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   :PG.Id: 35680
   :PG.Released: 2011-03-25
   :DC.Title: One Year Abroad
   :DC.Creator: Blanche Willis Howard
   :PG.Title: One Year Abroad
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Katherine Ward
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :PG.Credits: This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1878
   :coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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===============
ONE YEAR ABROAD
===============

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   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
   almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
   re-use it under the terms of the `Project Gutenberg License`_
   included with this eBook or online at
   http://www.gutenberg.org/license.

   

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      Title: One Year Abroad
      
      Author: Blanche Willis Howard
      
      Release Date: March 25, 2011 [EBook #35680]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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      \*\*\* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ONE YEAR ABROAD \*\*\*

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      Produced by Katherine Ward and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

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      This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.


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   | ONE YEAR ABROAD

   .. class:: center

   | BY
   | THE AUTHOR OF “ONE SUMMER.”
   |
   |
   | “O rare, rare Earth!”

..

    “Iron is essentially the same everywhere and always, but the sulphate of iron
    is never the same as the carbonate of iron. Truth is invariable, but the Smithate
    of truth must always differ from the Brownate of truth.”—*Autocrat of the Breakfast
    Table.*

   .. class:: center small

   | BOSTON:
   | JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
   | Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.
   | 1878.

   .. class:: center small small-caps

   | Copyright, 1877.
   | By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.
   | University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge.


.. contents:: CONTENTS.
   :depth: 1
   :page-numbers:

.. topic:: BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

   ONE SUMMER.

   “Little Classic” style. $1.25.

   “A very charming story is ‘One Summer.’ Even the
   word ‘charming’ hardly expresses with sufficient emphasis
   the pleasure we have taken in reading it; it is simply delightful,
   unique in method and manner, and with a peculiarly
   piquant flavor of humorous observation.”—*Appleton's Journal.*

   | JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
   | :small-caps:`Publishers, Boston`.



[pg!1]


HAMBURG AT A FIRST GLANCE.
==========================


There is a wild, fantastic poem, thronged
with more phantoms, goblins, and horrors
than are the legends of the Blockberg.
It narrates in singularly vivid style the
deeds of a frightful fiend, and is, believe me, a
truly remarkable work. I beg you will not scorn
it because it exists only in the brain which it entered
one stormy night at sea. There it reigned,
triumphant, through long sleepless hours; but
for certain reasons—which are, by the way, perfectly
satisfactory to my own mind—it will never
be committed to paper. Its title is “The Screw,”—the
screw of an ocean steamer.

Christmas is the best wishing-time in the year.
One can wish and wish at Christmas, and what
harm does it do? So I will wish my poem all
written in stately, melodious measure, yet with
thoughts that would make your cheek pale, and
your very soul shudder; and then—since wishing
is so easy—I will wish that I were an intimate
friend of Gustave Doré, to whom I would
take my masterpiece to be illustrated; and I
would beg him to allow his genius for drawing
awful things full sway, and I would implore him
not to withhold one magic touch that might suggest
another horror, so that extending from the
central object—the terrible Screw—there should
be demons reaching for their prey, howling and
laughing in fiendish glee. Then I would say,
“More, more, my good M. Doré!—more hideous
faces, more leering phantoms, more writhing legs
and arms, please!” For perhaps Doré never crossed
the ocean in bad weather; perhaps he never occupied
a state-room directly over the Screw; perhaps
he never experienced the sensation of lying there
in sleepless, helpless, hopeless agony, clinging frantically
to the side of his berth, hearing the clank
of chains, the creaking of timbers, the rattling of
the shrouds, the waves sweeping the deck over his
head,—most of all, the Evil Screw beneath, rampant
and threatening. It may be Doré does not
know how it feels when that Screw rises up in
wrath, takes the steamer in his teeth and shakes
it, then plunges deep, deep in the waves; while
all the demons, great and small, stretching their
uncanny arms towards the state-rooms, shriek,
“We'll get them! We'll have them!” and the
winds and waves in hoarse chorus respond, “They'll
have them—have them—have them!” and again
uprises the Screw and shakes himself and the trembling
steamer. So through the night, and many
nights, alas!

And yet, O Screw! thing of evil, thing of
might, I humbly thank you that you ceased at
last your terrible thumps, your jarrings and wicked
whirls,—and silenced your chorus of attendant
demons, with their turnings and twistings and
mad laughter; I thank you that you *did not* get
us! Truly, I believed you would. I thank you
that you did not choose to keep us miserable souls
wandering forevermore through the shoreless deep,
or to sink us, as the phantom-ship sinks in “Der
Fliegender Holländer,” amid sulphurous fumes and
discordant sounds, down to that lurid abyss from
which you came.

Do you all at home know this legend of the
Flying Dutchman? At least, do you know it as
Wagner gives it to the world, in words as lovely
as its melodies? The music is worth hearing, and
the story well worth a little thought. But perhaps
you know it already? Because, if you do,
of course I shall not tell it, and in that case we
need not sail off in strange crafts for the wild
Norway coast, but will only steam safely up the
Elbe to Hamburg.

There are travellers from the Western World
who, after months of sight-seeing, return home
weary and disappointed because they have never
once been able to “realize that they were in Europe.”
Not realize! Not know! Not feel with
every fibre that one has come from the New to
the Old! Why, the very lights of Hamburg gleaming
through the rain and darkness, as we cold and
wet voyagers at last drew near our haven, even
while they gave us friendly greeting, told us unmistakably
that their welcome was shining out
from a strange land, from homes unlike the homes
we had left behind.

Dear people who never “realize” that it is
“Europe,” who never feel what you expected to
feel, may one less experienced in travel than yourselves
venture to tell you that it is that fatal
thing, the guide-book, that weighs you down? Not
total abstinence in this respect, but moderation,
would I preach. Too much guide-book makes
you know far too well what to do, where to go,
how long to stay. It leaves nothing to imagination,
to enthusiasm, to the whim of the moment.
Dear guide-book people, *don't* know so much, don't
calculate so much, don't measure and weigh and
test everything! Don't speak so much to what
you see, and then what you see will speak more
to you. Even here in old Hamburg, the haughty
free city of commerce, the rich city boasting of her
noble port filled with ships from every land,—proud
of her wealth, her strength, her merchants,
and her warehouses,—looking well after her ducats,
caring much for her dinner, plainly telling
you she is of a prosaic nature, leaving tales of love
and chivalry to the more romantic South,—even
here the air is full of subtle intangible influences,
that will move you deeply if you will but receive
them. A city a thousand years old must have
something to say of far-off times and of the living
present, if one has ears to hear.

Stand on the heights by the river and look
down on all the noble ships at anchor there. The
old windmill turns lazily before you. The flag on
a building near by moves softly in the breeze.
The tender, hazy, late-autumn day, kind to all
things, beautifies even bare trees and withered
grass. A large-eyed boy, his school-books under
his arm, stares curiously at you, then longingly
looks at the water and the great ships. The picture
has its meaning, which you may breathe in,
drink in if you will, but you will never find it if
you are comparing your “Appleton” with your
“Baedecker,” or estimating the number of square
feet in the grass-plot where you stand, or looking
hard at the ugly “Sailors' Asylum” because you
may be so directed, and refusing to see my pretty
boy with the wistful eyes because he's not mentioned
in the guide-book.

Everywhere are little stories, pictures, glimpses
of other people's lives, waiting for you. The
flower-girl at the street-corner holds out a bunch
of violets as you pass. Pale, thinly clad, she
stands there shivering in the cold November wind.
On you go. The shops are large and brilliant, the
people seem for a time like those in any large
city. You think you might as well be in New
York, when suddenly you see, walking tranquilly
along, a peasant-woman in the costume of her
district,—short, bright gown, bodice square and
high, with full white sleeves and a red kerchief
round her shoulders, and on her head the most curious
object, a thing that looks like a skullcap,
with a flaring black bow, as large as your two hands,
at the back, from which hangs her hair in two long
braids. Sometimes there is also a hat which resembles
a shallow, inverted flat basket. Why it
stays in place instead of wabbling about as it
might reasonably be expected to do, and whether
there is any hidden connection between it and
that extraordinary black bow, are mysteries to me,
though I peered under the edge of the basket hat
of one Vierländerin with great pertinacity.

The Hamburg maid-servants also wear a prescribed
costume. A casement high above you
swings open and discloses a little figure standing
in the narrow window. A blond head, with a
white bit of a cap on it, leans out. You catch
a glimpse of a great white apron, and of a neat,
sensible, dark cotton gown, made with a short
puffed sleeve which leaves the arm bare and free
for work. You wonder *why* the girl looks so long
up and down the busy street, and what she hopes
to see. To be sure, it may be only Bridget looking
for Patrick, or, worse, Bridget thinking of
nothing in particular; simply idling away her
time, instead of sweeping the garret. But if her
name is perhaps Hannchen, and she looks from a
window, narrow and high, and the morning sunshine
touches her yellow braids, and she stands
so still, far above the hurrying feet on the pavement,
how can one help finding her more interesting,
as a bit of human nature to study and enjoy,
than a beflounced and beribboned Bridget at home?
And when, in her simple dress, well suited to
her degree, she runs about the streets on her
mistress's errands, carrying many a parcel in her
strong round arms, she is a pleasant thing to see,
and, because she does not ape the fine lady, loses
nothing when by chance she walks by the side of
one in silk attire.

Ah! if one has ever groaned in spirit to see the
tawny daughters of the Penobscot Indians, those
dusky maidens who might, in reason, be expected
to bring into a prosaic town some wildwood grace,
some suggestion of the “curling smoke of wigwams,”
of “the dew and damp of meadows,”
selling their baskets from door to door in gowns
actually cut after a recent Godey fashion-plate,
much looped as to overskirt, much ruffled and
puffed and shirred,—then indeed must one rejoice
in the dress of the Hamburg maids, and in these
sturdy country-women trudging along in their picturesque
but substantial costume, to sell their
fruit and vegetables in the city markets.

In the olden time the good wives of Hamburg
no doubt wore such gowns. One sees now in the
street called Grosse Bleichen great buildings,
banks and shops, and all the evidences of busy
modern life; but one shuts the eyes and sees instead
groups of women in blue and red, coming
out from the city walls to lay on the green grass
the linen they have spun, that it may whiten in
the sunshine. They spun, and wove, and bleached.
They lived and died. The growing city built new
walls, and took within its limits those green banks
once beyond its gates. The women knew not
what was to be, when their spinning was all done.
Nor did the maids, whose busy feet trod the path
by the river-side, dream that the Jungfernstieg, or
Maiden's Path, would be the name, hundreds of
years after, of the most-frequented promenade of
the gay world of a great city.

Those women with the spinning-wheels, silent
now so long, the young maids with their waterjars,
chatting together in the early morning by
the river, still speak to us, if we but listen.
Though the voices of the city are so loud, we can
hear quite well what they tell us; but indeed,
indeed, dear friends, it is not written in the guide-book.

-----

Stories everywhere, did I not say? Why, I
even found one imbedded in—candy!

Listen, children, while I tell you about marzipan.
The grown people need not hear, if they do
not wish.

Marzipan (or St. Mark's bread—*marzi panis*)
is the name of a dainty which is made into bonbons
of every shape and size and color imaginable;
all, however, having the same flavor, tasting
of sugar and vanilla and rose-water and
almonds, and I know not what beside. There are
tiny potatoes, dark and gray, with marvellous
“eyes,” that would delight your souls; there are
grapes, and nuts, and large, red apples, all made
from the delectable marzipan. And most particularly
there are little round loaves, an inch long,
perhaps, which are the original celebrated marzipan,
pure and simple, the other form being modern
innovations. And why Mark's bread? Because,
my dears, there was once a famine in Lübeck, and
tradition saith that the loaf which each poor woman
took from the baker to her starving bairns
grew each day smaller and smaller, until finally
it was such a poor wee thing it was no more than
an inch long; and on St. Mark's Day was the
famine commemorated, while the shape and size
of the pitiful loaves are preserved in this sweetmeat,
peculiar, I believe, to North Germany.
Hamburg children—bless them!—will tell you
the tale of famine, and swallow the tiny loaves as
merrily as though there was never a hungry child
in the world.

Hamburg children! Indeed, I have reason to
bless them. Shall I not always be grateful to the
fate that showed to eyes weary with gazing upon
wet decks, dense fog, and the listless faces of
fellow-voyagers, a bright and beautiful vision?
Most travellers in Hamburg visit first the Zoölogical
Gardens, and then immediately after—is it
to observe the contrast or the similarity between
the lower animals and noble man?—the Exchange
or Börse, where they look down from a gallery
upon hundreds, thousands of busy men, whose
voices rise in one incessant, strange, indescribable
noise—hum—roar—call it what you will.
Neither of these spectacles, happily, was thrust
at once before me. Did I not interpret as a
happy omen that *my* first “sight” was twenty
little German children dancing?

Can I ever forget those delicious shy looks at
the queer stranger who has suddenly loomed up
in the midst of their festivities? And the carefully
prepared speech of the small daughter of the
house who with blushes and falterings, much
laughter, many promptings, and several false
starts, finally chirps like a bird, trying to speak
English, “I am va-ry happy to zee you,” and for
the feat receives the felicitations of her friends,
and retires in triumph to her bonbons.

Sweetest of all was the gracious yet timid way
in which each child, in making her early adieus,
gave her hand to the stranger also, as an imperative
courtesy.

Each little maid draws up her dainty dancing-boots
heel to heel, extends for an instant her small
gloved hand, speaks no word except with the shy
sweet eyes, gravely inclines her head, and is gone,
giving place to the next, who goes through the
same solemn form.

Dear little children at home, you are as dear and
sweet as these small German girls—dearer and
sweeter, shall I not say?—but would you, *could* you,
prompted only by your own good manners, march
up to a corner where sits a great, big, entirely
grown-up person from over the sea, and stand before
her, demure and quaint and stately, and make
your stiff and pretty little bows? Would you now,
you tiniest ones? Really?

Yet, do you know, if you would, of your own
free will, without mamma visible in the background
exhorting and encouraging, you would do
a graceful thing, a courteous and a kindly thing,
in thus including the dread stranger within your
charmed circle, and in welcoming her from your
child-heart and with your child-hands. You would
be telling her, all so silently, that though her home
is far away, she has her place among you; that
kindness and warmth and free-hearted hospitality
one finds the wide world over. And your pretty
heads, bending seriously before her, and your demure,
absurd, sweet, pursed-up baby-mouths might
conjure up visions of curly gold locks, and soft
dimpled faces far off in her home country, and she
would—why, children, children, I cannot say what
she would do! I cannot tell all that she would
think and feel. But this I know well, she would
love you and your dear little, frightened, welcoming
hands, and she would say, with her whole heart,
as I say now,—

“Merry, merry Christmas, and ‘God bless us
every one!’”


[pg!12]


HEIDELBERG IN WINTER.
=====================


“If you come to Heidelberg you will never
want to go away,” says Mr. Warner in his
“Saunterings.” It was in summer that
he said it. He had wandered everywhere
over the lovely hills. He knew this quaintest of
quaint towns by heart. He had studied the beautiful
ruin in the sunshine and by moonlight, and
had listened amid the fragrance and warmth of a
midsummer night to the music of the band in the
castle grounds, and to the nightingales. I, who
have only seen Heidelberg in the depth of winter,
with gray skies above and snow below, echo his
words again and again.

“Don't go to Heidelberg in winter. Don't think
of it. It's so stupid. There is nothing there
now, positively nothing. O, don't!” declared the
friends in council at Hamburg. When one's friends
shriek in a vehement chorus, and “O, don't!” at
one, it is usually wise to listen with scrupulous
attention to everything which they say, and then
to do precisely what seems good in one's own
eyes. I listened, I came immediately to Heidelberg
in winter, and now I “never want to go
away.”

And why? Indeed, it is not easy to say where
the fascination of the place lies. Everybody
knows how Heidelberg looks. We all have it in
our photograph albums,—long, narrow, irregular,
outstretched between the hills and the Neckar.
And all our lives we have seen the castle imprinted
upon paper-knives and upon china cups that say
Friendship's Offering, in gilt letters, on the other
side. But in some way the queer houses,—some
of solid stone, yellow and gray, some so high, with
pointed roofs, some so small, with the oddest little
casements and heavy iron-barred shutters, and the
inevitable bird-cage and pot of flowers in the window,
quite like the pictures,—in some way these
old houses seem different from the photographs.
And when one passes up through steep, narrow,
paved alleys lined with them, and sees bareheaded
fat babies rolling about on the rough pavement,
and the mothers quite unconcerned standing in the
doorways, and small boys running and sliding on
their feet, as our boys do, laughing hilariously and
jeering, as our boys also do,—why will they?—when
the smallest falls heavily and goes limping
and screaming to his home,—one is filled with
amazement at the half-strange, half-familiar aspect
of things, and wonders if it be really one's own
self walking about among the picture houses. And
as to the castle, I never want to see it again on a
paper-weight or a card-receiver.

There's nothing here in winter, they say. I
suppose there is not much that every one would
care for. It is the quietest, sleepiest place in the
world. It pretends to have twenty thousand inhabitants,
but, privately, I don't believe it, for it
is impossible to imagine where all the people keep
themselves, one meets so few.

No, there's not much here, perhaps; but certainly
whatever there is has an irresistible charm
for one who is neither too elegant nor too wise to
saunter about the streets, gazing at everything with
delicious curiosity. Blessed are they who can enjoy
small things.

A solemn-looking professor passes; then a Russian
lady wrapped in fur from her head to her feet.
Some dark-eyed laborers stand near by talking in
their soft, sweet Italian. The shops on the Haupstrasse
are brilliantly tempting with their Christmas
display. Poor little girls with shawls over
their heads press their cold noses against the broad
window-panes, and eagerly “choose” what they
would like. One stands with them listening in
sympathy, and in the same harmless fashion chooses
carved ivory and frosted silver of rare and exquisite
design for a score of friends.

Dear little boy at home,—yes, it is you whom
I mean!—what would you say to an imposing
phalanx of toy soldiers, headed by the emperor, the
crown prince, Bismarck, and Von Moltke all riding
abreast in gorgeous uniforms? That is what I
“choose” for you, my dear. And did you know,
by the way, that here in Germany Santa Claus
doesn't come down the chimneys and fill the children's
stockings, and bring the Christmas-tree, but
that it is the Christ-child who comes instead, riding
upon a tiny donkey, and the children put wisps
of hay at their doors, that the donkey may not get
hungry while the Christ-child makes his visits.

Many women walk through the streets carrying
great baskets on their heads. This custom seems
to some travellers an evil. The women look too
much, they say, like beasts of burden. But if a
washerwoman has a great basket of clothes to
carry home, and prefers to balance it upon her
head instead of taking it in her hands, why may
she not, provided she knows how? And it is by
no means an easy thing to do, as you would be
willing to admit if you had walked, or tried to
walk, about your room with your unabridged dictionary
borne aloft in a similar manner. These
women wear little flat cushions, upon which the
baskets rest. Those women I have seen looked
well and strong and cheerful, and walked with a
firm, free step, swinging their arms with great abandon.
Three such women on a street-corner engaged
in a morning chat were an interesting spectacle.
One carried cabbages of various hues,
heaped up artistically in the form of a pyramid.
The huge circumference of their baskets kept them
at a somewhat ceremonious distance from one another,
but they exchanged the compliments of the
season in the most kindly and intimate way, and
their freedom of gesticulation and beautiful unconcern
as to the mountains on their heads were really
edifying.

I have not as yet been grieved and exasperated
by the sight of a woman harnessed to
a cart. One, apparently very heavily laden, I
did see drawn by a man and two stalwart sons,
while the wife and mother walked behind, pushing.
As she was necessarily out of sight of her
liege lord, the amount of work she might do depended
entirely upon her own volition, and she
could push or only pretend to push, as she pleased;
or even, if the wicked idea should occur to her,
going up a steep hill she might quietly *pull* instead
of push, and so ascend with ease. The whole
arrangement struck me as in every respect a truly
admirable and most uncommon division of family
labor.

We meet of course everywhere groups of students
with their dainty little canes, their caps of
blue or red or gold or white, and their altogether
jaunty aspect. The white-capped young men are
of noble birth. Some of them wear, in addition
to their white caps, ornaments of white court-plaster
upon their cheeks and noses, as memorials
of recent strife with some plebeian foe. To republican
eyes they are no better looking than their
fellows, and it may be said that few of these scholastic
young gentlemen, titled or otherwise, who in
knots of three or five or more, accompanied by
great dogs, often blockade the extremely narrow
pavement, manifest their pleasing alacrity in gallantly
scattering, and in giving *place aux dames*
as might be desired.

It has been snowing persistently of late. More
snow has fallen than Heidelberg has seen in many
years, and the students have indulged in unlimited
sleighing. The Heidelberg sleigh is an indescribable
object. Its profile, if one may so speak,
looks like a huge, red, decapitated swan. It has
two seats, and is dragged by two ponderous horses
with measured tread and slow, while the driver
clings in a marvellous way to the back of the
equipage, incessantly brandishing an enormously
long whip. Sometimes a long line of these sleighs
is seen, in each of which are four students starting
out for a pleasure-trip. The young men fold their
arms and lean back in an impressive manner.
Their coquettish caps are even more expressive
than usual. The curious thing is, that, apart from
the evidence of our senses, they seem to be dashing
along with the utmost rapidity. There is something
in the intrepid bearing of the students, in
the vociferations and loud whip-crackings of the
driver, that suggests dangerous speed. On the
contrary the elephantine steeds jog stolidly on,
quite unmoved by the constant din; the students
continue to wear their adventurous, peril-seeking
air, and the undaunted man behind valiantly
cracks his whip.

The contrast between the rate at which they go
and the rate at which they seem to imagine that
they are going is most comical. The heart is
moved with pity for the benighted young men who
do not know what sleighing is, and one would like
to send home for a few superior American sleighs
as rewards of merit for good boys at the university.

The thing with the least warmth and Christian
kindness about it in Heidelberg is the stove.
There may be stoves here that have some conscientious
appreciation of the grave responsibilities
devolving upon them in bitter cold weather, but
such have not come within the range of my observation.

My idea of a Heidelberg stove is a brown, terra-cotta,
lukewarm piece of furniture, upon which one
leans,—literally with *nonchalance*,—while listening
to attacks upon American customs and manners
from representatives of the Swiss and German
nations. The tall white porcelain stoves which
somebody calls “family monuments,” are at least
agreeable to the eye. But *these* are neither ornamental
nor wholly ugly, neither tall nor short,
white nor black, hot nor cold. They have neither
virtues nor vices. We feel only scorn for the
hopeless incapacity of a stove that cannot at any
period of its career burn our fingers. It is, as a
stove, a total failure, and it makes but an indifferently
good elbow-rest.

However deficient in blind adoration for our
fatherland we may have been at home, it only
needs a few weeks' absence from it, during which
time we hear it constantly ridiculed and traduced,
to make us fairly bristle with patriotism.

It is marvellous how like boastful children sensible
people will sometimes talk when a chance
remark has transformed a playful, friendly comparison
of the customs of different nations into a
war of words. Often one is reminded of the story
of the two small boys, each of whom was striving
manfully to sustain the honor of his family.

