groups of rocks standing on the edge of precipices
like mediæval towers, reminding one a little
of the “Garden of the Gods” in Colorado, but not
so phenomenal. We emerged upon a wild, rocky
slope, barren of vegetation except little tufts of grass,
the rocks rising up to the sky behind, as we stood
upon the jutting edge of a precipice.

.il fn=p102i.jpg w=400px

We are waiting in London for our vessel, where
we are sitting before a Michigan roll-top desk, with a
home-made door-mat under our feet, on a Nebraska
swivel chair, dictating a letter on a Syracuse typewriter,
signed by a New York fountain pen, and drying
same with a blotter-sheet from New England,
.bn p103.png
with a small amount of American brains in our
head, and a still smaller amount of American coin
in our pockets, ready and anxious to see New York,
which in ten years hence will be the art centre of
the world.
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DEUTSCHLAND LOSES A MAN.||The Swift Liner Buffeted by Storms All the Way Across.

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The record-holder Deutschland of the Hamburg-American
Line had nothing but weather
on the voyage she finished yesterday from
Hamburg, Southampton, and Cherbourg. The
disturbance began just after she left Cherbourg
and kept up almost until she got within sight of
the coast of Yankeeland. Despite wind and sea
she made an hourly average of 21.16 knots, covering
a course of 3,058 knots in 6 days and 33
minutes, thus establishing a reputation as a
storm-defier.

While she was plunging through the crested
seas at 7 o’clock on Wednesday night a part of
the crew were ordered forward to put things
shipshape. Eugen Sarazin, an able seaman of
Russia, 19 years old, was the first man to respond
to the order. As he got out on the open deck
the Deutschland plunged into a giant comber.
The forward deck of the ship looked for a moment
like the beach of Coney Island on a stormy
day. The young Russian was caught in the
swirl and swept overboard. Shipmates who saw
him disappear raised an alarm and the great
liner was stopped. A lifeboat with four volunteer
seamen, under Second Officer Franck, was
lowered. It cruised about in the blackness
nearly half an hour and found no trace of the
luckless tar.

Passengers aboard the liner crowded to the
rails and peered into the night hopefully while
the lifeboat was searching for Sarazin. When
it got back with no news of him a sympathetic
passenger suggested that a purse should be
raised for Sarazin’s family. Three contribution
boxes were put up in the ship, and passengers
filled them with gold, silver, and paper money.
By this system of subscription, new in nautical
annals, the left hand knew not what the right
hand did. The contents of the boxes will be
counted to-day.

Capt. Albers of the Deutschland said the
voyage was one of the roughest on record for
September. The women passengers didn’t have
much pleasure. The ship was at times reduced
to fifteen knots. The mighty combers through
which she smashed scraped the paint off her
bows.

Among the big liner’s passengers were:
George C. Boldt, Leonard Lewisohn, Rud and
Henry Kunhardt, Dr. William Tod Helmuth,
Charles Dupont Coudert, and Mr. and Mrs. Carl
Spilker.—<i>N. Y. Sun.</i>
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.ce
Transcriber’s Notes
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Some presumed printer’s errors have been corrected, including normalizing
punctuation. Further corrections are listed below.

.nf b
p. #21:boulevard# bouvelard -> boulevard
p. #45:madchen# Deutsche Madchen -> Deutsche Mädchen
p. #48:direction# directon -> direction
p. #70:american# Amercan -> American
p. #70:of# most of of the -> most of the
p. #71:champs# Champ Élysées -> Champs Élysées
p. #81:grinling# Grindling Gibbons -> Grinling Gibbons
p. #93:ninety# ninty-eight -> ninety-eight
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