“We've got a sewing-machine.”

“We've got a pianner.”

“My mother's got a plaid shawl.”

“My sister's got a new bonnet.”

“We've got lightning-rods on our house.”

“We've got a *mortgage* on ours!”

For instance:—

“You have in America no really old stories and
traditions?” said a German lady to an American.

“We are too young for such things. But what
does it matter? We enjoy yours,” was the civil
response.

“But,” the German continued, in a tone of commiseration,
“no fairy-stories like ours of the Black
Forest, no legends like ours of the Blockberg!
Isn't everything very new and prosaic?”

This superiority is not to be endured. The
American feels that her country's honor is impeached.

“We have no such legends,” she begins slowly,
when a blessed inspiration comes to her relief, and
she goes on with dignity,—“we have no such
legends, to be sure; but then, you know, we have—*the
Indians*.”

“Ah, yes; that is true,” said the German, respectfully,
knowing as much of the Indians as of
the inhabitants of some remote planet, while the
American, trusting the vague, mysterious term
will induce a change of subject, yet not knowing
what may come, rapidly revolves in her mind every
item of Indian lore she has ever known, from Pocahontas
to Young-Man-Afraid-of-his-Horses, determined,
should she be called upon to tell a wild
Indian tale, to do it in a manner that will not
disgrace the stars and stripes.

But I grieve to say that America is not always
victorious. Our table-talk, upon whatever subject
it may begin, invariably ends in a controversy,
more or less earnest, about the merits of the several
nations represented.

A Swiss student with strong French sympathies
charges valiantly at three Germans, and having
routed their entire army, heaped all manner of
abuse upon Kaiser Wilhelm, reduced the crown
prince to beggary, and beheaded Bismarck, suddenly
turns, elated with his victory, and hurls his
missiles at the American eagle.

O, how we suffer for our country!

Some sarcasm from our student neighbor calls
forth from us,—

“America is the hope of the ages.”

We think this sounds well. We remember we
heard a Fourth-of-July orator say it. Then it is
not too long for us to attempt, with our small
command of the German tongue.

“A forlorn hope that has not long to live,”
quickly retorts our adversary.

He continues, contemptuously,—

“America is too raw.”

“America *is* young. She's a child compared
with your old nations, but a promising, glorious
child. Her faults are only the faults of youth,”
we respond with some difficulty as to our pronouns
and adjectives.

“She's a very bad child. She needs a whipping,”
chuckles our saucy neighbor.

America's banner trails in the dust, and Helvetia
triumphs over all foes. In silence and chagrin
America's feeble champion retires to the window,
watches the birds picking up bread-crumbs on the
balcony, and meditates a grand revenge when her
German vocabulary shall be equal to her zeal.
Helvetia's son being, in this instance, a very clever,
merry boy, soon laughingly sues for reconciliation,
on the ground that, “after all, sister republics
must not quarrel,” and the two, in noble alliance,
advance with renewed vigor, and speedily sweep
from the face of the earth all tyrannous monarchical
governments.

Is it not, by the way, thoroughly German, that
down in its last corner the Heidelberg daily paper
prints each day, “Remember the poor little birds”?
And indeed they are remembered well; and there
are few casements here that do not open every
morning, that the birdies' bread may be thrown
upon the snow.

And is there nothing else here in winter beside
the innocent pastimes mentioned? There are wonderful
views to be gained by those who have the
courage to climb the winding silvery paths that
lead up the Gaisberg and Heiligenberg. And then
there is—majesty comes last!—the castle.

Ah! here lies the magic of the place. This is
why people love Heidelberg. It is because that
wonderful old ruin is everywhere present, whatever
one does, wherever one goes, binding one's heart
to itself. You cannot forget that it stands there
on the hill, sad and stately and superb. Lower
your curtains, turn your back to the window, read
the last novel if you will, still you will see it. I
defy you to lose your consciousness of it. It will
always haunt you, until it draws you out of the
house—out into the air—through the rambling
streets—up the hill past the queer little houses—to
the spot where it stands, and then it will not
let you go. It holds you there in a strange enchantment.
You wander through chapel and
banquet-hall, through prison-vault and pages'
chamber, from terrace to tower, where you go as
near the edge as you dare,—*nearer* than you dare,
in fact,—and look down upon the trees growing in
the moat. Because you never, in all your life,
saw anything like a “ruin,” and because there is
but one Heidelberg Castle in the world, you take
delight in simply wandering up and down long
dark stairways, with no definite end in view. You
may be hungry and cold, but you never know it.
You are unconscious of time, and after hours of
dream-life you only turn from gazing when somebody
forcibly drags you away because the man is
about to close the gates.

I cannot discourse with ease upon quadrangles
and façades. I am doubtful about finials, and
my ideas are in confusion as to which buttresses
fly and which hang; but it is a blessed fact that
one need not be very learned to care for lovely
things, and while I live I shall never forget how
the castle looked the first time I approached it.

Some people say it is loveliest seen at sunset
from the “Philosopher's Walk,” on Heiligenberg
across the Neckar, and some say it is like fairy-land
when it is illuminated (which happens once or
twice in a summer,—the last time, before the students
go away in August, and leave the old town
in peace and quiet), and when one softly glides in
a little boat from far up the Neckar, down, down,
in the moonlight, until suddenly the castle, blazing
with lights, is before you.

But though I should see it a thousand times
with summer bloom around, with the charm of
fair skies and sunshine, soft green hills and flowing
water, or in the moonlight, with happy voices
everywhere, and strains of music sounding sweet
and clear in the evening air, I can never be sorry
that, first of all, it rose in its beauty, before my
eyes, out of a sea of new-fallen snow.

O, the silence and the whiteness of that day!

We entered the grounds and passed through
broad walks, among shadowy trees whose every twig
was snow-covered, and by the snow-crowned Princess
Elizabeth Arch. On we went in silence,—only
once did any sound break the stillness, when
a little laughing child, in a sleigh drawn by a large
black dog, aided by a good-natured half-breathless
servant, dashed by and disappeared among the
trees. Soon we stood on the terrace overlooking
the city and the Neckar.

On one side was the castle, the dark mass standing
out boldly against the whiteness,—on the
other, far below, the city, its steep, high roofs
snow-white, its three church-spires rising towards
cold, gray skies; beyond, the frozen Neckar, then
Heiligenberg, its white vineyards contrasting with
the dusky fir-forests, and, far away as one could
see, the great plain of the Rhine, with the line of
the Haardt Mountains barely perceptible in the
distance and the dim light. All was so white and
still! Only the brave ivy, glossy and green and
fresh on the old walls and amid this frozen nature,
spoke of life and hope. All else told of sadness,
and of peace it may be, but of the peace that follows
renunciation.

But to stand on the height—to look so far—to
be in that white, holy stillness! It was wonderful.
It was too beautiful for words.


[pg!24]


A FLYING SHEET FROM PARIS.
==========================


Is it in “The Parisians” that the soldier
carries a bouquet on his musket, and it
is said that Paris, though starving, must
have flowers? These sweet spring days,
when vast crowds of people are wandering about
amusing themselves, and children are making daisy
chains in the parks, and men pass along the streets
with great branches of lilac blossoms or masses
of rosebuds, which are sold at every corner, and
skies are blue, and the lovely sunshine everywhere
is falling upon happy-looking faces, you feel like
blessing not only the spring-time, but beautiful
Paris and the temperament of the French. “St.
Denis caught a sunbeam flying, and he tied it with
a bright knot of ribbons, and he flashed it on the
earth as the people of France; only, alas, he made
two mistakes,—he gave it no ballast, and he dyed
the ribbons blood-red.” You think of the want of
ballast and the blood-red tinge when you look at
the ruined Tuileries, and see every now and then
other traces of the Commune. In our dining-room
is a great mirror with a hole in its centre
and long seams running to its corners. Madame
keeps it as a memento of those terrible times, and
of her anxiety and terror when balls were coming
in her doors and windows, and she would not on
any account have it removed. But, after all, it is
the flying sunbeams of the present that most impress
you. They are more vivid, being actually
before your eyes, than scenes of riot and madness,
which you can only imagine. The life about you
is altogether so fascinating, so cheering. You
catch the spirit that seems to animate the people.
Where all is so sunny and gay why should you
grieve? Have you little troubles? Leave them
behind and go out into the sweet sunshine, and
they will grow so insignificant you will be ashamed
to remember how you were brooding over them;
and then, if they are really great, they will pass;
everything passes. Only take to-day to your heart
the loveliness that is waiting for you, for indeed
there is something in it that makes you not only
happy for the time, but brave and hopeful for the
future. All of which is the little sermon that
Paris preaches to us all day long. Perhaps we
didn't come to Paris for sermons especially, but
after all it is often the unexpected ones that are
the best.

How shall I tell what we have seen and heard
here? One day we visited the Pantheon, and,
having seen what there was to see below, we went
up to the dome, which affords a magnificent view
of all Paris and the surrounding country. A party
of school-girls ascended the long, narrow, winding
flights at the same time, and they were entirely
absorbed in counting the stairs. The one in
advance clearly proclaimed the number; the others
verified her account. The interest was intense.
Occasionally we would come to a platform where
at first it would seem that there was nothing more
to conquer. Breathless, panting, flushed, the
young girls would look searchingly around, then,
with a shriek of delight, would plunge into a dark
corner and open a door, from which another crazy-looking
stairway led up to other heights. Their
chaperon, who looked as if she might be the principal
of a school, gave up in despair before we
were half-way up, and, seating herself to await
their return, cast amused, kindly glances after the
retreating forms of the undaunted girls. I take
pleasure in stating the important and interesting
fact that the number of steps from the ground to
the “Lanterne” above the dome of the Pantheon
is five hundred and twenty, and you can't possibly
go higher unless you should choose to ascend a
rope which is used when on grand occasions they
illuminate the dome and burn a brilliant light on
the very tiptop. So said a little abbé who looked
like a mere boy, and who courteously told us
many interesting things as we stood there, a
group of strangers scanning one another with mild
curiosity,—two well-bred Belgian boys with the
abbé, some ultra-fashionable dames, a party of
Englishmen of course, and ourselves. The school-girls
fortunately went down without seeing the
rope. Had they observed it, and known that it
was possible by any means whatever to go higher
than they had gone, they would have been miserable,
unless indeed their aspiring spirit had led
them in some way to ascend it.

With the paintings and sculpture at the Louvre
and the Luxembourg we have spent several happy
days, only wishing the days might be months.
Don't expect me to tell you what delighted us
most, or how great pictures seemed which we had
before seen only in engravings or photographs.
They burst gloriously all at once upon our ignorant
eyes, and we wanted to sit days and days before
one picture that held us entranced, and yet
our time was so limited we had to pass on and on
regretfully. Of course some one was there to
whisper in our ears, “O, this is nothing! You
must go to Italy.” Certainly we must go to Italy,
but the thought of the beauty awaiting there
could not detract from that which was around us.
Before some of the paintings we felt like standing
afar off and worshipping. There were Madonnas
with insipid faces which we did not appreciate.
There were other pictures which we coldly admired;
they were wonderful, but we did not want
to own them,—did not love them. Among those
which we longed to seize and carry away is the
“Cupid and Psyche” of Gerard, in which Psyche
receiving the first kiss of love is an exquisitely
innocent, fair-haired little maiden, not so very unlike
the friend to whom we would like to send it.

There are always curious people in the galleries.
Sit down and rest a minute and something funny
is sure to happen.

“See this chaw-ming thing of Murillo,” says a
florid youth of nineteen or twenty, with very tight
gloves, an elaborate necktie, and, alas! an unquestionably
American air, as he marshals a timid-looking
group,—his mother and sisters, perhaps.
“Quite well done, now, isn't it?” And on he
went. If he knew a Perugino from a Vandyck his
countenance did him great injustice. Then another
party comes along,—conscientious, ponderous,
English,—and halts with precision. One of
them reads, in a loud voice, from a book—“Titian—Portrait—462”—and
they stare blankly at
the picture before them, which happens to be not
a Titian at all, but a “Meadow Scene, with Cows,”
by Cuyp, or a great battle-piece of Salvator Rosa.
When they discover their mistake and recover
from their astonishment, they pass on in search
of the missing Titian. We smiled at this, but, as
the pictures are not hung according to the order
given in catalogues, we knew very well that it
was our good fortune, and not our merit or our
wisdom, that kept us from similar mistakes. What
might we not have done had we not been so beautifully
guarded against all blundering by our escort,
a French gentleman of rare culture,—both an
amateur painter and sculptor,—and an intimate
friend of some of the most distinguished French
artists! With him for a companion we felt superior
to all catalogues and treatises upon art. We
have had the pleasure, too, of visiting his private
museum and studio, where are strange relics collected
in a life of unusual travel and adventure.
He is a retired colonel of the French army, and
when in service has lived in Egypt, Turkey, Persia,
Greece, and now his little room, which we climbed
six flights of stairs to reach, is crowded with mementos
of his wanderings. I despair of conveying
any idea of what he has hung upon his walls. It
would almost be easier to tell what he has not.
Persian pictures, stone emblems, fans, rosaries,
swords, mosaics, pistols, queer chains and pipes, as
well as some very valuable paintings,—a Vandyck,
an Andrea del Sarto, a number of the modern
French school, presented to him by the artists.
Was it not a privilege to have such a guide when
we visited the Paris lions? He took us to the
Musée de Cluny, among other exceedingly interesting
places, where we saw hosts of antiquities,—beautifully
carved mantels, magnificent fireplaces,
“big enough to roast a whole ox” (and they really
use them, winters, too—the noble great logs were
all ready to be lighted), rare old windows of stained
glass, rich robes of high church dignitaries, porcelain,
jewelled crowns of Gothic kings, old lace
and tapestries, and carved wood that it did one's
heart good to see. Girls with tied-back dresses, and
hats fairly crushed by the weight of the masses of
flowers with which French milliners persist in loading
us this spring, did look so painfully modern in
those mediæval rooms! We began to feel as if we
were walking about in one of the Waverley novels,
and fully expected to meet Ivanhoe clad in complete
armor on the stone staircase that leads down
from the chapel.

There were many things over which we found it
impossible to be enthusiastic,—the jawbone of
Molière, for example, in a glass case. It probably
looks like less distinguished jawbones, but if his
whole skeleton had been there I fear we should
have been no more impressed. Chessmen of rock
crystal and gold we coveted, and we liked the room
in which are the great, ponderous, gilded state
coaches of some century long ago, with their whips,
harnesses, and comical postilion boots. There is
a little sleigh or sledge there, said to have been
Marie Antoinette's,—a small gold dragon, whose
wing flies open to admit the one person whom the
tiny equipage can seat. It looked as if it must
have been pushed by some one behind. Fancy a
gold dragon with fiery-red eyes and a wide-open
red mouth coming towards you over the snow!

This whole building is full of interest from its
age and historical associations. It was built in
the fifteenth century, has been in the hands of
comedians, of a sisterhood; Marat held his horrible
meetings here; Mary of England lived here
after the death of her husband, Louis XII., and
you can still see the chamber of the “White
Queen,” with its ivory cabinets, vases, and queer
old musical instruments. Visitors are requested
not to touch anything, but we couldn't resist
the temptation of striking just one chord on a
spinet. Such a cracked voice the poor thing had!
It sounded so dead and ghostlike and dreary, we
hurried away as fast as we could. Don't be
alarmed, and think I am going to write up all the
history of the place. I haven't the least idea of
doing such a thing; only this I can tell you,—the
Hôtel de Cluny affords an excellent opportunity to
test your knowledge of history; and if you ever
stand where we did, and send your thoughts wandering
among past ages, may your dates be more
satisfactory than were ours!

The ruins of an old Roman palace, of which
only a portion of the baths remain, adjoin the
museum. There is a great room, sixty feet long,
all of stone, and very high, which was used for
the cold baths. The other baths are all gone, but
if you imagine hot and warm and tepid ones as
large as the cold, it certainly gives you a profound
admiration for the magnitude of the ancient bath
system. If Julian the Apostate, who built the
palace, they say, could see us as we go peering
curiously about, asking what this and that mean,
and the names of stone things that were probably
as common in his day as sewing-machines are now,
wouldn't he laugh? We looked over the shoulder
of a painter who was making a delightful little
picture of a part of the ruins, the stone pavement
and staircase, then a beautiful arch through which
we could look into the open air, and see the warm
sunshine, the great lilac-bushes, and a tall old ivy-covered
wall beyond. The contrast between the
cold gray interior and the bright outer world was
very effective.

Strange old place where Cæsars have lived, and
through which early kings of France and fierce
Normans have swept, plundering and ruining, and
where, to-day, by the fragments of the massive
ivy-covered walls and under the trees in the pleasant
park, happy little children play, and nurses
chatter, and life is strong, and fresh and warm,
even while we are thinking of the dead past!


[pg!32]


BADEN-BADEN.
============


Baden is a little paradise. It seems like
a garden with the freshness of May on
every flower and leaf. The long lines
of chestnut-trees are rich with bright,
pink blossoms,—solid pink, not pink-and-white like
ours at home. You walk beneath them through
shady avenues, where the young grass is like velvet,
and every imaginable shade of refreshing
green lies before your eyes. There is the tender
May-leaf green of the shrubs, another of the soft
lawns, that of the different trees, of the more distant
hill-slopes, and, beyond all, the deepest intensified
green of the Black Forest rising nobly
everywhere around. A hideous little bright-green
cottage, prominent on one of the hills, irritates
us considerably, not harmonizing with its deep
background of pines, and we long at first to
ruthlessly erase it from the picture; but finally
remembering the ugly little thing is actually
somebody's home, our better nature triumphs, and
we feel we can allow it to remain, and can only
hope the dwellers within think it prettier than
we do.

There are already many visitors here, though it
is as yet too early and cool for the great throng of
strangers to be expected, and the vast numbers
of people come no more who used to frequent the
place before the gaming was abolished by the emperor
a few years ago, through Bismarck's especial
exertions, it is said; from which it is to be inferred
that Baden's pure loveliness is less attractive
to the world at large than the fascination of
the gaming-tables. We hear everywhere around
regrets for the lost charm, for the gayety, excitement,
brilliancy; and it is impossible to avoid
wishing, not certainly that play were not abolished,
but at least that we could have come when it was
at its height to see for ourselves the strange phases
of humanity that were here exhibited, and just how
naughty it all was. Now the waiters shake their
heads mournfully, as if a glory and a grace were
departed, and say, “No, it isn't what it used to
be,—nothing like it!” and there seems to be a
“banquet-hall-deserted” atmosphere pervading
the rooms in the Conversation House. To be sure
there is music there evenings, and a fashionable
assembly walking about; and there is music, too,
in the kiosk, and a goodly number of gay people
chatting, eating, and drinking at the little tables
in the open air; and people gather in the early
mornings to drink the waters, as they always have
done, but, after all, the tribute of a memory and
a regret seems to be universally paid to the vanquished
god of play, who is helping poor mortals
cheat somewhere else.

The Empress of Germany is here, and, after
long-continued effort, we have seen her. How
madly we have striven to accomplish this feat;
how we have questioned servants and shopkeepers;
how we have haunted the Lichtenthal Allee,
that long, lovely, shady walk where her Majesty
is said to promenade regularly every day; how
often we have had our garments, but not our
ardor, dampened for her sake; how she would
never come; and how finally, in desperation, we
seated ourselves at a table under a tree near her
hotel, devoured eagerly with our eyes all its windows,
saw imperial dogs and imperial handmaidens
in the garden, and couriers galloping away with
despatches, saw the coachmen and footmen and
retainers, but for a long time no empress,—all
this shall never be revealed, because self-respect
imposes strict silence in regard to such conduct.

We must have looked somewhat like a picture
in an old Harper's Magazine where two hungry
newsboys stand by the area railing as dinner is
served, and when the different dishes are carried
past the windows one regales himself with the savory
scents, while the other says something to this
effect: “I don't mind the meats, but just tell me
when the pudding comes and I'll take a sniff.”

“Augusta, please, dear Augusta, come out!”
entreated we; but she came not. When a carriage
rolled round to the door, we were in ecstasies of
expectation, convinced she was going out to drive,
but instead came a gentleman, servants, and travelling-bags.

“Why, it's Weimar,—*our* Weimar!” said we
with pride and ownership, because you see the
Prince of Weimar lives in Stuttgart, and so do we.
And as he drives off, out on the balcony among
the plants comes her imperial Majesty and waves
her handkerchief to her brother in farewell. She
wore a black dress, a white head-dress or breakfast-cap,
looked like her photographs, and must
once have been beautiful. She is an intensely
proud woman, it is said, and a rigid upholder of
etiquette, and tales are told of slight differences
between her and the crown princess on this account.

Baden is one of the enticing places of the
earth,—is so lovely that whenever, however, wherever
you may look, you always spy some fresh
beauty, and the Black Forest legends are hanging
all about it, investing it with an endless charm.
You can see in the frescoed panels on the front of
the new *Trinkhalle* a picture illustrating some old
story of a place near by, and then for your next
day's amusement can go to the identical spot
where the ghost or demon or goblin used to be.

To Yburg, whose young knight met the beautiful,
unearthly maiden by the old heathen temple
in the full moonshine, as he was returning from the
castle of his lady-love to his own, and who transferred
his affections—as adroitly as our young
knights do the same thing nowadays—from her to
the misty figure, and met the latter, night after
night, was watched by his faithful servant, and was
found dead on the ground one bright morning.

Or to Lauf, where the ghost-wedding was, or
almost was, but not quite, because the knight who
was to be married to the very attractive ghost of a
young woman grew so frightened when he saw all
the glassy eyes of the ghostly witnesses staring at
him that he couldn't say yes when the sepulchral
voice of the ghost of a bishop asked him if he
would have this woman to his wedded wife; and
all the ghosts were deeply offended and made a
great uproar, and the knight fell down as if dead,
and he too was found lying on the ground in
the morning; but him, I believe, they were able
to revive.

And you can go to the Convent of Lichtenthal,
from which the nuns, upon the approach of the
enemy, in 1689 fled in terror, leaving their keys
in the keeping of the Virgin Mary, who came down
from her picture and stood in the doorway, so that
the French soldiers shrank back aghast, and all
was left unharmed.

We went there, and saw a number of Marys in
blue and red gowns, but could not quite tell which
was the one who came down from her frame to
guard the convent.

In the chapel eight or ten children mumbled
their prayers in unison, while we stood far behind,
examining the old stained-glass windows, with the
peculiar blue tint in them that cannot now be reproduced,
and the queer old stone knights in effigy;
and I don't imagine the Lord heard the children
any the less because they were very absurd, and
bobbed about in every direction, and constantly
turned one laughing face quickly round to look at
us, then back again, then another and another,
while all the time the praying went mechanically
on. There was a little girl, nine years old perhaps,
who came to meet us by the old well here,
and stood smiling at us with great, brown, expressive
eyes. Her face was so brilliant and sweet we
were charmed with her; but when we spoke she
upturned that rare little face of hers and answered
not a word. I took her hand in mine, but before
she gave it she kissed it, and to each of the party,
who afterwards took her hand, she gave the same
graceful greeting. Not an airy kiss thrown at
one, after the fashion of children in general, but a
quiet little one deposited upon her hand before it
was honored by the touch of the stranger. The
pretty action, together with the exquisite face,
calm and clear as a cherub, and ideally childlike,
made a deep impression on us; and in some way,
what we afterwards learned—that she was completely
deaf and dumb—did not occur to us. We
thought that she would not speak, not that she
could not.

On a height overlooking the town stands a memorial
chapel, built in antique style, of alternate
strata of red and white sandstone, by which a very
lively effect is produced. It has a gilded dome
and a portico supported by four Ionic pillars. In
the interior are frescos of the twelve apostles;
and upon the high gold partition or screen, which
separates the choir from the body of the chapel,
are painted scenes from the New Testament. The
floor is of marble in two colors.

We visited it fortunately during service, and
saw for the first time the Greek ritual. The singing
was fine, the boys' voices sweet and clear, but
many of the forms unintelligible to a stranger.
For instance, we could only imagine what was
meant when one priest in scarlet and gold would
go behind a golden door and lock it, and another
one would stand before it intoning the strangest
words in the strangest sing-song, until at last they
would open the door and let him in. The service
in the Greek churches is either in the Greek or old
Sclavonic language. Here we inferred that we
were listening to the old Sclavonic, as the chapel
belongs to a Roumanian prince; but only this can
we say positively,—that two words (*Alleluia* and
*Amen*) were absolutely all that we understood.

The robes were rich; incense was burned; there
were a few worshippers, all standing, the Greek
Church allowing no seats; but in some places
crutches are used to lean upon when the service
is long, as on great festal days. There are no sermons
except on special occasions, the ordinary ritual
consisting of chants between the deacons and
chorister boys, readings from certain portions of
the Scripture, prayers, legends, the creed, etc.
They all turn towards the east during prayer, and
instrumental music is forbidden.

In this little chapel the morning service which
we witnessed was brief, and, of its kind, simple.
We noticed particularly among the worshippers
one old gentleman who seemed to be very devout.
He crossed himself frequently,—by the way, not
as Roman Catholics do,—and at certain times
knelt, and even actually prostrated himself, upon
the marble pavement. He was a fine old man,
and looked like a Russian. He was earnest and
attentive, but he made us all exceedingly nervous,
for his boots were stiff and his limbs far
from supple, and when he went down we feared he
never would be able to come up again without assistance;
and we were incessantly and painfully on
the alert, prepared to help him recover his equilibrium
should he entirely lose it, which often
seemed more than probable. This was a Roumanian
prince, Stourdza,—who lives winters in Paris
and summers in Baden,—and who erected the
chapel in memory of his son, who died at seventeen
in Paris from excessive study. A statue of the
boy, bearing the name of the sculptor, Rinaldo
Rinaldi, Roma, 1866,—life-size, on a high pedestal,—is
on one side of the interior. He sits by a
table covered with books,—Bossuet, Greek, and
Latin,—while an angel standing beside him rests
one hand on his shoulder, and with the other
beckons him away from his work. His Virgil lies
open to the lines,—

   | “Si qua fata aspera rumpas
   | Tu Marcellus eris.”

If the boy was in reality so beautiful as the marble
and as the portrait of him which hangs at the
left of the entrance, he must have looked as lofty
and tender and pure as an archangel.

Opposite him are the statues of the father and
mother, who are yet living, and between them a
symbolical figure,—Faith, I presume. A curtain
conceals this group, beneath which the parents will
one day lie.

Paintings of them also hang by the entrance,
with a portrait of the boy and one of the sister,
“*Chère consolation de ses parents*,” as she is called.
The faces are all fine, but that of the young student
the noblest, and the statue of the lovely boy
called away from his books seemed a happy way of
telling his brief story. In the vaults below where
he lies are always fresh flowers, and a light continually
burning.

It is impossible to enumerate all the sights in
and about Baden. If it is any satisfaction to you,
you can look at the villas of the great as much
as you please; but to know that Queen Victoria
lived here, and Clara Schumann there, and yonder
is the Turgenieff Villa, with extensive grounds,
does not seem productive of any especial enjoyment.
It is much more exhilarating to leave the
haunts of men and walk off briskly through the
woods to some golden milestone of the past,—the
old Jäger Haus, for instance, whose windows
look upon a wide, rich prospect, and where the
holy Hubartus, the patron of the chase, is painted
on the ceiling, with the stag bearing the crucifix
upon his antlers; and within whose octagonal walls
there must have been much revelry by night in the
good old times.

To the old castle where the Markgrafen of Hohenbaden—the
border lords—used to live we
went one day, and anything funnier than that
particular combination of the romantic and ridiculous
never was known. Riding “in the boyhood
of the year” through lovely woods, by mosses
mixed with violet, hearing the song of birds,
breathing the purest, balmiest air, who could help
wondering if Launcelot and Guinevere themselves
found lovelier forest deeps; and who could help
feeling very sentimental indeed, and quoting all
available poetry, and imagining long trains of
stately knights riding over the same path, and so
on *ad infinitum*! While indulging these romantic
fancies we discovered that our donkey also was
often lost in similar reveries, from which he was
recalled by the donkey-boy, who by a sudden blow
would cause him to madly plunge, then to stop
short and exhibit all the peculiarly pleasing donkey
tricks which we had read about, but never
before experienced. And to ride a very small and
wicked donkey and to read about it are two altogether
different things, let me assure you.

Three donkeys galloping like mad up a mountain,
three persons bouncing, jolting, shrieking
with laughter, a jolly boy running behind with a
long stick,—such was the experience that effectually
dispelled our fine fancies.

The view at the castle is far extended and beautiful;
you see something of the Rhine in the distance,
the little Oosbach, and the peaceful valley
between. Baden scenery, from whatever point you
look at it, has the same friendly, serene aspect,—little
villages dotted here and there on the soft
hill-slopes, and in the background the bold, beautiful
line of the pine-covered mountains. The
castle must have been once a fine, grand place.
Those clever old feudal fellows knew well where to
build their nests, and like eagles chose bold, wild
heights for their rocky eyries. “Heir liegen sie
die stolzen Fürstentrümer,” quoted a German,
wandering about the ruins.

Up to the Yburg Castle we went also; and the
“up” should be italicized, for the mountain seemed
as high and steep as the Hill of Science, and we
felt that the summit of one was as unattainable
as that of the other. But the woods were beautiful,
and their whisperings and murmurings and
words were not in a strange language, for the tall
dark pines sang the selfsame song that they sing
in the dear old New England woods, the wildflowers
and birds were a constant delight, the air
fresh and cool, and at last we reached the top, and
found another castle and another view.

Here there was little castle and much view.
Really a magnificent prospect, but so fierce and
chilling a wind that we could with difficulty remain
long enough on the old turrets to fix the
landscape in our memory, and we were glad to
seek shelter in the little house, where a man and
his wife live all the year round; and frightfully
cold and lonely must it be there in winter, when
even in May our teeth were chattering gayly.

The visitors' book there was rather amusing.

One American girl writes, with her name and
the date,—

   | “No moon to-night, which is of course
   | The driver's fault, not ours.”

“Mr. H. C.”—Black, we will call him—“walked
up from Baden the 10th of August, 1875”; and
half the people who go to Yburg walk. As *we*
had walked and never dreamed of being elated by
our prowess, Mr. Black's manner of chronicling
his feat seemed comical.

You look down from the mountain into the
Affenthaler Valley, where the wine of that name
“grows.” It is a good, light wine, and healthful,
but a young person—we decided she must be a
countrywoman, because she expresses her opinion
so freely—writes in regard to it,—

“Affenthaler. The drink sold under that honorable
name at this restaurant is the beastliest and
most poisonous of drinks, not absolutely undrinkable
or immediately destructive of life. Traveller,
take care. Avoid the abominable stuff. *Beware!*”

Immediately following, in German, with the
gentleman's name and address, is,—

“I have drunk of the Affenthaler which this
unknown English person condemns, and pronounce
it a good and excellent wine.”

That Yburg by moonlight might be conducive
to softness can easily be imagined. Here is a
sweet couplet:—

   | “Let our eyes meet, and you will see
   | That I love you and you love me.”

But best of all in its simplicity and strength
was “Agnes Mary Taylor, widow,” written clearly
in ink, and some wag had underscored in pencil
the last expressive word.

Does the lady go over the hill and dale signing
her name always in this way? On the Yburg
mountain-top it had the effect of a great and
memorable saying, like “Veni, vidi, vici,” or “Après
nous le déluge.” Agnes Mary Taylor, *widow*.
Could anything be more terse, more deliciously
suggestive?


[pg!44]


RAMBLES ABOUT STUTTGART
=======================


This letter is going to be about nothing in
particular. I make this statement with
an amiable desire to please, for so much
advice in regard to subjects comes to me,
and so many subjects previously chosen have failed
to produce, among intimate friends, the pleasurable
emotions which I had ingenuously designed,
there remains to me now merely the modest hope
that a rambling letter about things in general may
be read with patience by at least one charitable
soul. Bless our intimate friends! What would
we do without them? But aren't they perplexing
creatures, take them all in all! “Don't write
any more about peasant-girls and common things,”
says one. “Tell us about the grand people,—how
they look, what they wear, and more about the
king.” Anxious to comply with the request, I try
to recollect how the Countess von Poppendoppenheimer's
spring suit was made in order to send
home a fine Jenkinsy letter about it, when another
friend writes, “The simplest things are always
best,—the flower-girl at the corner, the ways of
the peasants, ordinary, every-day matters.” Have
patience, friends. You shall both be heard. The
Countess von Poppendoppenheimer's gown has
meagre, uncomfortable sleeves, is boned down and
tied back like yours and mine, after this present
wretched fashion which some deluded writer says
“recalls the grace and easy symmetry of ancient
Greece”; but if he should try to climb a mountain
in the overskirt of the period he would express
himself differently.

As to the king, one sees him every day in the
streets, where he courteously responds to the
greetings of the people. He must be weary
enough of incessantly taking off his hat. The
younger brother of Queen Olga and of the Emperor
of Russia, the Grand Duke Michael, came
here the other day. Seeing a long line of empty
carriages and the royal coachmen in the scarlet
and gold liveries that betoken a particular occasion,—blue
being the every-day color,—we followed
the illustrious vehicles, curious to know
what was going to happen, and saw a gentlemanly-looking
blond man, in a travelling suit, welcomed
at the station by different members of the court;
while all those pleasing objects, the scarlet and
gold men, took off their hats. For the sake of the
friend who delights in glimpses of “high life,” I
regret that I have not the honor to know what
was said on this occasion, our party having been
at a little distance, and behind a rope with the rest
of the masses.

But really the common people are better studies.
You can stop peasants in the street and ask
them questions, and you can't kings, you know.
Peasants just now can be seen to great advantage
at the spring fair, which with its numberless
booths and tables extends through several squares,
and to a stranger is an interesting and curious
sight. This portion of the city, where the marketplace,
the Schiller Platz, and the Stiftskirche are,
has an old, quaint effect, the Stiftskirche and the
old palace being among the few important buildings
older than the present century, while the
rest of Stuttgart is fresh and modern. From the
high tower of this old church one has the best possible
view of Stuttgart, and can see how snugly
the city lies in a sort of amphitheatre, while the
picturesque hills covered with woods and vineyards
surround it on every side. One sees the avenues
of chestnut-trees, the Königsbau, a fine, striking
building with an Ionic colonnade, the old palace
and the new one, and the Anlagen stretching away
green and lovely towards Cannstadt. On this
tower a choral is played with wind instruments at
morn and sunset, and sometimes a pious old man
passing stops to listen and takes off his hat as he
waits.

In the little octagonal house up there lives a
prosperous family, a man, his wife, and ten children.
The woman, a fresh, buxom, brown-eyed goodwife,
told us she descended to the lower world hardly
once in three or four weeks, but the children didn't
mind the distance at all, and often ran up and
down twelve or fifteen times a day. How terrific
must be the shoe-bill of this family! Ten pairs
of feet continuously running up and down nearly
two hundred and sixty stone steps! She was kind
enough to show us all her *penates*,—even her
husband asleep,—and everything was homelike
and cheery up there, boxes of green things growing
in the sunshine, clothes hanging out to dry,
canary-birds singing.

There is a small silver bell—perhaps a foot and
a half in diameter at the mouth—at one side
of the tower, and it is rung every night at nine
o'clock and twelve, and has been since 1348. It
has a history so long and so full of mediæval horrors,
like many other old stories in which Würtemberg
is rich, that it would be hardly fitting to
relate it *in toto*, but the main incidents are interesting
and can be briefly given.

On the Bopsa Hill where now we walk in the
lovely woods, and from which the Bopsa Spring
flows, bringing Stuttgart its most drinkable water,
stood, once upon a time,—in the fourteenth century,
to be exact,—a certain Schloss Weissenburg,
about which many strange things are told. The
Weissenburgs conducted themselves at times in
a manner which would appear somewhat erratic to
our modern ideas.

At the baptism of an infant daughter, Papa von
Weissenburg was killed by the falling of some
huge stag-antlers upon his head. We are glad to
read about the baptism, for later there doesn't
seem to have been a strong religious element in
the family. Shortly afterwards Rudolph, the
eldest son, was stabbed by a friend through jealousy
because young Von Weissenburg had won
the affections of the fair dame of whom both
youths were enamored. Then followed strife between
the surviving brother and the monks of
St. Leonhard, who would not allow the murdered
man to be buried in holy ground, the poor boy
having had no time to gasp out his confession and
partake of the sacrament, and they even refused
to bury him at all. Hans von Weissenburg swore
terrible oaths by his doublet and his beard, and
cursed the monks till the air was blue, and came
with his friends and followers and buried his
brother twelve feet deep directly in front of St.
Leonhard's Chapel (there is a St. Leonhard's
Church here now on the site of the old chapel),
and forbade the monks to move or insult the
body. Later, when they wished to use the land
for a churchyard, they were in a great dilemma.
Rudolph's bones they dared not move and would
not bless; at last, what did they do but consecrate
the earth only five feet deep, so the blessing would
not reach Rudolph, who lay seven feet deeper still,—and
they also insulted the grave by building
over it. Hans, on this account, slew a monk, and
was in turn killed because he had murdered a holy
man, and that was the end of *him*.

There remained in the castle on the hill Mamma
von Weissenburg, or rather Von Somebodyelse,
now, for she had wept her woman's tears and married
again. When the infant daughter, Ulrike
Margarethe, whose baptism has been mentioned,
had grown to be a beautiful young woman, the
mother suddenly disappeared and never was seen
again. The daughter publicly mourned, ordered
a beacon-light to be kept continually burning at
the castle, gathered together all her silver chains
and ornaments, and had them melted into a bell,
which was hung on the castle tower, and which she
herself always rang at nine in the evening and at
midnight, for the sorrowing Ulrike said her beloved
mother might be wandering in the dense woods,
and hearing the bell might be guided by it to her
home.

Ulrike was a pious person. She said her prayers
regularly, went about doing good among poor sick
people, never failed to ring the bell twice every
night, and was always mourning for her mother.
When at last she died, she gave orders that the
bell should always be rung, as in her lifetime,
from the castle; and in case the latter should be
disturbed, or unsafe, the bell was to be transferred
to the highest tower in Stuttgart. So Ulrike the
Good bequeathed large sums of silver to pay for the
fulfilment of her wishes, and died. Accordingly
the little bell was brought, in time of public disturbance,
to the small tower on the Stiftskirche
in 1377, the higher one not then existing, and in
1531 was moved to its present position.

The next important item in the bell-story is
that in 1598 the Princess Sybilla, daughter of
Duke Friedrich I. of Suabia, was lost in the
woods, and, hearing the bell ring at nine, followed
the sound to the Stiftskirche, and in her gratitude
she also endowed the bell largely, declaring it
must ring at the appointed hours through all
coming time.

So the little bell pealed out for many years,—just
as it does this day,—until one night, two
days after Easter, 1707, and three centuries and
a half after the death of the exemplary Ulrike, it
happened, in the course of human events, that the
man whose office it was to ring the midnight bell
was sleepy and five minutes late. Suddenly a woman's
figure draped in black, with jet-black hair
and face as white as paper, appeared before him,
and asked him why he did not do his duty. He
rang his bell, then conversed with the ghost, who
was Ulrike von Weissenburg, and obtained from
her valuable information. She must ever watch
the bell, she said, and see that it was rung at the
exact hours; and she it was who carried the light
that confused travellers and led them to destruction
near the ruins of Weissenburg Castle; and
she was altogether a most unpleasant ghost, who
could never rest while one stone of the castle remained
upon another.

This was her condemnation for her evil deeds.
She had murdered her mother, for certain ugly
reasons which in the old chronicle are explicitly set
forth, and she had stabbed her two young sons of
whose existence the world had never known; and
her career was altogether as wicked as wicked could
be; but this Ulrike, like many another clever sinner,
never lost her saintly aspect before the world.

They granted her rest at last by pulling down
the remaining stones of the castle, and giving
them to the wine-growers near by for foundations
for the vineyards; so now no ghost appears to
rebuke the bellringer when too much beer prolongs
his sleep. Bones were found beneath the
castle where Ulrike said she had hidden the bodies
of her mother and children, thus clearly proving,
of course, the truth of the tale. It is the
most natural thing in the world to believe in
ghosts when you read old Suabian stories. The
Von Weissenburgs seem to have been, for the age
in which they lived, a very quiet, orderly, high-toned
family.

Now how do I know but that somebody will at
once write, “I don't like stories about silver bells,”
which will be very mortifying indeed, as it is evident
I consider this a good story, or I should not
take the trouble to relate it.

O, come over, friends, and write the letters yourselves,
and then you will see how it is! Worst of
all is it when we write of what strikes us as comic
precisely as we mention a comic thing at home,
or of mighty potentates, giving information obtained
exclusively from German friends, and other
German friends are then displeased. But is it
worth while to resent the utterance of opinions
that do not claim to be the infallible truth of ages,
but only the hasty record of fleeting impressions?
Peace, good people; let us have no savage criticism
or shedding of blood, though we do chatter
lightly of *majestäte*, saying merely what his subjects
have told us.

We are all apt to be too sensitive about our own
lands and their customs. Yet have *we* not learned
to smile quietly when we are told that American
*gentlemen* sit in drawing-rooms, in the presence of
ladies, with their feet on the mantels; that American
wives have their husbands “under the *pantoffel*”
(would that more of them had); that America has
no schools, no colleges, no manners; that American
girls are, in general, examples of total depravity;
that pickpockets and murderers go unmolested
about our streets, seeking whom they may
devour; that we have no law, no order, no morality,
no art, no poetry, no past, no anything desirable?
What can one do but smile? Smile, then,
in turn, you loyal ones, when I have the bad taste
to call ugly what you are willing to swear is
beautiful as a dream. Thoughts are free, and so
are pens; and both must run on as they will.

Let me, therefore, hurt no one's feelings if I say
that Stuttgart in winter, with little sunshine, a
dreary climate, and a peculiar, disagreeable, deep
mud in the streets, does not at first impress a
stranger as an especially attractive place. But
now, with its long lines of noble chestnut-trees in
full blossom; with the pretty Schloss Platz and
the Anlagen, where fountains are playing and great
blue masses of forget-me-nots and purple pansies
and many choice flowers delight your eyes; with
the shady walks in the park, where you meet
a dreamer with his book, or a group of young
men on horseback, or pretty children by the lake
feeding the swans and ducks; with the lovely air
of spring, full of music, full of fragrance; and,
best of all, with the beauty of the surrounding
country,—he would indeed be critical who would
not find in Stuttgart a fascinating spot.

There is music everywhere, there are flowers
everywhere. Your landlady hangs a wreath of
laurel and ivy upon your door to welcome you
home from a little journey, and brings you back,
when she goes to market, great bunches of sweetness,—rosebuds
and lilies of the valley. You
climb the hills and come home laden with forget-me-nots,—big
beauties, such as we never see at
home,—violets, and anemones. It has been a
cold spring here until now, but the flowers have
been brave enough to appear as usual, and, wandering
about among the distracting things with
hands and baskets as full as they will hold, a picture
of days long ago darts suddenly before me,—two
school-girls, their Virgils under their arms,
rubber boots on their feet, stumbling through
bleak, wet Maine pasture-lands, bearing spring in
their hearts, but searching for it in vain in the
outer world around them. The other girl will
rejoice to know that here I have found spring in
its true presence.

And then there is May wine! Do you know
what it is, and how to make it? You must walk
several miles by a winding path along the bank
of the Neckar. You must see the crucifixes by
the wayside, and the three great blocks of stone,—two
upright and one placed across them,—making
a kind of high table, for the convenience
of the peasant-women, who can stand here, remove
from their heads their heavy baskets, rest, and replace
them without assistance. You must peep
into the tiniest of chapels, resplendent with banners
of red and gold and a profusion of fresh
flowers, all ready for the morning, which will be a
high feast-day. You must pass through a village
where women and children are grouped round the
largest, oldest well you ever saw, with a great
crossbeam and an immense bucket swinging high
in the air. And at last you must sit in a garden
on a height overlooking the Neckar. There must
be a charming village opposite, with an old, old
church, and pretty trees about you partly concealing
the ruins of some old knight's abode. Don't
you like ruins? But just enough modestly in the
background aren't so very bad. You hear the
sound of a mill behind you, and the falling of
water, and, in the branches above your head, the
joyful song of a Schwarz Kopf. And then somebody
pours a flask of white wine into a great bowl,
to which he adds bunches of Waldmeister,—a fragrant
wildwood flower,—and drowns the flowers
in the wine until all their sweetness and strength
are absorbed by it, and afterwards adds sugar and
soda-water and quartered oranges,—and the decoction
is ladled out and offered to the friends
assembled, while there is a golden sunset behind
the hills across the Neckar. And you walk back
in the twilight through the village that is so
small and sleepy it is preparing already to put
itself to bed. And the peasants you meet say,
“Grüss Gott!” “Grüss Gott!” say you, which
isn't in the least to be translated literally, and
only means “Good day,” though the pretty, old-fashioned
greeting always seems like a benediction.
You hear the vesper-bells and the organ-tones
pealing out from the chapel; you see some
real gypsies with tawny babies over their shoulders
(poor things! they will steal so that they are
allowed to remain in a village but one day at a
time, and then must move on). You feel very
bookish, everything is so new, so old, so charming,—and
that is “Mai Wein.”

How it would taste at dinner with roast-beef
and other prosaic surroundings,—how it actually
did taste, I haven't the faintest idea.


[pg!55]


THE SOLITUDE.
=============


What the Germans call an *Ausflug*, or excursion,
deserves to be translated literally,
for it is often a veritable *flight out*
of the region of work and care into a
tranquil, restful atmosphere. The ease with which
middle-aged, heavy-looking men here put on their
wings, so to speak, and soar away from toil and traffic,
at the close of a long, hard day, is always marvellous,
however often we observe it. It seems a
natural and an inevitable thing for them to start
off with a chosen few, wander through lovely
woods, climb a pretty hill, watch the changing
lights at sunset over a broad valley, then return
home, talking of poets and painters, of life problems,
of whatever lies nearest the heart. Their
ledgers and stupid accounts and schemes and the
state of the markets do not fetter them as they
do our business men. Such enjoyment is so simple,
childlike, and rational, that the old question
how men accustomed to wear the harness of commercial
life will ever learn to bear the bliss of
heaven, in its conventional acceptation, seems half
solved. The Germans, at least, would be blessed
in any heaven where fair skies and hills and forests
and streams would lie before their gaze. However
inadequate their other qualifications for Elysium
may be, they excel us by far in this respect. Even
the coarser, lower men who gather in gardens to
drink unlimited beer are yet not quite unmindful
of the beauty of the trees whose young foliage
shades them, and look out, oftener than we would
be apt to give them credit for, upon the vine-clad
hills beyond the city. A friend, a prominent
banker, who is almost invariably in his garden or
some other restful spot in the free air at evening,
now goes out to Cannstadt, two miles from here,
mornings at seven, because “one must be out as
much as possible in this exquisite weather.” If
bankers and lawyers and our busiest of business
men at home would only begin and end days after
this fashion, their hearts and heads would be fresh
and strong far longer for it, that is, if they could
find rest and enjoyment so, and that is the question,—could
they? And why is it, if they cannot?
I leave the answer to wiser heads, who will
probably reply as usual, that our whole mode of
life is different, which is quite true; but why *need*
it be, in this respect, so very different? Here is a
valuable hint to some enormously wealthy person,
childless and without relatives, of course, and about
to make his will, who at this moment is considering
the comparative merits of different benevolent
schemes, and is wavering between endowing a college
and founding a hospital. Do neither, dear
sir. Take my advice, because I'm far away, and
don't know you, and am perfectly disinterested,
and, moreover, the advice is sound and good:
Make gardens and parks everywhere, in as many
towns as possible. Not great, stately parks that
will directly be fashionable, but little parks that
will be loved; and winding ways must lead to
them through woodlands, and seats and tables
must be placed in alluring spots, and all the paths
must be so seductive they will win the most inflexible,
absorbed, care-worn man of business to
tread them. Do this, have your will printed in
every newspaper in the land, and many will rise
up and call you blessed. And if you are not
so very rich, make just one small park, with
pretty walks leading to it and out of it, and say
publicly why you do it,—that people may have
more open air and rest; and if they only have
these, Nature will do what remains to be done, and
win their hearts and teach them to love her better
than now. Of course it is a well-worn theme, but
no one can live in this German land without longing
to borrow some of its capacity for taking its
ease and infuse it into the veins of nervous, hurrying,
restless America.

A pleasant *Ausflug* from Stuttgart is to the Solitude,
a palace built more than a hundred years
ago by Carl Eugen, a duke of Würtemberg, whose
early life was more brilliant than exemplary. Many
roads lead to it, if not all, as to Rome. In the
fall we went through a little village,—throbbing
with the excitement of the vintage-time, resplendent
with yellow corn hanging from its small casements,—and
by pretty wood-roads, where the
golden-brown and russet leaves gleamed softly, and
the hills in the distance looked hazy, and all was
quietly lovely, though the golden glories and flaming
scarlet of our woods were not there; and where
now softly budding trees, spring air and spring
sounds, anemones and crocuses, and forget-me-nots
and Maiglöckchen, tempt one to long days of aimless,
happy wandering. On one road, the new one
by a waterfall, is the Burgher Allee, where once
the burghers came out to welcome a prince or a
duke returning from a wedding or a war, and stood
man by man where now a line of pines, planted or
set out in remembrance, commemorates the event.
If exception is taken to the uncertain style of this
narration, may I add that positiveness is not desirable
in a story for the truth of which there are no
vouchers? The idea of a prince welcomed home
from the wars is to me more impressive; but choice
in such matters is quite free.

You can go to the Solitude, if you please,
through the Royal Game Park, a pretty, quiet spot,
where a broad carriage-road winds along among
noble oaks and beeches, and through the trees
peep the great, soft eyes of animals who are
neither tame nor wild, and who seem to know
that they belong to royalty and may stare at
passers-by with impunity. A superb stag stood
near the drive, gave us a lordly glance, turned
slowly, and walked with majestic composure away.
We did not interest him, but it did not occur to
him to hurry in the least on our account. We
felt that we were inferior beings, and were mortified
that we had no antlers, that we might hold
up our heads before him. Two little lakes, the
Bärensee and Pfaffensee,—the latter thick with
great reeds and rushes, and haunted by a peculiar
stillness,—invite you to lie on the soft turf, see
visions, and dream dreams. A small hunting-pavilion
stands on terraces by the Bärensee, with
guardian bears in stone before it, and antlers
and other trophies of the chase ornamenting it
within and without. It was erected in 1782, at
the time of a famous hunt in honor of the Grand
Duke Paul of Russia, afterwards emperor, who
married Sophie of Würtemberg, niece of Carl
Eugen. From all hunting-districts of the land a
noble army of stags was driven towards these
woods, encircled night and day by peasants to prevent
the animals from breaking through. The
stags were driven up a steep ascent, then forced to
plunge into the Bärensee, where they could be shot
with ease by the assembled hunters in the pavilion.
Seeing the pretty creatures now fearlessly wandering
in the sweet stillness of the park, and picturing
in contrast that scene of destruction and
butchery, it seems a pity that the grand gentlemen
of old had to take their pleasure like brutes and
pagans.

The Solitude is not far from here. Built first
for a hunting-lodge between 1763 and 1767, it was
gradually improved, enlarged, and beautified, grew
into a pleasure palace, had its time of brilliant
life and of decay; and now, renovated by the
king's command, is a place where people go for
the walk and the view, and where in summer a
few visitors live quietly in pure air, and drink
milk, it being a *Cur-Anstalt*. The adjacent buildings
were used as a hospital during the late war.
The Solitude is not in itself an interesting structure;
it is in rococo style, having a large oval hall
with a high dome, adjoining pavilions, and it looks
white and gold, and bare and cold, and disappointing
to most people. There is nothing especial to
see,—a little fresco, a little old china, some immensely
rich tapestry, white satin embroidered
with gold, adorning one of those pompous, impossible
beds, in which it seems as if nobody could ever
have slept. But there is enough to feel, as there
must always be in places where the damp atmosphere
is laden with secrets a century old, and
the walls whisper strange things. There are narrow,
triangular cabinets and boudoirs with nothing
at all in them, which, however, make you feel that
you will presently stumble upon something amazing.
All of Bluebeard's wives hanging in a row
would hardly surprise one here. The place is full,
in spite of its emptiness. It seems scarcely fitting
that the many mirrors should reflect a little band
of tourists in travelling suits and with umbrellas,
instead of stately dames and cavaliers affecting
French manners and French morals, and gleaming
in satin and jewels beneath the glass chandeliers.
There is a walk, always cool even in the hottest
summer days, where in a double alley of superb
pines the company used to seek shade and rest,
and the fair ladies paced slowly up and down in
their long trains, and fluttered their fans and heard
airy nothings whispered in their ears. Wooded
slopes rise high around, and this walk, deep down
in a narrow valley, being quite invisible from the
ordinary paths, is called the Underground Way.
The breath of the old days is here especially subtle
and suggestive.

The map of the place, as it was, tells of orangeries,
pleasure pavilions, rose and laurel gardens,
labyrinths, artificial lakes and islands, and many
things of whose magnificence few traces remain.
The common-looking buildings, formerly dwellings
of the cavaliers in attendance, stand in a row;
there are a few small houses with queer roofs;
the Schloss itself stands on its height in the
centre of an open space, fine old woods around,
and an unusually extended view, from its cupola,
of a broad, peaceful plain, a village or two, the
Suabian Alb to the south; a straight, white-looking
road intersects the meadows and woods, and
leads to Ludwigsburg. This road was made by
Carl Eugen, to avoid passing through Stuttgart,
his choleric highness having had a grudge against
the city at that time,—and indeed it has a spiteful
air, with its utter disregard of hills and valleys,
going straight as an arrow flies, never turning out
for obstructions any more than the haughty duke
would have turned aside for a subject. Fabulous
stories are told of the speed with which his horse's
hoofs used to clatter over this turnpike, and the
incredibly short time in which, by frequently
changing horses, he would arrive at his destination.

The romantic story of Francisca von Hohenheim
and many interesting facts in Schiller's early life,
during his attendance at the Carlsschule, a famous
military academy, instituted by, and under the patronage
of, Carl Eugen, are inevitably interwoven
in any history of the Solitude; but both need more
time than can be given at the close of so hasty a
sketch. And indeed, from almost any point that
might be taken here, threads wind off into a mass
of stories and traditions far too wide-reaching to
be more than hinted at when one is only making a
little *Ausflug* and carelessly following one's will on
a fair April day.


[pg!63]


A DAY IN THE BLACK FOREST.
==========================

.. epigraph::

   | “Zu Hirsau in den Trümmern
   | Da wiegt ein Ulmenbaum
   | Frischgrünend seine Krone
   | Hoch überm Giebelsaum.”
   |
   |   —:small-caps:`Uhland.`


One of the loveliest spots in all Würtemberg
is Hirsau. It lies deep down in a
valley on the Nagold, over which is a
pretty stone bridge. High around rise
the noble pines of the Black Forest, whose impenetrable
gloom contrasts with the tender green
of spring meadows basking in the sunshine, and
makes, with the fringe of elms and birches and
willows along the banks of the stream, a most
magical effect of light and shade.

Blessings on the one of us who first said, “Let
us see the old cloister at Hirsau!” An ideal spring
day, a particularly well-chosen few, a trip by rail
to Alt-Hengstett, then a long, lovely tramp over
the moss carpet of the Black Forest, inhaling the
sweet breath of the pines, finding each moment a
more exquisite flower, catching bewitching glimpses
between the trees of silver streams hurrying
along far down below us,—this is what it was
like; but the softness, the sweetness, the exhilaration
of it all is not easy to indicate. The name
itself, “Black Forest,” sounds immensely gloomy
and mysterious. Goblins and witches and shrieks
and moans and pitfalls and all uncanny weird
things haunted the Black Forest of which we used
to read years ago. And what does it mean to us
now? Magnificent old woods, paths that beckon
and smile, softly whispering, swaying tree-tops,
turf like velvet, sunlight playing fitfully among
the stately pines, seeking entrance where it may,
and air that must bring eternal youth in its caresses.
It means forgetfulness of trammels and
all sordid, petty things, and being in tune with
the harmonies of nature. It means freedom and
peace; a “temple,” indeed, with the pines continually
breathing their sweet incense and singing
their sacred chants. There were in our party a
professor or two, more than one poet,—indeed, it
is said every other man in Suabia is a poet,—and
a world-renowned art scholar and critic. They
shook the dust of every-day life from their feet,
and were happy as boys; one of them lay among
the daisies, smiling like a child with the pure delight
of living in such air and amid such peaceful
beauty.

At the little *Gasthaus* in Hirsau, with the sign
of the swan, we refreshed ourselves after our
tramp. It is remarkable that poets, like clergymen,
must also eat. After a few merry, graceful toasts
and cooling draughts of the pleasant *Landwein*, we
went to the cloister ruins. The work of excavation
is still going on, much that we saw being but
recently brought to the light. There were a few
massive old walls at wide distances apart; the
pavement of the aisles quite grass-grown between
the low, broad, gray stones; fair fields of tall grass
bright with daisies and buttercups, and starry
white flowers,—a fascinating mass of variegated
brightness, catching the sunshine and swaying in
the breeze; a row of fine old Gothic windows; a
tower in the Romanisch style of the twelfth century,
which we, I believe, call Norman; a deep
cellar where the monks of old stored their wines.
Up a flight of stairs is a great bare room, where
against the walls stand heavy wooden cases with
carved borders, and in the ceiling is the same
quaint carving slightly raised on a darker ground.

The whole effect of the ruins conveys the idea
of immense size. The church was, indeed, the
largest in Germany except the cathedral at Ulm.
It is here an unusually lovely, peaceful scene. The
cloister ruins would be, anywhere, picturesque and
interesting in themselves; lying as they do above
the village, framed by the beautiful Schwarzwald,
they form a picture not easily forgotten. No far-extending
view, nothing grand or imposing, only
the exquisite, peaceful picture shut in by the dark-green
hills; quaint homes nestling among rosy
apple-blossoms; the great gray stone Brünnen,
where for years and years maidens have come to fill
their buckets and chat in the twilight after the
day's work is done; the Nagold, silver in the sunlight;
the cloister, with its old-time traditions,—all
so very, very far from the madding crowd.

And the sweet legend of the origin of the cloister
should be sung or spoken as one sees the picture:
How there was, in the year 645, a rich,
pious widow, a relative of the knight of Calb,
named Helizena, who was childless, and who had
but one wish, namely, to devote herself to the service
of God. She constantly prayed that God
would open to her a way acceptable in his sight.
Once in a dream she saw in the clouds a church,
and below in a lovely valley three beautiful fir-trees
growing from one stem; and from the clouds
issued a voice telling her that her prayer was heard,
and that wherever she should find the plain with
the three fir-trees she was to erect a church, the
counterpart of that which she saw in the clouds.
Awaking, the good Helizena, with holy joy and
deep humility, took a maid and two pages and
ascended a mountain from whose summit she
could see all the surrounding country, and presently
espied the quiet plain and the three firs
of her dream. Hurrying to the spot, weeping
for joy, she laid her silken raiment and jewels
at the foot of the tree, to signify that from that
moment she consecrated herself and all she possessed
to the work. In three years the beautiful
cloud-church stood in stone in the fair valley,
and afterwards, in 838, a cloister was erected
with the aid of Count Erlafried of Calb. Under
Abbot Wilhelm, in 1080, it was at the height
of its prosperity, and was the model of peace
and goodly living among all the other Benedictine
monasteries. The abbot gathered so many monks
about him that the cloister at last grew too narrow,
and he resolved to build a more spacious one.
This was indeed a labor of love, and the work was
done entirely by his own people, his monks and
laity. Noble lords and ladies helped to bring wood
and stone and prepared mortar in friendly intercourse
with peasants, their wives and daughters,—such
zeal and Christian love did the abbot instil
into the hearts of his flock. It is the ruins of this
cloister which we see to day.

An old German chronicle represents the place as
little less than an earthly paradise:—

    “There was here a band of two hundred and sixty, full
    of love for God and one another. No discussion could
    be found there, no discontented faces. Everything was
    in common. No one had the smallest thing for himself;
    indeed, no one called anything his own. Each went
    about his work in sweet content; of disobedience no
    one even knew. Not only was there no rebuke and
    angry word, but also no idle, frivolous, mirth-provoking
    talk. Among this great mass of men within the
    cloister walls could be heard only the voices of the singers
    and of them who knelt in prayer, and the sounds
    that came from the busy workrooms.”

These monks used to write much about music
and poetry, and many learned, strong men were
gathered there. The cloister was full of pictures,
and the *Kreuzgang* had forty richly painted windows,
with biblical scenes. A story is told of an
old monk, Adelhard, who was twenty-three years
blind, and received in his latter days the gift of
second-sight. He foretold the day and hour of his
death three years before it occurred, and also the
destruction of the monastery.

As Körner's poem says:—

    “In the cells and apartments sit fifty brothers writing
    many books, spiritual, secular, in many languages,—sermons,
    histories, songs, all painted in rich colors.

    “In the last cell towards the north sits a white-haired
    old man, leans his brow upon his hand, and
    writes, ‘The enemy's hordes will break in, in seven
    years, and the cloister walls will be in flames.’”

Whether the old gray monk was ever there or
not, at least we know that the French, in 1692,
destroyed the beautiful cloister, and its paintings
and carvings and works of art were all lost, except
some of the stained glass, a few of its painted
windows being at Monrepos, near Ludwigsburg.

The famous Hirsau elm, about which half the
German poets have sung, is the most significant,
touching, poetical thing imaginable. You feel its
whole life-story in an instant, as if you had watched
its growth through the long years; how the
young thing found itself, it knew not why, springing
up in the damp cloister earth, surrounded by
four tall, cold, gray walls, above which indeed was
a glimpse of heaven; how it shot up and up, ever
higher and higher, with the craving of all living
things for sunlight and free air, never putting
forth leaf or twig until it had attained its hope
and could rest. Within the high walls is only the
strong, tall, bare trunk, and far above, free and
triumphant, the noble crown of foliage.

Brave, beautiful elm, that dared to grow, imprisoned
in cruel stone; that did not faint and die
before it reached the longed-for warmth and light
and sweetness!


[pg!69]


THE LENNINGER THAL.
===================


Pilgrims were we recently, making a
day's journey, not to gaze upon bones,
rusty relics, and mouldy garments, but
to see something fresh, fair, and altogether
adorable,—the cherry-trees of the Lenninger
Thal in full blossom. From Stuttgart we
went by rail to Kirchheim unter Teck, a railway
terminus, where we were shown the palace occupied
by Franciska von Hohenheim after the death
of Herzog Carl, and a Denkmal erected to Conrad
Widerhold, that brave and very obstinate German
hero who held the famous Hohentwiel fortress
against the enemy, when even his own duke,
Eberhard III., had ordered him to surrender it.
Widerhold and his wife stand side by side, and you
must look twice before you can tell which is the
warrior. Kirchheim lies prettily in the Lauter
Thal among the mountains. From there in an
open carriage we drove on into the charming Lenninger
Valley, one of the most beautiful in the
Alb, with the whole landscape smiling benignly
beneath a wonderful sky, and air deliciously pure
and soft; past little brooks where the young, tender
willows were beginning to leave out, through
the little village of Dettingen, on and on over the
broad *chaussée*, until we were fairly among the
cherry-orchards. Bordering the road, running far
back on the hill-slopes, shadowy, feathery, exquisite,
the snowy blossoms lay before our eyes, with
the range of the Suabian Alb beyond, and many a
peak and ruin old in story. This was the fresh
morning of a perfect spring day, where the peace
and loveliness of the scene—the fields of pure
whiteness reaching out on both sides of us, with
now and then a dash of pink from the rosy apple-blossoms—made
us feel that a special blessing had
fallen upon us as devotees at the shrine of Ceres.
At evening, returning by another route, with the
varying lights and golden bars and heavy, piled-up
purple cloud-masses in the western sky, it was
lovely with yet another loveliness. The same
mountains showed us other outlines and assumed
new expressions, and bold, proud Teck rose from
the foam of blossoms at its feet, like a stern rock
towering above surging waters.

One of our experiences that day was becoming
acquainted with Owen. Owen is not a man, as
you may imagine, but only a very little village
with crooked streets and queer old women, and
that curious aspect to all its belongings which
never grows less curious to some of us, though we
ought to have become unmindful of it long ago.
Owen is picturesque and dirty. “Ours at home
aren't half so dirty or half so nice,” we endeavor
to explain to our German friends.

At the inn where we drew up we were received
by an admiring group of children,—three yellow
heads rising above three great armfuls of wood, of
the weight of which the little things seemed utterly
unconscious in the excitement of seeing us. They
stood, one above the other, on the dilapidated,
crazy stone steps, while a bushy dog, whose hair
looked as yellow and sun-faded as the children's,
also made “great eyes” at us from the lowest
stone. Out came mine host, and cleared away
children and dog and woodpiles in a twinkling.
This flattering reception occurred at the Krone.
A large gilt crown adorned with what small boys
at home call “chiney alleys” makes a fine appearance
above these same tumble-down steps; and
directly beside them is a great barn-door, so near
that you might easily mistake one entrance for the
other and wander in among the beasties; and
benign Mistress Cow was serenely chewing her
cud in her boudoir under the front stairs, we observed
as we entered the house.

Let no one faint when I say we ate our dinner
here. Indeed, we have eaten in much worse places,
and the dinner was far better than we thought
could be evolved from a house with so many
idiosyncrasies, so very prominent barn-door qualities,
such mooings and lowings in undreamed-of
corners and at unexpected moments. However, we
experienced an immense lightening of the spirits
when trout were served, for it seemed as if we
knew what this dish at least was made of. They
were pretty silvery things with red spots, and had
just been gleaming in the brook near by, beneath
elms and birches and baby willows, and now they
were butchered to make our holiday.

The little restored Gothic church at Owen is
more than a thousand years old, and its walled
Kirchhof recalls the times when the villagers with
their wives and children sought refuge here from
the descent of robber knights. The dukes of
Teck are buried within the church, and their
arms and those of other old families, with quaint
inscriptions about noble and virtuous dames, are
interesting to decipher. The prettiest thing in
the church was a spray of ivy which had crept
through a hole in the high small-paned window,
completely ivy-covered without, and came seeking
something within the still stone walls, reaching
out with all its tendrils, and seemed like the little,
adventurous bird that flutters in through a church
window on a hot summer afternoon, and makes a
sleepy congregation open its heavy eyes.

The altar-pictures are edifying works of art.
Behind the little group in the “Descent from the
Cross” rise a range of hills that look astonishingly
like the Suabian Alb, with a genuine old German
fortress perching on a prominent peak. Saint
Lucia is also an agreeable object of contemplation,
with a sword piercing her throat up to the hilt,
the blade coming through finely on the other side,
while her mildly folded hands, smirking of superior
virtue and perfect complacency, make her as winning
as a saint of her kind can be.

Beyond Owen is the Wielandstein, or a Wielandstein
I should perhaps say, for Wielandsteins
are as common in Germany as lovers' leaps in
America; and the story is always how the cruel
king murdered the wife and children of Wieland
the smith and took him captive, granting him his
life merely because of his skill in fashioning wonderful
things from metals, but imprisoning him
and maiming his feet that he might never escape.
Wieland lived some time at court, and grew in
favor with the king on account of his deft hands
and clever designs. At length the king's young
sons were missing and could not be found, though
they were searched for many days, and the king
was anxious and sorrowful. Then Wieland presented
him with two beautiful golden cups, at the
sight of which the king was so pleased that he
gave a feast; and as he was drinking from the
golden bowls and feasting with his nobles, Wieland
flew away by means of two great golden wings he
had for a long time been secretly fashioning, and,
poising himself in mid-air, cried to the horrified
king that he was drinking from the skulls of his
sons, whom he, Wieland, had murdered out of revenge.
The people shot many arrows after him,
but he soared away unharmed, his golden wings
gleaming in the sunlight until he disappeared behind
the hills.

The ruin of the old Teck castle is in this neighborhood,
and the *Sybillen Loch*, a grotto where a
celebrated witch used to dwell, who differed from
her species in general, inasmuch as she was a *good*
witch. The old chronicles say she was an exemplary
person, always delighting in good deeds.
Her sons, however, were bad, quarrelled, stole from
the world and one another, and even, upon one
occasion, from her, and then ran away. Sybilla in
her fiery chariot went in pursuit, and to this day a
fair, bright stripe over orchard, field, and vineyard,
always fresher and greener than the surrounding
country, marks her course. How a fiery chariot
could produce this beautifying effect is not to be
questioned by an humble individual whose home is
in a land where ruined castles and legend upon
legend *do not* rise from every hill-top. Another
story is that the fertile stripe was made by Sybilla's
chariot-wheels, as she left forever the family to
which she had always belonged. The last duke of
Teck lay after a battle resting under a tree, and saw
her passing with averted face, his arms lying at her
feet, while she extended a stranger's in her hands,
which signified ruin to his house; and the prophecy
was fulfilled, for the duke outlived his twelve sons,
and his arms and title were adopted by the counts
of Würtemberg, who then became dukes of Würtemberg
and Teck. All these interesting things
are visible to the naked eye. The fresh green
stripe is unmistakable; and the point in the air
where Wieland hovered on his golden wings above
the cliff can easily be discerned with a very little
imagination.

A visit to a typical Suabian pastor, in another
little village on this road, was a pleasant episode.
A hale, handsome old gentleman of seventy, with
a small black cap on his silvery locks and an inveterate
habit of quoting Greek, looking at us with
a simple, childlike air, as if we too were learned.
His house has stone floors, low square rooms, severely
simple in their appointments. The arms of
a bishop of some remote century are on the inner
wall by the front entrance, and a little farther on
is an aperture, through which the cow of the olden
time was wont to placidly gaze out upon hurrying
retainers. The cow of that period seems to have
had comfortable apartments in the middle of the
house. The Suabian cow of the present time
earns her hay by the sweat of her brow, toiling in
the fields.

The good old pastor has a love amounting to
adoration for his garden, every inch of which he
has worked over and beautified, till it seems to be
the expression of all the poetry and romance which
the outward conditions of his frugal, rigid life repress.
Full of nooks and arbors, comfortable low
chairs and benches, where the blue forget-me-nots
look as if they bloom indeed for happy lovers; trees
whose great drooping branches close around retreats
which can only be designed for tender *tête-à-têtes*;
irregular little paths, wandering up and down
and about, always ending in something delightful,
always beckoning, inviting, smiling, amid flowers
and foliage so fresh and luxuriant, you feel that
every petal and leaf is known and loved by the
white-haired old man. His favorite seat is at the
end of a narrow, winding way at the foot of a magnificent
elm. There he sits and looks, over the
brook that sings to his sweet roses and pansies,
upon broad meadow-lands and fields of grain extending
to the Suabian hills, with their wealth
of beauty and meaning and tradition. He sleeps
and rests and thinks there after dinner, he tells
us, and perhaps that is all; but I believe, when
the old man is gone, a volume of manuscript
poems will be discovered hidden away among his
sermons and Greek tomes,—a volume of love
poems, sonnets, dreamings of all that his life
crowds out into his garden, and that only in his
garden he has been able to express,—all the unspoken
sweetness, all the unsung songs.


[pg!77]


FRANCISKA VON HOHENHEIM.
========================


Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Paracelsus
Bombastus is a personage whom
we know, it must be confessed, more
through the medium of Robert Browning
than through our own historical researches;
and we were therefore filled with wonder to learn
that, in addition to the modest cognomen above, *de
Hohenheim* also belonged to his name. This same
Hohenheim we have recently visited. Paracelsus
never lived there, to be sure, and was born far away
in Switzerland. Browning puts him in Würzburg,
in Alsatia, in Constantinople; and a solid German
authority declares he lived in Esslingen, where
his laboratory is still exhibited, and in proof mentions
that in this neighborhood was, not many
years ago, a Weingärtner whose name was Bombastes
von Hohenheim, a descendant of Paracelsus.
However, he lived nowhere, everywhere, and anywhere,
I presume, as best suited such a conjurer,
alchemist, philosopher, and adventurer, and went
wandering about from land to land, remaining in
one place so long as the people would have faith
in his learning, his incantations and magic arts;
but what concerns us now is simply that he was
connected with the Hohenheim family, who, in the
old days, occupied the estate which still bears its
name.

To Hohenheim is a pleasant walk or drive, as
you please, from Stuttgart. A castle, adjacent
buildings, lawns, and fruit-trees are what there is
to see at the first glance,—at the second, many
practical things in the museum connected with
the Agricultural College, which is what Hohenheim
at present is; models, and collections of
stones and birds and beasts, bones and skeletons,
and other uncanny objects, pretty woods, grain,
seeds, etc. Students from the ends of the earth
come here, and from all ranks,—sons of rich peasants
and also young men of family. An Hungarian
count is here at present, and youths from
Wallachia, Russia, Sweden, America, Australia,
Spain, Italy, and Greece,—China too, for all I
know to the contrary,—with of course many Germans,
learning practical and theoretical farming.
We sat under the pear-trees which were showering
white blossoms around us, ate our supper to fortify
us for our homeward walk, watched the sheep
come home and the students walking in from the
fields with their oxen-carts. They wore blue
blouses and high boots, and cracked their long
whips with a jaunty air, more like Plunket in
“Martha” than veritable farmers. From the balcony
opening from the largest *salon* we looked
upon pretty woods, and the whole chain of the Suabian
Alb, with Lichtenstein, Achalm, and other
points of interest to be studied through a telescope.

This is, then, what Hohenheim now is,—a place
where you go and look about a little, walk through
large empty halls and long corridors affording
glimpses of the simple quarters of the students,
see a pleasant landscape, and, in short, enjoy an
hour of unquestionably temperate pleasure. What
it was as the seat of the Hohenheim family, which
is mentioned as early as the year 1100, we do not
know; but under Duke Carl Eugen of Würtemberg,
in the last century, it was a sort of Versailles,
if all accounts be true: magnificent parks
and gardens, Roman ruins near Gothic towers and
chapels, Egyptian pyramids and Swiss châlets,
catacombs, artificial waterfalls, baths, hothouses,
grottos with Corinthian pillars, a Flora temple
with lovely arabesques on its silver walls, and the
palace itself, rising proud and stately at the end of
the park, furnished with every luxury, and filled
with rare vases and pictures. Four colossal statues
stand now in one of the halls, arrayed in garments
which, in that freer time, they certainly could not
boast. The raiment is of cloth, dipped, stiffened
so that it resembles marble, unless you examine
it too closely. No doubt it is more agreeable that
those huge figures are somewhat clothed upon, but
it does seem too absurd to think of ordering a new
coat for “Apollo” when his old one gets shabby.
Making minute investigations, we discovered he
had already had several, wearing the last one outside
of the others, as if to protect himself from
the inclemency of the weather.

All the old magnificence was lavished by Herzog
Carl upon Franciska von Hohenheim,—his
“Franzel,” as he called her in the soft Suabisch,—whose
most romantic story is, *par excellence*, the
thing of interest here, and the Suabians must love
it, they tell it so very often.

From many narratives I gather the life-story of
a woman who, in spite of the stain upon her name,
is deeply revered in Würtemberg for her strong,
sweet influence upon its wild duke, for her wisdom
and gentleness, and the good that through her
came upon the realm.

She was a daughter of the Freiherr von Bernardin,
a noble of ancient family and limited income.
Franciska lived far removed from the gayety of
courts, of which she and her sisters in their castle
near Aalen rarely heard. When she was scarcely
sixteen her father gave her hand to a Freiherr von
Leutrum, a fussy, stuffy old man, who wrapped
himself in furs even in summer, and was so conspicuously
ugly the boys in the street would mock
at him when he stood at his window. His great
head, on a broad, humped back, scarcely reached
the sill.

In addition, a small intellect, hot temper, and
suspicious nature made him yet more of a monster;
but Franciska was poor, and it appears it
was considered then, as it would be now, a good
match, as Von Leutrum was of an old family and
rich. Whether the historians paint him blacker
than he deserves in order to make Franciska white
in contrast, is not easy to say. It certainly has
that effect occasionally, however. Beauty, then,
married the Beast. In 1770 Herzog Carl Eugen
came to Pforzheim, where the nobles of the neighborhood,
among them Baron von Leutrum, with
his young wife, assembled to form his court.

Franciska was no famous beauty. She had,
however, a tall, graceful figure, rich blond hair,
and was very winning with her fresh, joyful ways,
and a certain indescribable sweetness and gentleness
of manner. The duke, from the first, singled
her out by marked attention, which undoubtedly
flattered her, coming from so famous, clever, and
fascinating a man; and it is also probable that she
made no especial effort to repulse the homage in
which she could see no harm. He was then forty-two,—a
man of stately beauty, one of the most
renowned European princes of that time, with a
strong and highly cultivated intellect, and of most
winning manners where he cared to please. It
also appears he could be a bear, a savage, and a
tyrant when he willed.

It was, then, scarcely surprising that a girl married
at sixteen to a fossil like Leutrum, who neglected
and abused her, should be bewildered by
the distinguished attention offered by her prince.
Meanwhile Leutrum waxed more and more jealous,
until one day in a rage, on account of remarks of
the courtiers, he struck his wife in the face.

The duke, furious at this, insisted upon taking
Franciska under his protection. But she, though
agonized with fear and abhorrence of her husband,
yet knowing too well her feeling for the duke, chose
to leave the court at once and return with Leutrum
to their castle.

Carl Eugen, never scrupulous as to means when
he had anything to gain, caused a wheel of Leutrum's
coach to be put into a state of precarious
weakness, so that, going through some woods not
far from Pforzheim, the carriage broke down, when
the duke appeared, rode off with the trembling,
miserable, happy Franciska, leaving Von Leutrum
alone with his broken carriage and his rage.

The duke had been married for political reasons
at eighteen to a princess of Bavaria, with whom
he had lived but a year or two, their natures being
strongly incompatible. He, however, a Roman
Catholic, could not free himself from his first
marriage until the death of his wife released him
in 1784, when he married Franciska.

The remarkable thing in her history is, that the
voice of no contemporary is raised against her.
Noble ladies of unblemished name visited her as
“Gräfin von Hohenheim,” and all testimony unites
in praising her wisdom, sweetness, and grace, and
her almost miraculous influence for good upon the
duke.

“He found in her womanly grace and devoted
love, the deepest appreciation of the beautiful and
good, exquisite taste and tact, a strong, warm interest
in his career and calling, wise counsel given
in her soft, womanly words, and a heart for his
people.

“In love and sorrow, in matters earnest and
light, in his difficult affairs of state, in enjoyment
of the beautiful in art and nature, she was ever
by his side, filled with perfect appreciation of all
that moved him.”

She taught him gradually his duty towards his
folk, which the wild, haughty duke had sadly ignored,
and she, herself, was always loved and
revered by them.

She was graceful and sparkling in society, not
wearing her sorrows upon her sleeve, but in her
private life and letters are marks of lifelong grief.

“If I could tell you my whole story,” she writes
to a friend in 1783, “if you could know the solemnity
and repentance with which I look back
upon it, you would withhold from me neither your
pity nor your prayers.... Had I had in my
sixteenth year, when, utterly inexperienced, I entered
society with not the slightest knowledge of
the world, left entirely to myself, surrounded by
scenes whose meaning I could not grasp,—had I
then had one true friend to warn me, to advise
me; had his reason, his heart, his pureness of
deed, inspired my respect and trust, indeed—indeed—I
might have been a better woman.”

Later, after a delightful evening at the Princess
of Dessau's, where Lavater also was, she wrote:—

“I was inexpressibly moved by your assurance
that you thought of me in this circle. Could I
have felt worthier of such society, the pleasure
would undoubtedly have been more unalloyed.
But, as it was—Still I must not complain.”

Such, briefly, is her story. She lived with the
duke at the Solitude as well as here, and Hohenheim
he made for her as beautiful as a fairy palace.
He troubled neither her nor himself with scruples.
His conscience was, indeed, not tender, and his life
with her was unquestionably so innocent and
idyllic in comparison with his mad past, that, to
him at least, it no doubt seemed blameless. He
loved her faithfully till his death, wrote to her
when absent for a day or two as his good angel,
with utter reverence as well as tenderest love.
The proud respected her; the poorest and humblest
came to her with their wants and sorrows.

She died in 1811 in her small, quiet court at
Kirchheim unter Teck, where she had resided after
the death of the duke; but her story and the remembrance
of her eventful life will always haunt
quiet Hohenheim, and invest it with a romance it
cannot otherwise claim for itself.


[pg!85]


“NUREMBERG THE ANCIENT.”
========================


The breeze of morning stole in and kissed
our cheeks and whispered, “You have
a day and a half to spend in dear,
delicious old Nuremberg,—be up and
doing!” Only a day and a half, and yet how infinitely
better than no day at all there! We
came, we saw, and were conquered, even by the
huge knockers with bronze wreaths of Cupids and
dragons' heads, the ornate, intricate locks, the
massive doors, before we were within the portals
of those proud patrician palaces with their stately
inner courts and galleries, their frescos, painted
windows and faded tapestries, time-stained grandeur,
and all their relics of mediæval magnificence.

O, we stretched our day and a half well, and
filled it full of treasures, and our hearts with
lovely thoughts and pictures of the unique old
town, its high quaint gables, stone balconies, beautiful
fountains, double line of walls, and seventy
sentinel towers; its castle and wide moat, where
now great trees grow and prim little gardens; its
arched bridges and streams, with shadows of the
drooping foliage on the banks; its oriel windows;
its narrow, shady ways and odd corners; its memories
of Albrecht Dürer and Hans Sachs, of Kaiser
and knight and Meistersinger,—its Nurembergishness!

The St. Lorenz Church was our first halting-place.
The whole world knows that its portal and
painted windows are beautiful, and that it retains
all the rich old objects of the Roman ritual; that
being the condition under which Nuremberg
pranced over in a twinkling to Protestantism, and
people were ordered by the municipal authorities
to believe to-day what they had disbelieved yesterday;
and most of the world, perhaps, has seen
the tabernacle for the vessels of the sacrament,
but they who have not can never know from words
how it rests on the bowed forms of its sculptor,
Adam Kraft, and his two pupils and assistants, and
rises like frozen spray sixty-four feet in the choir,
with the warm light from the painted windows
coloring its exquisite traceries and carvings. It
looks like a holy thought or a hymn of praise
caught in stone, aspiring heavenwards.

We saw there heavy gold chalices from old, old
times, and some Gobelin tapestry only recently
discovered hidden away; one scene represented
the weighing of the soul of St. Lawrence to see if
it were too light for heaven. The saint's soul had
a shape, in fact was an infant's body, and the Devil
was crouching near by, and St. Lawrence, full-grown,
stood waiting, anxious to know his fate.

Then came a few hours in the German Museum,
where, as usual in such places, the weary lagged
behind, the elegant looked *blasé*, the contrary-minded
saw the wrong thing first, the energetic
pushed valiantly on, striving to see all and remember
all, from earliest forms of sculpture down
through the ages,—all the gold and silver and
carvings and costumes, the immense square green
stoves, with the warm, cosy seat for the old grandmother
in the corner; to glance at rare old lace
without neglecting the ancient caps and combs and
gewgaws; to look long at a few of the pictures,—the
great one of Dürer's, “Otto at the Grave of
Charlemagne,” is here, you know,—and so our
straggling party wandered on through corridor
and chamber and staircase, past knights in effigy,
some of whom looked like such jolly old souls, with
gallons of wine beneath their breastplates, past a
memorial tablet to a baby prince who died dim
ages ago, to whom a small death-angel is offering
an apple; and then, after seeing the bear, who
guards a glass case of precious things in gold and
silver, lowered down to his domain every night,
and after sprinkling beer on his nose to see if he
were of German parentage, we gathered ourselves
together and wondered if we quite liked museums.
You see so much more than you can comprehend;
you see so much more than you want to see; you
feel so astoundingly ignorant; you have information
thrust upon you so ruthlessly. One wilful
maiden says, “I'll go and live on a desert island,
provided no one will show me an object of interest.”
Then in the shady cloisters we drank foaming
beer with our German friends, and gathered
strength for our next onslaught; and I beg no
one to be captious about the length and out-of-breath
character of this paragraph, for it is quite
in keeping with our Nuremberg visit, with worlds
to see in a little day and a half.

There was the old Rath Haus with the Dürer
frescos and the Dürer house and pictures, which
everybody mentions; and the rude, dark little den
of a kitchen, which nobody to my knowledge has
ever deigned to mention, where Mrs. Xantippe
Dürer used to rattle her sauce-pans and scold her
*Mann*. There was the Fraumkirche and St. Sebald,
rich in painted windows and sculpture. In one
room, so rich and dark with its oak wainscoting
and Gobelin tapestry, we involuntarily searched
behind the arras for Polonius, and then stared
silently and felt quite flippant before the antique
candelabra and Persian rugs and hopelessly indescribable
ever-to-be-coveted furniture within those
memory-laden walls. An antique, impressive writing-table
was a model of rich, quaint beauty.
Poems and romances would feel proud and pleased
to simply write themselves under its ægis, and
what a delicious aroma of the past would cling to
them!

We visited the castle, of course, and streams of
information about the Hohenzollerns were poured
upon us. We were wicked enough to enjoy ourselves
particularly among the instruments of torture,—exhibited
by the jolliest, fattest, most *debonair*
Mrs. Jarley in the world. She regaled us
with awful tales, that sounded worse than the
“Book of Martyrs,” and we were not disgusted,
neither did we faint or scream. There was a
lamentable want of feeling, and a marked inclination
to laugh prevailed in our party. Indeed, we
saw some sweet things there,—a hideous dragon's
head, worn by women who beat their husbands;
a kind of yoke in which two quarrelsome women
were harnessed; a huge collar, with a bell attached,
for gossips; and an openwork iron mask,
with a great protruding, rattling tongue, for inveterate
slanderers. We made liberal proposals
to our jolly show-woman for a few of these articles,
thinking we might be able to send them where
they were needed, and strongly inclined to favor
their readoption. An iron nose a foot long was
worn by thieves, and the article stolen hung on
the end of it.

It is grievous to think there will come a time
when people who visit Nuremberg will see no
walls and towers and moats. They are pulling
down the walls at present, for they are as inconvenient
as they are picturesque. Heavy teams
and people on foot seeking egress and ingress at
one time through the narrow passages in the massive
structure, the city cramped, its growth retarded,
dangerous accidents, as well as the most
reasonable grounds in a commercial point of view,
lead the wise to destroy something selfish tourists
would fain preserve intact. But “if I were king
of France, or, still better, pope of Rome,” or emperor
of Germany, I'd let the commerce go elsewhere
where there is room for it, and guard old
Nuremberg jealously as a precious, beautiful memorial
and heirloom from ancestors who have slept
for centuries.

The Johannes Cemetery here is the only lovely
one I have yet seen in Germany. It is not beautiful
in itself, as our cemeteries are; but the solemnity,
the dignity of death is here, and no gaudy
colors and tinsel wreaths jar upon your mood and
pain you. Only great flat, gray stones, tablets
with the arms in bronze of the old Nuremberg
patricians, tell us wanderers who lies beneath. It
was like a solemn poem to be there deciphering
the proud armorial bearings on the great blocks
placed there centuries ago, and the sweet-brier
blooming all around with such an unconscious air
on its pale pink blossoms, like fair young faces.
One of Columbus's crew lies there. So many old
names and dates!

We plucked a few leaves from Dürer's grave:—

   | “*Emigravit* is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies,
   | Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies;
   | Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,
   | That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air.”


[pg!91]

SOME WÜRTEMBERG TOWNS.
======================


The gardener gave it to the milkmaid and
the milkmaid gave it to the errand-boy,
the errand-boy gave it to the cook, who
gave it to the head-waiter, who sold it
to the individual who presented it to me. “It”
was a bunch of great, sweet, half-blown June
roses, that hung glowing on their stalks in their
native garden at dawn, and before noon had experienced
this life of change and adventure. It all
happened in Wasseralfingen, a little town, where
nothing else so momentous occurred during our
brief visit, because it was Sunday, but where
usually the celebrated iron-works make an immense
disturbance, and interest visitors of a practical
turn of mind. Our German friends bewailed
the absence of the noise of the machinery on our
account; believing that every American is born
with a passionate devotion to mechanics, which
increases through life, to the exclusion of a love of
the beautiful. Recently, after relating a romantic
story about a place on the Rhine, a German gentleman
concluded his tale of love and chivalry by
telling us that the Princess Somebody had established
a girls' school there,—“which will interest
you as Americans more than the story,” he added,
with perfect honesty and naïveté.

“And why?” we meekly ask.

“Because Americans are practical and like useful
things,” he responds cheerfully, with as thorough
a conviction as if he had said that two and
two made four.

We made no useless effort to induce him to believe
that the thought of sixty or eighty bread-and-butter
misses does not enhance for us the
charm of a tradition-haunted spot, nor did we
struggle to impress our friends' minds in Wasseralfingen
that its Sabbath stillness was more
agreeable to us than the stir and rush of the
works. There are some fixed ideas in the mind
of the average German which a potent hand ought
to seize and shake out. “Why don't you write
letters to Germans about America, instead of to
Americans about Germany?” suggests a clever
German friend. “They seem to be more needed.”
It might really be worth while if Teutonic tenacity
of opinion were not too huge a thing for a feeble
weapon to slay.

To return to our Wasseralfingen,—most curious
name!—it was pretty enough to look upon, as
indeed most places in Würtemberg are. It has
its nicely-laid-out little park or *Anlagen*, with a
statue in the middle of it; and this is what small
manufacturing towns at home are not apt to waste
much time upon, unfortunately for their children
and their children's children. An inn nestled
among the trees, with irregular wings and low,
broad roofs, and a very broad landlord, who looked
like a beer-mug, gave us comfortable shelter for a
night, and supper and breakfast in its garden,—supper
with lights and pipes and beer-bottles, and
cheerful conversation all around.

A short trip by rail brought us to Heidenheim,
past fields of waving grain and pretty hills, shadows
of great trees falling on velvety meadows, oats
rising and falling like billows in the morning breeze,
and scarlet seas of poppies. Never anywhere have
I seen such a glory of poppies! Miles of them
on both sides of the road, gleaming and glowing
as the sunlight kissed them.

And then Heidenheim, a pretty town given to
manufactures, to factories and mills, with the ruins
of its castle Hellenstein on the height, and its
memories reaching far back to Roman times.
Here lived knights who were princes of profligacy,
and gloried in their extravagance; who shod their
steeds with silver and gold, and flung jewels away
like water. One of them longed to have his whole
estate transformed into a strawberry, that he could
swallow it all in one instant. Of course this family
came to a bad end. It spent all its money,
and its castles got out of repair; the last of its
armor was sold for old iron, and the last of the
race died a pauper.

The ruins retain traces of Roman architecture
in the earliest walls, with various additions in
later times, and are not especially interesting upon
close acquaintance. The old well sunk deep in
the foundation of natural rock, where you pay ten
cents and see a woman drop a stone three hundred
and eighty-five feet, and wait breathlessly until
you hear the dull plash deep down in the darkness,
is their most exciting feature. The woman
offered to give us some water, but it requires a
whole hour to get it up, and we felt suspicious
of what might be lying in those uncanny depths.

On the shady side of the castle, with broad
reaches of fertile field and belts of wood lying before
our contented gaze, we listened to Volkslieder,
so old and sweet they carried our hearts back into
dim ages, and we strongly felt the tie that binds
us to the race where such strains have their birth.
Suddenly, as our singers ceased, a group of village
children sitting on a block of stone at a short distance
took up the refrain,—an irregular row of
flaxen heads against the light, their forms prominent
against the deep, peaceful background, singing
away with such zest we could only be silent
and listen. Song after song, in praise of their
loved land, they sang; all sweet, whether the
smallest ones could always keep in tune or not.
They told how Eberhard im Bart could lay his
head on the knee of his poorest peasant and sleep
in peace till morning broke, and many another
sweet, old story; and, keeping time with their
heads and making daisy-chains with their hands,
they shouted,—

   | “Beautiful Suabia is our *Heimath Land*!”

Truly you can forgive the Germans for a multitude
of sins when you hear how and what their
common people sing.


[pg!95]


IN A GARDEN.
============


A Garden by the water's edge,—a garden
where clematis and woodbine and
grape-vines run all over their trellises
and up the graceful young locust-trees
and down over the stone-wall to meet the water
plashing pleasantly below, and reach out everywhere
that vine-audacity can suggest in an utter
abandonment of luxuriance!—a garden where superb
blood-red roses are weighed down by a sense
of their own sweetness, and pure white ones look
tall and stately and cool and abstracted by their
side. At the right a point of land extends into
the lake, so thickly covered with trees that from
here it looks like a little forest, and the houses
are almost concealed in the fresh green; and the
trees look taller than anything except a funny old
building that was once a cloister, and is now the
royal castle, and has two queer, tall towers that
rise far above the tree-tops at the extremity of
the point. At the left, faint and shadowy in the
distance, rise the Alps, and the mountains of
Tyrol. There are bath-houses along the shore.
Small boys who think they “would be mermen
bold” are prancing about gayly in the water. On
a rocky beach, peasant-women in bright-colored
dresses are standing by tubs, dipping garments in
the lake and wringing them dry. Some of them
are kneeling. The sun is warm, and beats down
on their uncovered heads, and the work is hard,
and I don't suppose they have any idea they are
making a picture of themselves, on the rocky shore
with the background of trees. But everybody is a
picture this morning. There is a young man standing
in a row-boat, which an old fisherman lazily
propels here and there before my eyes. The youth
is really statuesque, balancing himself easily in
the dancing boat, strong, supple, graceful, his arm
extending the long fishing-rod. A rosebud of a
girl in a white morning-suit and jaunty sailor-hat
leans over the railing of a pavilion built out into
the lake from the garden, and also patiently holds
a fishing-rod, looking like a “London Society”
illustration, as she gazes intently with drooping
eyelashes into the water.

There are people reading, sketching, studying
their Baedeckers, drinking their coffee or beer, in
comfortable nooks through the pretty garden. All
is quiet and restful, with only the rippling of
the water and the shouts of the merry mermen to
break the stillness. Now doesn't it seem as if one
ought to write an exceptionally pleasant letter
from so pleasant a spot? But, alas! there is not
much to say about it when once you have tried to
tell how it looks,—that it is a calm, peaceful, pretty
place, where you could stay a whole summer and
lose all feverish desires to explore and climb and
see sights. To sit here in the garden, leaning on
the wall among the vines, is happiness enough.
In the morning early, the lake smiles at you and
talks to you, and you see far away great masses
of rose-color and pearl-gray, with snowy summits
gleaming in the sunshine, and your eyes are
blessed with their first view of the Alps. The
outline of the opposite shore is misty and many-colored,
and has also its noble heights. At sunset,
too, is the garden a dreamy, blissful spot, as the
little boats float about in the golden lights, and
the water and the mountains assume all possible
lovely hues, then sink away in a deep violet, and
the stars come out and German love-songs go up
to meet them.

Yes, it is a satisfying spot. If there's a serpent
here, he keeps himself wonderfully well concealed.
We haven't caught a glimpse of him, and we are
wise enough not to search for him. It's an admirable
place to be lazy, but it isn't very good
for letters. Things hinder so, you know. You
listen to the water, and your pencil forgets to go.
You get lost in contemplation of the flapping of
the ducks' feet, and make profound studies of
their mechanism, and enviously wish you had
something of the sort at your command, so that
you could sail about in the cool, clear water as
unconcerned as they, and with no more effort.
Funniest of ducks that they are!—so pampered
by the attention and bread-crumbs of summer
guests that their complacency exceeds even ordinary
duck self-satisfaction, and they act as if they
thought they were all swans.

It occurs to me somebody may feel a faint curiosity
to know where it all is. On the Lake of
Constance, or the Bodensee, which, if you want
useful information, is forty-two miles long, eight
miles wide, is fed principally by the Rhine, and
whose banks belong to five different States,—Bavaria,
Würtemberg, Baden, Switzerland, and
Austria; a sheet of water whose shores are green
and thickly wooded, where gay little steamers
run, constantly displaying the flags of their several
countries, between the principal places on the
lake, and wherever you go you have beautiful
mountain scenery. You see the Alps, the mountains
of Bavaria, the Baden hills, the Tyrol, and
you don't always know which is which; but they
pile themselves up grandly among the clouds, one
range behind the other, in a way that to the unaccustomed
vision does not exactly admit of labelling,
and you don't care what their names are.
You are content to feel their beauty, to wonder
and be silent.

This particular place on the lake is Friedrichshafen.
It is really a new place and a commercial
place,—and these adjectives are certainly not
attractive,—but then the newness is not conspicuous,
and the commerce, so far as we summer
birds of passage are concerned, almost invisible.

The king and queen of Würtemberg come here
every summer, and are here at present. The Emperor
of Germany and the Grand Duke of Baden
are on the Island of Mainau.

It may be a busy place, but it does not seem
so. Content and rest pervade the atmosphere.
Serenity is written on every face. It may be
many people would weary of its roses and the ripple
of the water; of its gardens, that look as if they
were growing directly out of the lake; of the blue,
hazy, changing mountains far away; of its perfect
quiet: but there are others who would love it well,
and who would not tire of it in many a long summer
day.


[pg!100]


LINDAU AND BREGENZ.
===================


Auf wiederschen, and not Lebewohl,
we said to pleasant Friedrichshafen, as
the little steamer left those kindly green
shores and we sailed away, not for a year
and a day, like the owl and the pussy cat in the
beautiful pea-green boat, but for an hour or so
only. There were many curious people to watch
on board, but the most monopolizing sight was two
Catholic priests devouring a chicken, or rather devouring
*chickens*. They had, on the seat between
them, a basket large enough for a flock of Hühnchen—boiled,
dissected, and only too tempting to
the priestly appetite—to repose in. And they had
the lake as a receptacle for the bones. What more
could they desire? If we could have suggested
anything it would have been—napkins, because it
was requiring too much work of their fingers to use
them as knives and forks, and then to wipe their
mouths on them. The zeal with which the holy
men tore the tender meat from the bones and
showered the remnants in the water, and particularly
the endurance they exhibited, made us hope
they evinced as much fervor and devotion in caring
for their human flocks.

To Lindau then we came, having, as we approached,
charming mountain scenery. The town
is on an island, connected with the mainland by an
embankment and railway bridge. It is a little
place, but very striking as you look at it from the
water, having a lofty monument (a statue in bronze
of Maximilian II.), a picturesque old Roman tower,
and, at the entrance of the harbor, a fine lighthouse,
and a great marble lion on a high pedestal,
guarding the little haven and his Bavarian
land. We remained part of a day here, having
before our eyes a beautiful picture,—the mountains
of Switzerland directly across the lake, narrow
at this point, with the lighthouse and the
proud, ever-watchful Bavarian lion rising, bold
and sentinel-like, in the foreground. You look
between these two over the placid water to the
heights beyond.

From Lindau we sailed to Bregenz, where the
lake and mountains have quite another expression.
It would be difficult to say which is the most
attractive place on the Bodensee. You feel “How
happy could I be with either, were t'other dear
charmer away,” and it is of course a question of
individual taste. One person prefers the mountains
near, another watches them lovingly from a
distance. One likes to live on low land by the
water's edge, and look up to the mountain-tops;
another perches himself high, and finds his happiness
in looking down upon the lake and off to other
heights. But the shores are lovely everywhere,
much frequented yet quiet, crowded with villas,
private cottages, hotels, yet secluded and restful
if one chooses.

Bregenz is a quiet place, a real country-place,
with mountain views and mountain excursions
without end. The common people have intelligent,
happy faces, pleasant, cheerful ways, quickness of
repartee, and civility. The women give you a
smiling “Grüss Gott.” The commonest man takes
off his hat as you pass, and if you go by a group
of rollicking school-boys every hat comes off courteously.

Gebhardsberg is the first place to which people
usually go from Bregenz. We went, as in duty
bound. It is a mountain—a castle—a pilgrimage
church—a view; and to say that one commands
a view of the entire lake, the valley of the
Bregenzer Ach and the Rhine, the Alps, the snow
mountains of Appenzel and Glarus, with mountains
covered with pine forests in the foreground, conveys
a very faint idea of the beauty before our eyes. In
the visitors' book in the tower were some German
rhymes, which, roughly translated, go somewhat in
this way:—

   | “Charming prospect, best of wine,
   | Be joyful, then, O heart of mine;
   | Farewell, thou lovely Gebhard's hill,
   | Thou Bodensee, so fair, so still.”

And more still about wine, for this is not the land
of the Woman's Crusade, it appears:—

   | “It makes you glad to drink good wine,
   | And praying makes life more divine.
   | If you would be both good and gay,
   | Pray well and drink well every day.”

Some one remarks,—

   | “What below was far from clear,
   | Is no less dark when we stand here.”

And a very enthusiastic person writes,—

   | “Here flies from us sorrow, here vanishes pain,
   | Here bloom in our hearts joy and freshness again.
   | Who can assure us, and how can we know,
   | That heaven is fairer than this scene below?”

In pages of such doggerel one finds comical
enough things; but exported, they may lose their
native flavor, so I will not give too many of them.

By making rather a long excursion from here
you can visit the birthplace of Angelica Kauffman.
We didn't go, but we felt very proud to
think we could if we wished, having lately read
“Miss Angel.”

There is a place in this neighborhood the name
of which I refuse to divulge, because, if I should
tell it and disclose its attractions, the next steamer
from America would certainly bring over too many
people to occupy it, and so ruin it. I shall keep it
for myself. But I will describe it, and awaken as
much longing and unrest and dissatisfaction with
American prices as I can. It isn't exactly a village,
but it is near a village. It has shady lanes
that wind about between hedges; houses that are
placed as if with the express purpose of talking
with one another,—only three or four houses, with
superb old trees hanging over them. There is
the nicest, brightest of *Fraus*,—who owns this
bit of land, the houses and the hedges and trees
close by the water's edge, a boat, a bath-house, and
a great dog,—a happy, prosperous widow, with a
daughter to help in household matters, and to go
briskly to market to the neighboring town. So
happy is she, one thinks involuntarily her *Mann*
was perhaps aggressive, and that to be free from
his presence may be to her a blessing from
Heaven. She lives in a house where the ceiling is
so low one must stoop going through the doors.
The windows and doors are all open. The tables
and chairs are scoured snowy white. She brings
you milk in tall glasses,—it is cream, pure and
simple. And then she takes you into the house
close by, with great airy chambers, and broad low
casements, under which the water ripples softly,
and she tells you, without apparently knowing
herself, one of the wonders of the age,—that she
will rent her four rooms in this detached house
for forty guldens a month, and serve four persons
from her own dwelling with fruit, meat, cream,
the best the land affords; and forty guldens are
about twenty dollars, gold. (This must not mislead
the unwary. There are places enough here
where you can spend quite as much as you do
at home.) We did not quite faint, but we were
very deeply moved. We did not even tell the
good woman that her terms were not exorbitant,
crafty, worldly creatures that we were. Here
was one spot unspoiled by the madding crowd.
We were not the ones to bring pomps, and vanities,
and high prices to it. So we choked down
our amazement, and hypocritically remarked it
was all very pleasant, and we thought perhaps
we might return. Return! Of course we shall return!
When all things else fail, and ducats are
painfully few, then will we flee to this friendly
abode, and live in a big room on the lovely lake,
so near, indeed, that we can almost fish from our
windows; have a boat to row, a bath-house at our
service; quarts, gallons of cream; and the Swiss
mountains before our eyes morning, noon, and
night; and all for five dollars a month. I am telling
the truth, but I do not expect to be believed. I
am tempted to write its name,—its pretty, friendly,
suggestive little name,—but I will not. It ends
in LE, it sounds like a caress, so much will I say;
perhaps so much is indiscreet. Don't waste your
time looking for it. You will never find it. We
only happened to drift there. It really is not
worth your while to search for it. It is quite secluded,
quite out of the way, a sleepy-hollow that
I am sure *you* would find dull.

There are many green, sweet nooks, many pretty
villages, many cleanly little cottages, many smiling,
broad-browed, clear-eyed women, on the shores
of the Lake of Constance; but our woman, our
cottage, our cream, our mountains, our *treasure*,
you will never, never find.


[pg!106]


THE VORARLBERG.
===============


I feel a deep and ever-increasing sympathy
with explorers of strange lands
whose narratives a harsh world pronounces
exaggerations. What if they
do say that the unknown animal which darts across
their path has five heads and seventeen legs?
There is a glamour over everything in an utterly
new place,—the very atmosphere is deceptive.
After a while, things assume their natural proportions,
but at first it seems as if one really did see
with one's own eyes all these redundant members.
Even here in the beaten track of travel, writing as
honestly as possible from my own point of view, I
feel like begging my friends to put no faith in anything
I say. The mountains in themselves are
intoxicating enough to turn one's head; but then
of course much depends upon the kind of head one
possesses. Recently, at sunset by a lake, we were
looking over the water at a mountain view,—soft,
wooded slopes near us, huge rocky masses beyond,
height upon height rising in hazy blue,
the snowy summits just touched by the Alpine
glow,—when some strangers approached. Berlin
has the honor of being their dwelling-place, we
ascertained afterwards.

“*Lieber Mann*,” said the lady, “just look at all
that snow!”

“Snow!” replied the *lieber Mann*, “snow in
summer! But that is impossible!”

“I think it must be snow,” said the wife, doubtfully.
Then, “But only see the beautiful mountains.”

“Hm, hm,” remarks the *lieber Mann*, regarding
them superciliously through his eye-glass; “I
can't say that they are particularly well-formed!”
Here, at least, is a head that is secure; no jocund
day on the misty mountain-tops, no broad, magnificent
ranges at high noon, and no twilight with
“mountains in shadow, forests asleep,” have power
to move that astute *Kopf* a fraction of an inch.
“They have better mountains in Berlin,” remarked
a German friend in an undertone.

Bludenz is a little town in the Vorarlberg, which
means, you know,—or you don't know,—the
country lying before the Adler or Arlberg, and the
Arlberg is the watershed between the Rhine and
Danube, and the boundary between the Vorarlberg
and the Tyrol. This sounds guide-bookish,—and
very naturally, as I have copied it word for word
from Baedecker,—but one must say something of
praiseworthy solidity once in a while. Bludenz is
a railway terminus, which fact may not interest
the world at large, but it did us hugely. We rejoiced
in the thought of the great post-wagon, the
cracking of whips and blowing of horns, and long,
delightful, breezy rides over the hills and far away.
Our after-experience of this lively whip-cracking
and horn-blowing has led us to the conclusion that
it is decidedly at its best in the opera, where the
Postilion of Lonjoumeau sings his pretty song and
cracks his whip for a gay refrain; and that it is all
very well, when you yourself are going off early in
the morning amid the prodigious noise and the excitement
of stowing away passengers and packages,
while a crowd of village loafers stand gazing and
gaping at you,—in short, when you are “in it,”
you know; but when it is only other people who
are going, only they for whom all the noise is
made and you are roused from your gentle slumbers
at half past four perhaps, you do not regard
the postilion and his accomplishments with unqualified
admiration.

You wish you had gone to the “Eagle,” or the
“Ox,” or the “Lamb,” or the “Swan,” or the
“Lion,” or to any other beast or bird, rather than
to the “Post,” where the “Post” omnibus and its
relations make your mornings miserable. These
are always the names of the inns in these little
towns. There is usually a “Crown” too, and
often an “Iron Cross.” But people with nerves
mustn't go to the “Post.” Our party left its
nerves in the city before starting off on a rough
tour, yet even we have suffered at various inns
which bear the names of “Post,” but which should
properly be called “Pandemonium.”

Our first postilion wore the regulation long-boots,
a postilion hat, and silver pansies in his
ears. He cracked his whip nobly,—as well as we
have heard Sontheim in the theatre at Stuttgart,
and that is no faint praise. He was the jolliest of
men, on the best of terms with all the dwellers
among the mountains. He stopped at every inn
and house where a glass of wine was to be had,
and I think I may say invariably drank it. All
the goodwives joked with him and smiled at him;
all the men had a friendly word for him, and all
the peasant-girls who had lovers in distant villages
were continually stopping our great ark to
send packages, letters, or messages to the absent
swain. He seemed to be for the whole region a
friend, patron, and adviser, a tutelary deity in fact,
and grand receptacle for confidences. He had a
shrewd, kind face, large clear eyes, and had driven
among these mountains twenty-six years. It really
did not seem a bad way of spending one's days,
always going over the mountain-passes, knowing
everybody and loved by everybody in the country
round. I admired him extremely, and felt very
much elated at the honor of sitting up on the box
with so important a personage.

He told us a story of an Englishman who was
inquiring how much it would cost to be driven to
a certain point.

The driver replied so many gulden.

“Impossible,” said the Englishman; “Baedecker
says half as many.”

“I'll tell you what,” answered the postilion;
“let Baedecker take you, then.”

Having laughed at the poor stranger, it is only
fair that we now laugh at the natives.

“I spiks English,” an innkeeper said to me.
“Ein joli hearse,” he remarked further, to my
great bewilderment, until it gradually dawned
upon me that this was English for “a pretty
horse.” There is a house in this region whose
proprietor wished to receive English lodgers, and
signified his desire to the world by hanging out
this sign: “English boards here.”

After all, there are no more ludicrous verbal
blunders in the world than we English-speaking
people continually make during our first year's
struggles with this mighty German tongue; and
nowhere do a foreigner's queer idioms and laughable
choice of words meet with more kindness,
charity, courtesy, and helpfulness than in Germany.
It is astonishing how kind the Germans
in general are in this respect. It is all very well
to say politeness demands such kindness; but
where things sound so irresistibly droll, I think
sometimes we might shriek with laughter where
the Germans kindly correct, and do not even
smile.

But we are neglecting Bludenz, for which little
town we mean to say a friendly word. It is
usually considered only a stepping-stone to something
higher and better, but we liked it. The
mountains rise on both sides of the village and
its one long road, where we walked at sunset,
crossing the bridge which spans the foaming,
tumbling, rushing Ill. Beyond the ravine of
the Brandnerthal, the Scesaplana, the highest
mountain of the Raeticon range, rises from fields
of snow. We strolled along, breathing the sweet,
pure air, meeting groups of peasant-girls, all of
whom carried their shoes in their hands. It
was a fête day, and they had been to vespers, putting
their shoes on at the church door and removing
them when they came out. This most practical
and admirable method of saving shoe-leather,
I venture to recommend to the fathers of large
families. It must be superior to “copper-toes.”
When we came back to take our supper in a garden,
somebody was playing Strauss waltzes, with a
touch so loving, spirited, and magnetic, it seemed
as if the mountains themselves must whirl off presently
in response. In this land a garden where
people drink beer and wine, eat, smoke, rest, think,
enjoy, all in the open air, is sometimes made up
of most delightful surroundings; but on the other
hand it sometimes means two emaciated, dyspeptic
trees, a gravel floor, and half a dozen wooden
tables with wretchedly uncomfortable chairs. But
if it is an enclosure in the open air with one table
large enough to hold a beer-mug, it is still a
garden.

Our Bludenz garden was pleasant enough, however,
and we sat there till the mountains sank
deeper and deeper into the gloom; and the *Mädchen*
who waited upon us told us about her native
village, where her brother was schoolmaster; our
landlady came, too, and talked with us, quietly,
and somewhat with the manner of a hostess entertaining
guests. It was all very pretty and simple
and kindly, and seemed the most natural thing
in the world, as it happened. The people here
had intelligent faces, clear eyes like children, and
pleasant, courteous ways. The trouble about all
these little places is, we don't like to leave them.
It seems as if the new place could not be so
pretty, the new people so kindly and simple and
honest, and we go about weakly, leaving fragments
of our hearts everywhere.

Then the mountain tramps we had, climbing
high for a view, and then glorying in it! A little
maid was once our guide, who chattered to us
prettily all the way, and told us the chief events
of her life,—how her father and mother were
dead, and her uncle beat her, and made her work
too hard; how there was a great, great, great bird
who sat up on the barren cliffs so high that never
a *Jäger* could climb near enough to shoot him; how
he had eyes as big as a cow's, and when he sat on
the right cliff the weather was always fair, but
when he sat on the left there was storm among
the mountains. This must be true, for we saw the
cliffs. Then she solemnly assured us, if we would
go early to the chapel in a neighboring village the
following morning, we could get absolution for all
our sins, because, as it appeared, the priest there
was going far away, as missionary to America, and
in farewell was washing the souls of his flock with
extra thoroughness. We told the child it was very
fortunate the good priest was going to America.
From what we had heard of that ungodly land, we
thought it must be in sad need of missionary
work.

The scenery from Bludenz to Landeck is a series
of picturesque, varied views. The road ascends
with many windings to the pass of the Arlberg,
when you are at last in the Tyrol; and the green,
richly wooded mountains, the jagged, rocky ones,
the lofty peaks where the snow gleams, together
with the pure, invigorating air, and the swing of
our mountain chariot with its five horses,—which,
if not very rapid, were at least strong and fresh,—made
altogether a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

On the Arlberg we gathered our first Alpine
roses. They are not so very pretty, except as they
grow often in masses so luxuriant as to give a rosy
effect to a broad slope. That is, they are pretty,
but their graceful cups droop so quickly when you
take them from their native air and native heights,
that they are disappointing.

At St. Christoph, which is almost at the top of
the Arlberg, we stopped long enough to refresh
ourselves with a glass of *Tiroler* wine, and were
taken into a little chapel behind the inn to see a
wooden statue of St. Christopher, who seems to be
held in peculiar veneration in this region, being
painted or carved in many churches and even on
the walls of houses. This was a great creature
of eight or nine feet, standing in the corner
of the chapel, with glaring, beady eyes, glossy
black painted hair, and a huge staff, to represent
the pine-tree of the sweet old legend, in his hand;
while on his shoulder was perched the child Jesus,
with a face like a small doll. He was as funny
and grotesque a saint as the world can boast, yet
our hearts went strongly out to him when we
learned what a very little peasant-boy it was who
had made him with his pocket-knife out of a block
of wood, and particularly when we observed his
saintship's legs, never too symmetrical, but now
hacked and chipped into utter deformity, and were
told the reason. Every child in this neighborhood
who must leave his mountain home takes a bit of
St. Christopher with him as a talisman against
homesickness. Poor little souls! Imagine them
coming to say, “Lebewohl zu dem heiligen Christoph,”
and tearfully hacking away in the region of
his patellas and tibias and fibulas, because long
ago they have removed the exterior of his stalwart
members, and he will soon be dangerously
undermined. His shoulders are sufficiently developed
to bear considerable cutting down without
perceptibly diminishing them; but I presume the
little ones attack the region which they can most
conveniently reach.

Lovely air and lovely hills! No wonder the
children fear Heimweh will come to their hearts
when they can no longer see the little village
houses all huddled together round the church with
the tall spire, while the green hills rise on every
side, and the morning mists roll from them, and
the evening glow warms and glorifies their cold,
white summits, and the impetuous mountain torrent
goes foaming by.

We felt premonitory symptoms of homesickness
ourselves for those fair and noble heights, and we
wanted very much to beg for a bit of St. Christopher's
knee-pan. But they would not have given
us an atom of the dear old, hideous, overgrown
giant-saint, worthless heretics that we are.


[pg!115]


IN THE TYROL.
=============


They said Landeck would not please us,
but it did. They said it was not pretty,
but it was. They said we would not stay
there, but that is all they knew about it
or us. In itself, so far as its houses are concerned,
it is not attractive, it is true; but it lies in a very
picturesque way on both banks of the Inn, which
rushes and roars constantly at this point, and the
hills around are bold and beautiful. It has its
ancient castle, on the heights directly above the
town; but the castle now is a failure, whatever
proud tales its walls might tell us could they
speak,—a failure even as a “ruin,” I mean. It
is not very high, but the path is steep; and when
you get to the top you wish you had remained
below, for there is nothing to reward you. The
view is no finer than you can have from almost
any point here; and the castle is simply nothing to
see, being only a few gray walls without form or
comeliness, in the shade of which, the day we visited
it, sat a few poor old women, who now occupy
it, with snails and bats and wind and storm, rent
free.

To Zams, the next village, you walk along the
river road past fields of grain, where cornflowers
and poppies are gayly growing, and the water
hurrying from the mountains sings its loud, bold
song, and everywhere around are the varied hues
and heights of the Tyrolean Alps. At Zams
there is a beautiful waterfall, which you must seek
if you would see, for it hides itself from the world.
Over a bridge, along the river road, then through
lanes where there were more of the pretty cornflowers
and gay poppies, past a group of cottages,
a mill, a noisy brook, a mass of rugged cliffs, we
strolled, the voice of the falling water calling us
ever nearer and nearer, until suddenly at the
last it was before us. The rocks conceal it on
every side up to the last moment when you are
directly at the foot of it,—one of the fine dramatic
effects in which Mother Nature likes sometimes to
indulge.

It falls with great force a hundred and fifty feet,
perhaps,—this is a wild feminine guess, yet somewhere
near the truth, I hope,—in a narrow, immensely
swift stream, which, as it issues from the
rock, runs a little diagonally. It has forced a
passage through the rock, and when we saw it was
sweeping through this aperture; but in stormy
weather it hurls itself over the summit of the
ledge, increasing its height many feet, and is magnificent
in its fury. An experienced mountain-climber
told us that there are a succession of these
falls, of which this is the seventh and last, and the
only one that can be seen without painful and dangerous
climbing, they are so singularly concealed.
The stream springs from the glaciers far away, and
leaps from rock to rock in wild, unseen beauty. It
seemed to speak to us of the lonely, frozen heights
and solitude of its birthplace.

From Landeck to Innsbruck the scenery, taken
all in all, though pleasing, is less bold and more
monotonous than are many other parts of the
Tyrol. There are many historical points of interest
here, and reminders of the bravery of the
mountaineers in different wars. You see where
they stood high on their native hills hurling down
trunks of trees and huge masses of rock on the
invading Bavarians; and what this work of destruction
failed to do, the sure aim of the Tyrolese
riflemen effectually accomplished.

In one village they exhibit the room where
Frederic Augustus, king of Saxony, died suddenly
from the kick of a horse. Having no inordinate
interest in his deceased majesty, we were quite
content to gaze placidly at the outside of the
house from the post-wagon, as we informed the
man who tried to induce us to march in, pay our
fees, and so increase the revenues of the inn. He
was deeply disgusted, and evidently considered us
persons of inferior taste.

You are shown, off at the right of the road on
a wooded height, the ruins of Schloss Petersburg,
the birthplace of Margaret, daughter of the count
of the Tyrol through whom Tyrol came into the
possession of the emperors of Austria.

We have seen so many little villages more or
less alike, all having saints painted on their houses
in brilliant hues, and mottoes over their doorways,—some
religious, some quite secular and merry,
and all, too, having names of one syllable, composed
chiefly of consonants, such as Imst, Silz,
Zams, Mils, Telfs, Zirl,—we cannot hope to remember
them with that clearness which characterizes
the well-regulated mind on its travels. (No
one in our party *has* a well-regulated mind.) But
we have a way among ourselves of designating
places, which is quite satisfactory and intelligible
to us. For instance, we say, “That was where we
drank the cream”; “That was where the innkeeper
was a barrel, with head and feet protruding”;
“That was where that interesting body,
the fire department, were feasting at long tables
and singing Tyrolean songs”; “The village where
we met the procession, old men and maidens,
young men and children, singing, chanting, telling
their beads, bearing candles, and, most of all,
staring at the strangers.”—And what were the
strangers doing? Staring at the people, to be
sure. We always stare. We are here for that
purpose.—“The village where the girl put a
flower in her sweetheart's hat.” And how pretty
it was! The post-wagon had hardly stopped before
a good-looking youth dashed down from its top,
and at the same instant a rosy waiter-girl dashed
out from the inn, bearing a tall mug of foaming
beer. She had eyes but for him. He had eyes
but for her—and the beer. Entranced they met!
They stood a little apart from us by a garden, and
beamed and smiled at each other and whispered
their secrets, and didn't care a straw whether we
stupid “other people” saw them or not. They
had but a few moments of bliss, for the boy
had to go on with the post; but while he was
drinking the very last of that reviving fluid, she
took his hat from his head, and, stooping to the
flowers beside her, chose a great flaming carnation
pink, which she fastened in his hat-band. He
looked pleased, which of course made her look
pleased; but what a wise little village-Hebe it
was to give him the beer first! What would he
have cared for the flower when his throat was
dusty and thirsty! It is such a pity some women
always persist in offering their flowers and graces
too soon,—forgetting the nature of the creature
they adore.

In an inn at one village was a table which we
coveted strongly. It was, they said, a hundred
and fifty years old, octagonal, four or five feet in
diameter, made of inlaid woods in the natural
colors, now darkened with age. Broad, solid, firm,
it looked as if it might last a hundred and fifty
years longer and then retain its vigor of constitution.
It had a wise, knowing air, as of having
seen a great deal of the world; and the landlord
told us tales of drinking and fighting and scenes
of rough soldier-life, which were enough to make
it tremble for its existence. Bavarian soldiers
once, when they were occupying the village, used
it rather roughly, and left as many sword-cuts and
dents in it as they could make in its brave, firm
wood. Its centre was a slate or blackboard, on
which beer accounts are conveniently reckoned.

Just beyond Zirl, the Martinswand rises sixteen
hundred feet perpendicularly above the road. It
has its story, to which everybody who comes here
must listen.

The Emperor Maximilian, in 1493, was chasing
a chamois above the Martinswand, and, having lost
his way, made a misstep, fell down to the edge of
a precipice, and hung there, unable to recover his
footing. The priest of Zirl came with some of
his people, and, it being impossible to reach him,
stood at the bottom of the cliff, elevated the host,
granting him absolution; and then, in horror,
awaited the end. But “an angel in the garb of a
chamois-hunter” appeared at this crisis, and bore
the exhausted monarch to a place of safety. The
perilous spot, nine hundred feet above the river, is
now marked by a cross, and the paten used by the
priest is a blessed relic in a church.

The story seems to be quite generally believed
in this neighborhood. We sceptical strangers do
not find it so enormous a morsel to swallow as is
sometimes presented to us. I presume if any of
us were dangling between heaven and earth, with
the immediate prospect of falling nine hundred
feet, we would be very apt to call whatever should
rescue us an “angel.”


[pg!121]


INNSBRUCK.
==========


Innsbruck impressed us, at first, as
being far too citified for us to delight in.
Entering its streets about sunset, the
time when we have of late been accustomed
to see the cows come home in great herds
from the mountain pastures, we, our bags and
shawl-straps, were deposited upon the sidewalk;
for when the post stops, you stop without ceremony,
and are never taken to the particular hotel
where you wish to go. We stared blankly at the
broad streets and ruefully at one another. Our
eyes, instead of seeing lowing herds, fell upon gallant
young officers in brilliant uniforms. We became
painfully aware of certain defects in our
personal appearance, of which we had been beautifully
unconscious in the rural mountain districts.
We observed for the first time that there were
chasms in our gloves, indented peaks in our hats,
alluvial deposits on our gowns; while our boots
suggested dangerous ravines, bridged across by
one button, instead of boasting that goodly, decorous
row without which no civilized woman
can be truly respectable. We revenged ourselves
by calling Innsbruck “tame,” and declaring that
we would at once flee to our mountain. But it
is surprising how quickly we have become accustomed
to the luxuries of life in an excellent hotel,
how bravely we bear the infliction of well-cooked
dinners, with what fortitude we recline in luxurious
chairs, and allow well-trained servants to wait
upon us. Already we have remained longer than
we intended, there is so much here that interests
us; but soon we start off again to commune with
Nature and get sunburned.

Then, the truth is, Innsbruck, which looked so
enormous, so grand, to our eyes, used as they were
to Tyrolean villages,—we know now how the
typical country cousin feels when he comes “to
town” for the first time,—is only a little place
most charmingly situated on the Inn, in a great
broad valley, with mountains ten thousand feet
high on one side, and on the other heights that look
almost as bold. It has, including its large garrison,
eighteen or twenty thousand inhabitants, and with
its pleasant atmosphere, extended views, charming
mountain excursions, peasants in a variety of costumes,
soldiers in a variety of uniforms, excellent
music, and many things of historical interest to
see, is a very enjoyable place.

The Museum is thoroughly interesting; a visit
to Schloss Amras, where Archduke Ferdinand II.
and his wife Philippina Welser used to live, is an
inevitable but agreeable excursion; you are shown
buildings erected by celebrated personages,—among
them a “golden roof” over a balcony of
a palace which Count Frederic of the Tyrol built
to prove that he did not deserve the nickname,
“with the empty pockets.” But the chief thing
to see, the glory of Innsbruck, is the Maximilian
monument in the Franciscan church. Maximilian,
in bronze, kneels on a marble pedestal in the centre
of the nave, and eight-and-twenty great bronze
figures of kings and queens and heroes surround
him. Some are stately and grand; some—dare
I say?—are comical. The feet of these mailed
heroes are so broad and big and their ankles so
attenuated, you are reminded of the marine armor
worn by divers; and the waists of the women, in
the heavy folds of ancient times, are so enormously
dumpy and their heads so curious, you smile in
their august faces, though the whole effect of all
these dark, still figures in the dim church is imposing
in the extreme.

They are all celebrated people, whose histories
we know; or, if we do not, we ought to. There is
Clovis of France, who looks very important indeed,
and Philip of Spain. There is Johanna, Philip's
queen; Cunigunde, sister of Maximilian; Eleanora
of Portugal, his mother; and there are many more
“dear, dead women,” with stately, beautiful names,
and they themselves, no doubt, were stately and
beautiful too, but they are not handed down to
posterity in a very flattering guise. There is Godfrey
de Bouillon, “king of Jerusalem,” with a crown
of thorns on his head. But the two that are really
lovely to see are Theodoric, king of the Ostrogoths,
and Arthur of England. Susceptible, romantic
girls of eighteen should not be allowed to gaze too
long at these ideal young men. It will make them
discontented with the realities of life, and they will
spend their days dreaming of knightly figures in
bronze.

Theodoric is considered the finest as a work of
art. So says all established authority; but to me
Arthur is hardly less interesting. Perhaps, in
some absurd way, it gratified us of Anglo-Saxon
blood to see, in the midst of these Rudolphs and
Sigismunds, these counts of Hapsburg and dukes
of Burgundy, a hero who seemed to belong to us;
but, whatever was the cause, the blameless king
won our loving admiration.

Theodoric is the more graceful. He stands in
an easy, leaning attitude. He is lost in thought.
He is in full armor, but he may be dreaming
of something far removed from war. Arthur is
firm and proud and strong, looking every inch
a king and a true knight. Both are knightly.
Both are kingly. Their figures are slight and
strong, and they stand like *young* heroes amid
these mighty old potentates, some of whom look
as if gout might have been a greater source of
trouble to them than their enemies.

If your affections are divided, as were ours, between
the two, the best thing to do, perhaps, is to
repair immediately to the store where the wood-carving
and Tyrol souvenirs make you feel quite
miserable,—you want so much more than you can
possibly have,—and carefully select a Theodoric
and an Arthur from the many representations of
them, in wood of different colors and in various
sizes, that you will there see. If you march off
with them, you will feel sublime enough not to be
beguiled into yielding to the temptation of the
paper-knives and boxes and innumerable fascinating
knick-knacks made by the Tyrolean wood-carvers.
But do have them well packed, for it is very sad
to see Arthur without his visor and Theodoric
with several fractured fingers.

On the sarcophagus, below the kneeling Maximilian,
are marble reliefs representing the chief
events in the emperor's life. Thorwaldsen pronounced
the first nineteen the most perfect work
of its kind in the world. These are by Colin,
and the others,—there are twenty-four in all,—by
Bernhard and Albert Abel, are less remarkable
in their perspective, and far less clear. Colin's
are very interesting to study carefully. In battle
scenes, in grand wedding feasts, with hundreds of
spectators, in triumphant entries into conquered
cities, every face, every weapon, every feature, and
all the most minute details are executed with
wonderful clearness.

Three or four of the oldest women in the world
were saying their prayers in the church as we
wandered about, or sat quietly looking at these
men and woman of the past, while queer snatches
of history, poetry, and romance came and went
confusedly in our minds.

You see here, too, a little “Silver Chapel,” so
called from a silver statue of the Virgin over the
altar. The tomb of the Archduke Ferdinand II.,
by Colin, is here, and that of Philippina Welser;
and near the entrance, in the main church, is a
fine statue, in Tyrolese marble, of Andreas Hofer,
and memorial tablets in honor of all the Tyrolese
who have died for their country since 1796.

We have been refreshing our memories in regard
to Andreas Hofer, and are extremely interested
in his career; but, having just suffered a
grievous disappointment with which he is connected,
we are going to try to banish every thought
of him from our minds. A play representing his
whole life was to have been enacted to-day in a
neighboring village; but to-day it rains, and as the
village histrionic talent was going to display itself
in the open air, “Andreas Hofer” is postponed till
to-morrow, when, unfortunately, we shall be riding
over hill and dale in a post-wagon. We have tried
to prevail upon the post-wagon powers to allow us
to wait a day, but they are obdurate. We can
wait if we care to pay our passage twice, not
otherwise. This cross may be well for a party that
usually sails along on the full tide of prosperity,
having always the rooms it wants, front seats in
post-wagons, the good-will of drivers and guides, and
that hasn't lost or broken anything since it started.

It is possible that we are too successful and
need this discipline. But only think what we
lose!—a village drama in the open air, given by
village amateurs in the *patois* of the district. According
to the announcement, the tailor—the
Herr Schneider—was to be director-in-chief; and
the audience would audibly express its praise and
blame, while the actors would have the liberty of
retiring. This, added to heroics in dialect, certainly
promised an entertaining scene. The costumes,
too, were to be like those worn in Andreas
Hofer's time, and the tailor's daughter was to be
leading lady. Was, do I say? Is—is yet to
be, but not for us, alas!


[pg!127]


OHENSCHWANGAU AND NEU SCHWANSTEIN.
==================================


It pains me to think that the king of
Bavaria, or any other fine-looking young
gentleman, would deliberately scowl at
an inoffensive party of ladies who were,
one and all, only too pleased to have the opportunity
of gazing smilingly at him. But the truth
is, he did. The way it happened is this. We
and the king of Bavaria are at present travelling
in the North Tyrol. But he cannot have
wanted so much as we to go to the South Tyrol,
which is bolder and grander, or he would have
gone there, not being bound by petty considerations
of convenience and expense like ordinary
tourists. At a little inn, “Auf der Ferne,” between
Innsbruck and Reutte, in a place called
Fernstein, by a lake named Fernsee (and also
“The Three Lakes,” because the land juts out on
one side in two long points, making three pretty
coves where the tranquil water meets the soft
green shores), the post-wagon halted, that our
postilion might drink his glass of native wine.
There were numerous servants in blue-and-silver
livery at the door, and we were told King
Louis was driving in the neighborhood, and that
we would certainly meet him. While we were
waiting, the people regaled us with tales of the
young king's eccentricities. Some of his extravagant
fancies remind one of the Arabian Nights, or
old fairy-tales, more than of anything in these latter
days. He usually travels by night, for instance,
and sleeps, the little that he ever sleeps,
mornings. He drives fast through the darkness,
servants with torches galloping in advance, stopping
here and there only long enough for a change
of horses, his own horses and servants being in
readiness for him at the different inns along the
route. Often his carriage dashes up to this inn,
“Auf der Ferne,” at twelve o'clock at night, and
then this deliciously eccentric being is rowed
across the little Fernsee to a tiny island, where he
partakes, by the romantic gleam of torches, of a
feast prepared by French cooks. Rowed back to
the shore, he starts again with fresh horses and
goes swiftly on, through the night, to some other
inn, where the noise of his arrival awakens all the
sleepers.

We heard him later ourselves at two in the morning
at an inn on the road where we were staying,
and in fact were told by the landlord that he was
expected; were shown the sacred apartment set
apart for his majesty, who now and then sits an
hour in it at some unearthly time of night, and
we were advised to peep through our curtains at
him, his suite, and his horses, torches, etc.; but
such was the sleepiness created by a ride of sixteen
hours in mountain air, that, though we were
dimly conscious something of interest was happening,
I do not think we would have been able to
stir, to see even Solomon in all his glory. This
was the true reason, but the one that we pretended
actuated us is quite different. We remark with
dignity that no young woman of proper spirit will
condescend to peep through a curtain at a man
who has scowled at her, king or no king.

But I must tell you how, when, and where the
royal scowl took place. We had left the little inn
by the lake, and were riding along in an expectant
mood, when there came a great clatter of hoofs,
and two blue-and-silver men dashed by followed
by an open carriage, where King Louis sat alone.
A kind fate ordained that the road should be narrow
at this point, with a steep bank on one side,
over which it would not be pleasant to be precipitated;
so the royal coachman, as well as our driver,
moderated the speed of his horses, and we therefore
had an admirable opportunity to see this
“*idealisch*” young man—as the Germans call him—distinctly.
The ceremonies performed were few.
Our postilion took off his hat; so did the king.
Then it seemed good in his sight to deliberately
throw back his head, look full in our amiable, smiling,
interested countenances, and indulge in a
haughty and an unmistakable scowl. He must
have slept even less than usual that morning. We
were not accustomed to have young men scowl at
us, and really felt quite hurt. If he had looked
grand and unseeing, had gazed off abstractedly
upon the mountain-tops, we would have been delighted
with him. As it is, we cannot honestly say
that we consider his manner to strangers ingratiating.
Still, as the melancholy fact is that he hates
women, his scowl probably meant no especial aversion
to our humble selves, but was merely the
expression of the immense scorn and disgust he
feels towards the sex at large.

In revenge, I hasten to say that, though he certainly
has a distinguished air, and a fine head, and
the great eyes that look so dreamy and poetical in
the photographs of him at eighteen or twenty, he
is not nearly so handsome as those early pictures.
Perhaps he can look dreamy still; but of this he
granted us no opportunity to judge, and he has
grown stout, and has lost the delicate refinement
of his youth.

This road to Reutte is one of the finest of the
mountain-passes between the Tyrol and Bavaria.
The deep, wooded ravines, lovely, dark-green lakes,
and noble heights make the landscape very beautiful
and inspiring. Near Lennos, you see on the
east great bald limestone precipices, the snowy
Zugspitze, 9,761 feet high, the Schneefernerkopf,
9,462 feet, and other peaks of 8,000 feet and more;
while you spy picturesque ruins, old hunting-seats,
and fortresses here and there high on the proud
cliffs.

Reutte has large, broad, pretty houses. It is
said laughingly that there is not a house in the
place which a king or some other exalted being has
not selected to die in, or in some way to make
memorable.

From this place we have pursued still farther
our studies of royalty, having met with so much
encouragement at the outset. We have visited
the Schloss Hohenschwangau, where the king of
Bavaria and his mother, the queen, spend some
time every summer; and also Schloss Schwanstein,
which is yet building, but where the young king
often stays, unfinished as it is.

The way to Hohenschwangau leads through a
charming park. The castle was once a Roman
fort, they say, then a baronial estate, then almost
destroyed by the Tyrolese, then bought by King
Max of Bavaria, who had it remodelled and ornamented
with fine frescos by Munich artists.

In the vestibule is an inscription in gold letters
on blue, which says something like this:—

   | “Welcome, wanderer,—welcome, fair and gracious women!
   | Leave all care behind!
   | Yield your souls to the sweet influences of poetry.”

Isn't that a pretty greeting? It's all very well,
however, to have such things written on your walls,
and then to go about the world scowling at people;
but it doesn't look consistent. From the vestibule
you pass into a long hall, where are two rows
of columns, old suits of armor standing like men
on guard on both sides, shields, spears, halberds,
and cross-bows on the walls, and a little chapel at
the end.

The frescos throughout the castle are very interesting.
From the billiard-room, with a pretty
balcony, you go into the Schwanrittersaal, where
the pictures on the walls represent the legend of
the Knight of the Swan, and remind you of the
opera of “Lohengrin.” The painted glass of the
doors opening from this room upon a balcony is
of the seventeenth century.

There is an Oriental room, with reminiscences
of King Max's Eastern travels. Here you see
Smyrna, Troja, the Dardanelles, Constantinople, in
fresco; rich presents from the Sultan, a table-cover
embroidered by the wives of the Sultan, jewelled
fans, etc.

There is an Autharis room, with frescos by
Schwind, telling the story of the wooing of the Princess
Theudelinda by the Lombard king, Autharis.
Do you feel perfectly familiar with the history of
Autharis and Theudelinda? Because, if you do
not, I don't really know of any one just at this
moment who feels competent to give you the
slightest information upon the subject.

There is a room of the knights, the frescos
illustrating mediæval chivalry,—a Charlemagne
room. There are, in fact, more rooms than you
care to read about or I care to describe, and many
rich objects to see. In the queen's apartments
was a casket of gold studded with turquoises and
rubies; elegant toilet-tables rosy with silk linings,
soft with falling lace; and there is one dear little
balcony-room, cosy and full of familiar pictures,—Raphael's
cherubs, a little painting of Edelweiss
and Alpine roses; and actually two real spinning-wheels:
one is the queen's, and the other belonged
to a young court lady whose recent death
was a deep grief to the queen, it is said.

But the most striking, and in the end fascinating,
thing in the castle is the number of swans
you see. It would be difficult to convey any idea
of the swan-atmosphere of this place. Swans support
baskets for flowers and vases. There are
swans in china, in marble, in alabaster, in gold and
silver, on the tables, on the mantels and brackets,
painted, embroidered on cushions and footstools,—everywhere
you find them. A half-dozen of
different sizes stand together on a small table,
some of them large, some as tiny as the toy swan
a child sails in his glass preserve-dish for a pond.
There is a swan-fountain in the garden; a great
swan on the stove in a reception-room.

King Louis can bathe every day in a gold bath-tub
if he wishes. Our eyes have seen it, though
the guide said he had never shown it before. I
have no means of knowing whether the man told
the truth. There is another and yet more enticing
bath-room hewn out of the solid rock. We
entered it from the garden. From without, its
walls look like dark thick glass, through which one
sees absolutely nothing. From within, the effect
is enchanting. You see the highest tower of the
castle on one side rising directly above you, the
lovely garden with its choice flowers and superb
trees, the grand mountains beyond,—and all
bathed in a deep rosy light from the hue of the
glass. It is an enchanted grotto, and very Arabian
Nights-ish. A marble nymph stands on each side
of the bath, which is cut in the centre of the stone
floor, and one of them turns on a pivot, disclosing
a concealed niche, into which you step and slowly
swing round until you are in a subterranean passage,
from which a mysterious stairway leads to
the dressing-room above.

We went everywhere, even into the king's little
study, up in the tower, where we were explicitly
told not to go. It was a simply furnished room,
with an ordinary writing-table, upon which papers
and writing-materials were strewn about, and important-looking
envelopes directed to the king.
And it commanded a lovely view of mountains,
broad plains, and four lakes, the Alpsee, Schwansee,
Hopfensee, and Bannwaldsee.

Our little tour of inspection was just in time,
for at twelve that night, the castle servants told
us, the king would come dashing up to his own
door, after which there can be of course no admittance
to visitors.

Hohenschwangau is most beautifully situated,
but the Neu Schwanstein is still more striking. It
is founded upon a rock. You climb to reach it,
and you can climb far higher on the mountains
that tower behind it. It stands directly by a deep
ravine, and the view from it is magnificent. The
young king here by his own hearthstone has wild
and abrupt mountain scenery,—a rocky gorge,
crossed by a delicate wire bridge, an impetuous
waterfall; and looking far, far off from the battlements
he sees villages, many lakes, dense woods,
winding streams, Hohenschwangau looking proudly
towards its royal neighbor, and the glorious mountains
circling and guarding the valley. Living
here, one would feel like a god on high Olympus
looking down upon humanity toiling on the plains
below.

The king likes this place, and it is said wishes
to remain here when the queen, his mother, comes
to Hohenschwangau. But this is an unwarrantable
intrusion upon their little family differences, which
they should enjoy unmolested, like you and me.
Schwanstein in its exterior form and character resembles
a mediæval castle, and the appointments
in the servants' wing, the only part of the interior
as yet finished, are strictly in keeping. There
are solid oaken benches and tables, carved cases
and chests, oaken bedsteads as simply made as
possible, and windows with tiny oval or diamond
panes.

The room occupied temporarily by the king is
very small and simple,—has a plain oak bedstead
and dressing-table. Across the bed were thrown
blankets, on which were blue swans and blue lions,
and in the dining-room adjoining the carpet was
blue, with golden Bavarian lions, and the all-pervading
swans. This was a pretty room, the frescos
illustrating the story of a life in mediæval times,—the
life of a warrior from the moment when he
starts forth from his father's door, a fair-haired boy,
to seek his fortunes in the great world. Mountain
scenery, village life, his first service to a knight,
battle, gallant deeds, receiving knighthood, betrayal,
imprisonment, escape, victory,—all the
eventful story until he sits with men old like himself,
and over their wine they tell of the doughty
deeds of the past; and then, older still, and frail
and feeble and alone, he leans upon his staff as
he rests under a tree where careless children play
around him.

A charming road, through the woods belonging
to the Schwanstein park, leads to the castle, past
the lovely Alpsee, which looks deep and calm,
and lies lovingly nestled among the beautiful
woods that surround it and that rise high above
it, as if striving to conceal its loveliness from profane
eyes.

We saw forty of the royal horses—pretty creatures
they were too—each with the name painted
over the stall. We were reading them aloud, they
were so odd and fanciful, when, as one of us said
Fenella, the little horse that claimed that name
turned her pretty head and tried to come to us.
However gently we would call her, she always
heard and looked at us. Encouraged by this
gracious condescension on the part of a royal
animal, we ventured to make friends with her;
and if ever a horse smiled with good-will and delight
it was Fenella when we gave her sugar.

His majesty's carriages were also shown to us,
and received our approval. They are plain and
elegant, but do not differ from high-toned equipages
in general. A narrow little phaeton, low,
and large enough to hold but one person, we were
told was a favorite of the king. In it, with a man
at each side of the horse's head leading him, and
bearing a torch, the king amuses himself by ascending
dangerous mountain-roads at night. They
say it is astonishing where he will go in this manner.
Fancy meeting that scowling but interesting
young man, his torches and his funny little vehicle,
on a lonely peak at midnight!


[pg!137]


LIFE IN SCHATTWALD.
===================


We have been in the Tyrol many days, in
villages among the mountains, living in
simplicity, content, and charity to all
mankind. We have believed that our
condition was as thoroughly rural as anything that
could possibly be attained by people who only
want to be rural temporarily as an experiment.
But our present experience so far transcends all
that we have known in the past, that the other
villages seem like bustling, important towns, unpleasantly
copying city ways, compared with this
funny little quiet Schattwald.

We came here from Reutte in an open carriage,
passed through a wonderfully beautiful ravine, saw
the lovely dark-green lakes that delight the soul
in this part of the world, little hamlets scattered
about picturesquely among pine-clad hills, bold
peaks towering to the clouds in the distance, and
drove slowly through soft, broad meadows, where
the whole population was out making hay. We
saw many Tyrolean Maud Müllers in bright gowns
that looked pretty in the sunshine. A German
friend told us a certain small object was “an
American hay-cart, and very practical, like all
American inventions.” He was so positive in his
convictions, and, at the same time, so gracious
towards the inventive genius of America, that we
saw it would be useless and unwise to pretend to
know anything about the hay-cart of our native
heath. But if an American hay-cart should see
its Tyrolean prototype, it would shatter itself into
atoms with laughter.

So in the serene, perfect midsummer weather,
through this charming country, we came to Schattwald,
the highest village in the Thanheimer Thal.

I feel now that it is my duty to give a friendly
caution to people whose nerves are easily shocked,
and to advise them to drop this letter at this very
point, for it is shortly going to treat of exceedingly
realistic and inelegant things.

We drove to the village inn. There were hens
and children on the broken stone doorstep, and
men drinking beer in a little pavilion close by. A
broad and jocund landlady told us there was absolutely
no place for us. We are, therefore, ensconced
in a veritable peasant's cottage over the
way, going across to the inn when we are hungry,
which is tolerably often in this mountain air.

Our rooms are broad and very low, with wide
casements having tiny panes. A stout wooden
bench against the wall serves as sofa and chairs.
A bare wooden table in front of it is graced by a
great dish filled with Alpine roses, Edelweiss, and
Wildemänner, which is an appropriate name for
the little flower with its brown unkempt head and
shaggy elf-locks blowing in the wind. A six-inch
looking-glass is hung exactly where the wall joins
the ceiling, and exactly where we cannot possibly
see ourselves in it without standing on something,
when we invariably bump our heads. This pointedly
tells us that vanity is a plant that does not
flourish in these lofty altitudes. There are crucifixes
on the walls, and extraordinary religious
pictures; and in the corner of the front door there
is a saint somebody made of wood, life-size, with a
reddish gown, and tinsel stars on a wire encircling
her head. I think she must be Mary, though it
did not occur to me at first, she is such a corpulent
young woman, with a thick, short waist, and
solid feet, which, nevertheless, by their position,
express the idea that she is floating. An old
woman often sits by her, knitting, as we go in and
out.

“Is it clean?” I know some one is asking. That
depends upon what you call clean; and when
travelling one must modify one's opinion about
cleanliness and order. For a dressing-room it
would be shockingly unclean; for peasant life up in
the Alps it is—if the expression is permissible—*clean
enough*.

The floors are clean, and the bedding and
towels. The water is pure and fresh, the dishes
and food perfectly clean. And these, after all,
are the essentials. But things are very much
mixed, to say the least; and the animal kingdom
lives in close proximity to its superiors. In fact,
up here it seems to have no superiors.

You sit in the open air eating a roast chicken,
with a bit of salad; and the brother and sister
chickens, that will some day be sacrificed to the
appetite of another traveller, are running about
unconscious of their doom at your feet. A little
colt walks up to you and insists upon putting his
nose in your plate,—insists, too, upon being
petted,—and hasn't the least delicacy or comprehension
when you tell him you are busy and wish
he would go away. He stays calmly, and presently
a goat or two and a big dog join the group.
Such imperturbable good-nature and complacency,
such naïveté, I have never before known animals
to possess. They have been treated since their
birth with so much consideration, they never imagine
that their society may not always be desired.
In fact, the animals and the people have innocent,
friendly ways; and as it never occurs to them you
can be displeased with anything they may do, the
result is you never are. And as to the question
of cleanliness, perhaps the simplest way to settle
it is to say that there is indeed dirt enough here,
but it is all, as the children say, “clean dirt,” and
at all events, with glorious air and lovely mountain
views, brightness and goodness and kindness meeting
you on every side from the peasants, one must
be very sickly either in body or mind, or in both,
to be too critical about trifles.

One whole morning we spent in a Sennhütte,—a
cowherd's hut,—high above the village. (Did I
not warn you that ungenteel things were coming?)
And it was one of the most interesting and amusing
half-days we have ever known. There were
fifty cows there, as carefully tended as if they
were Arabian horses, and noble specimens of their
kind of beauty. The prettiest ones were cream-colored,
with great soft eyes. They expected to
be talked to and petted like all the other animals
in Schattwald. There were different rooms, the
mountain breezes blowing straight through them
all, where five or six workmen were making butter
and enormous cheeses. If we do not know how
to make superior cheese and butter, it is not the
fault of our hosts in the Sennhütte, for they left
nothing unexplained.

Dare I, or dare I not, tell what should now come
in a faithful chronicle of that morning? I dare.
Towards twelve, the chief workman—a man who
had been devoting himself to our entertainment,
even sending his little son far out on the hills for
Alpine flowers for us—prepared the simple soup
which serves as dinner for these hard-working men,
who eat no meat during the entire summer, and
work nearly eighteen hours a day. We were
interested in that soup, as in everything that was
made, done, or said in that novel place. It was
only cream, and salt, and butter, and flour, but it
was made by a dark-eyed man with his sleeves
rolled up and a white cap on his head, and it
simmered in a kettle large enough to be a witch's
caldron.

When quite cooked it was poured into a great
wooden dish that was almost flat, and each workman
drew near with his spoon in his hand. We
were thinking what a pleasant scene this was
going to be, and were about to regard it from afar
like something on the stage, when to our utter
amazement our friend the soup-maker, as simply,
as naturally, with as much courtesy and kindness
as ever a gentleman at his own table offered delicate
viands to an honored guest, gave me a spoon
and assigned me my place at the table.

Dear Mrs. Grundy, what would you have done?
I know very well. You would have drawn yourself
up in a superior way, and you would have
looked as proper as the mother of the Gracchi,
and you would have remarked,—

“Really, my dear Mr. Cowherd-cheese-maker, *I*
have been educated according to the separate-plate
theory.”

But then Mrs. Grundy would never have placed
herself quite in our position, for she would not
have been demeaning herself by peering into
churns and kettles, tasting fresh butter, drinking
cream from wooden ladles, and asking questions
about cows, and indeed it is improbable that she
would have allowed herself to even enter such a
place; we will therefore leave Mrs. Grundy completely
out of the question,—which is always a
huge satisfaction,—and tell how we conducted
ourselves under these unforeseen circumstances.

With outward calmness, with certain possible
misgivings and inward shrinkings, we smilingly
took the seat assigned in the circle of friendly
young workmen, and dipped our spoon in the
wooden soup-dish with all the other spoons. That
we ate, really *ate*, much, I cannot say. Not only
was suppressed amusement a hindrance to appetite,
but the five young men with their rolled-up
sleeves, their *patois*, their five spoons dipping
together in unison and brotherly love, though interesting
as a picture, with the cows lazily lying
in the background, and the Tyrolean Alps seen
through the open doors and windows, presented
nevertheless certain obstacles to a thorough enjoyment
of the rustic meal. To taste, according to
our code, was obligatory; to eat was impossible.
We tried to spur on that languid spoon to do its
duty; we philosophized about human equality,
but all in vain; and we ate not in a proper, true
spirit, but like a hypocrite, or an actress, so strong
are these silly prejudices that govern us.

But the men were quite satisfied, since their
soup was pronounced excellent; and, having once
accepted their hospitality, we had no difficulty in
excusing ourselves when a second soup—*cheese*
being its principal ingredient—was offered us.
Our one regret in the whole experience was, that
we could not summon the primest woman of our
acquaintance to suddenly stand in the doorway
and gaze in, aghast, upon this convivial scene.
That, had it been possible, would have been a joy
forever in our remembrance.

This Schattwald certainly has great fascinations
to offer the wanderer who seeks shelter here.
Rough scrambles for Alpine flowers are followed
by a long afternoon of novel enjoyment, listening
to a chorus of hunters singing Tyrolean songs,—*real*
hunters, and we never saw their like before
except on the stage! The one who played the
zither was adorned with trophies of the chase,—a
chamois beard on his dark-green hat, and, on
his coat, buttons made from stag-antlers. He was
rather a noble-looking man, with a straightforward,
kindly expression in his eyes, and he sang
the mountain songs with great spirit. They all
sang with enjoyment, and there seemed to be an
immense “swing” to the music. The songs expressed
joy and pride in the freedom of the mountain
life, and alluded in poetical language to their
mountain maids. In several of them the singers
gave the “Jodel,” which we also heard repeatedly
echoing among the mountains, and responded to
from height to height.

On the prettiest cottage in the place is this inscription
in verse. I give the literal translation:—

   | “I once came into a strange land;
   | On the wall was written,
   | ‘Be pious, and also reserved:
   | Let everything alone that is not thine.’”

The hunters sang with special delight one song
which frequently asserted that “*Auf der Alm* there
is no sin.” This impressed us as a delightful idea,
though somewhat at variance with the theological
doctrines in vogue in a less rarefied atmosphere.
We did not presume to doubt anything they told
us, however. We are rapidly becoming as credulous,
as simple, as bucolic, as they. But, reclining
one evening at sunset on a soft slope above the
village, with the breath of the pines around us, and
listening, in a lotus-eating mood, to the “drowsy
tinklings” of the bells of the herds on the opposite
heights, this problem occurred to us: How
long will it be, at our present rapid rate of assimilation
with things pastoral, and with the slight line
of demarcation that exists in Schattwald between
man and bird and beast, before we also contentedly
eat grass, and go about with bells on our necks?


[pg!145]


UP THE AIRY MOUNTAIN.
=====================


“Will you walk into my parlor?” said
every innkeeper from Chur to St. Moritz,
and our minds were half absorbed in
contemplation of the scenery and half in
resisting the allurements of these Swiss spiders, all
of whom declared with many grimaces and shrugs
that we could not accomplish the distance between
the two places in one day.

“Does not the regular post go through in one
day?” we inquire. “Then why not we by extra
post?”

“You are too late, madame.”

“We are not so heavy as the *diligence*. We
can go faster.”

“Impossible, madame.”

“*Why* impossible?”

“Not precisely impossible; but it would be better,
ah, yes, madame, far better, to remain here,”—with
the sweetest of smiles,—“and go on to
St. Moritz to-morrow.”

They knew this was nonsense. We knew it was
nonsense. They knew that we knew that it was
nonsense. We had borne all that it was fitting we
should bear.

“But *why*?” we sternly demand.

“You will be more comfortable, madame.”

“We do not wish to be comfortable.”

“You will arrive at midnight.”

“We like to arrive at midnight.”

What then could the spiders do with flies who
retorted in this unheard-of-way, who resisted advice,
would telegraph for horses, cheer the postilions
with absurdly frequent *Trink Geld*, and push
steadily on to St. Moritz high in the upper Engadine?

The truly remarkable feature of the expedition
was, that when we left Chur in the morning it was
only with a lazy consciousness that up among the
mountains somewhere was a St. Moritz, which we
at some indefinite time would reach.

Innkeeper No. 1 made us think we would like
to go through in one day.

Innkeeper No. 2 strengthened the wish.

No. 3, by his efforts at discouragement, gave us,
in place of the wish, a determination to go on.

No. 4 created in us a frantic resolve to reach
St. Moritz that night, or perish in the attempt.

No banner with a strange device did we bear,
yet as the shades of night were falling fast, and
we stopped to change horses at a little inn in an
Alpine village, and queer-looking men with lanterns
walked about the wild place speaking in an
unknown tongue (it was Romanisch, but then we
did not know), and the road was steep before us,
we gloried in resembling the immortal “youth” of
the poem. We always have admired him from the
time we learned him by heart, and repeated him in
our first infant sing-song; but never before did we
have the remotest idea *why* his brow was sad, why
his eye flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
why he persisted in his eccentric career. Now it
is clear as light before us. He was goaded on, as
we were, by the Swiss innkeepers.

“O, stay!” said they.

“Excelsior!” cried we. And on we went, feeling
that a mighty fate was impelling us, alluding
grandly to “Sheridan's Ride,” “How they brought
the Good News,” and all similar subjects that
we could remember where people pushed on with
high resolve, and being in the end grateful to
the petty souls who had roused our obstinacy,
ignorant that even the Alps are no obstacle to
woman's will; for the latter part of the journey
was by perfect moonlight, and therefore do we
bless the innkeepers. Our obstinacy, do I say?
Let the sneering world use that unpleasant term.
We will say heroism, for who shall always tell
where the line between the two is to be drawn?

Never shall we forget that wonderful white
night, the gleams and glooms on the mountains,
the silver radiance of the lakes, the vast glaciers
outstretched before us, the mighty peaks towering
to the skies, the impressive stillness broken only
by the bells on our horses' necks, the sound of
their hoofs on the hard road, the rumbling of our
carriage, and the cracking of the whip. We, with
our miserable jarring noises, were the only discordant
element, and we well knew we ought to be
suppressed. It seemed profane to intrude upon
such grandeur, such majestic stillness.

In the full sunlight since, all is quite different;
yet we close our eyes, and that glorious white, still
night comes vividly before us, and always there
will be to us a glamour about the Engadine on account
of it.

The village of St. Moritz lies picturesquely on
the hillside above a pretty lake of the same name.
The St. Moritz baths are a mile farther on, where
numerous hotels and *pensions* stand on a grassy
plateau between high mountains, whose sharp
contour is wonderfully defined in this clear atmosphere
against the peculiar deep-blue of the sky.

In a very interesting article about the Upper
Engadine in the Fortnightly Review for March,
the writer speaks with undisguised contempt of
“the Germanized Kurhaus,” “the damp Kurhaus,”
“the huge and hideous Kurhaus,” even telling
people to beware of it. Now, if it were not a
shockingly audacious thing to dare to have any
opinion at all in the presence of the Fortnightly
Review, I would venture most humbly to state
that I am at present staying at that object of
British scorn, the Kurhaus, and like it.

It is ugly. It is immensely long and awkward.
If your room is in one end and you have a friend
in the other, you feel, walking through the interminable
corridors, that the introduction of horse-cars
and carriages would promote economy of time
and strength. The Kurhaus certainly has its unamiable
qualities. It is tyrannical. It puts out
its lights at ten o'clock “sharp,” leaving you in
Egyptian darkness and not saying so much as “by
your leave.” [I have observed that men, whom I
have believed to be faultlessly amiable, under these
circumstances lose their composure and utter improper
ejaculations, as they find themselves, in the
midst of an interesting game of whist, unable to
see the color of a card.] But after all, unless
you are in the village proper, where we—again
differing from the awful Fortnightly—would not
prefer to be, it seems to be the best abiding-place,
because everything centres in it. The people
from the other hotels must all come here to drink
the mineral waters and take the baths, to dance
twice a week if they wish, to hear the music three
times a day, to attend various entertainments
given by marvellous prestidigitateurs from Paris
and singers from Vienna; and though these things
are very ignoble to talk about when one is among
the grand mountains, yet there come nights and
days when it rains in torrents, and when the most
enthusiastic mountain-climber must condescend
to be amused or bored under a sheltering roof.
Then, the Kurhaus, being the largest hotel, the
place where things of interest most do congregate,
seems to us the most desirable abode. The Victoria,
which the English frequent, has fresher paint
and newer carpets and finer rooms. But we are
true to the Kurhaus, notwithstanding. We are
grateful to it for a few charming weeks, and in
some way we don't like to see Albion's proud foot
crushing it.

It is “Germanized.” That is enough, to be
sure, in the opinion of many English and Americans,
to condemn it; they often like a hotel exclusively
for themselves, and dislike the foreign
element even in a foreign land. But to many of
us it is infinitely more amusing to live in exactly
such a place, where we meet Italians and Spaniards,
French, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, Russians,
people from South America and islands in the far
seas,—in fact, from every land and nation,—than
to establish a little English or American corner
somewhere, wrap ourselves in our national prejudices,
and neither for love nor money abandon one
or the other.

To the Paracelsus Spring at the Kurhaus come
all the people every morning to drink the mineral
water, and walk up and down while the band
plays in the pavilion, but very few have an invalid
air. Some drink because the water is prescribed
by their physicians; some, because it is the fashion;
some, because it is not unpleasant, and drinking
gives them an opportunity to inspect the other
drinkers. The mighty names written over the
glasses fill us with amazement. You may be plain
Miss Smith from Jonesville, U. S. A., and beside
your humble name is written that of the Countess
Alfieri di Sostegno, and the name of a marquis, and
even that of a princess; but when they all come to
the spring and glance at you over their glasses, just
as you glance at them over yours, and you see
them face to face, you don't much care if you are
only Miss Smith. It is astonishing what an ordinary
appearance people often have whose great-great-grandfathers
were doges of Venice.

It seems positive stupidity here not to speak at
least five languages fluently. To hear small children
talking with ease in a variety of tongues is
something that, after the first astonishment, can be
borne; but it never ceases to be exasperating and
humiliating when common servants pass without
the least difficulty from one language to another
and another. Yet we Americans should perhaps
have patience with ourselves in this respect, and
remember that the ability to speak half a dozen
languages well, which at first seems like pure
genius, is often more a matter of opportunity or
necessity than actual talent, though it certainly
is a great convenience, and gives its possessor
a superior air. “It's nonsense to learn languages,
or to try to speak anything but good, honest
English,” says a young gentleman here,—an
American recently graduated from one of the colleges.
“You can make your way round with it,
and everything that's worth two straws is translated.”
So he brandishes his mother-tongue
proudly in people's faces, and is always immensely
disgusted and incensed at their stupidity when he
is not understood.

An Englishwoman the other day bought a picture
of Alpine flowers, and tried to make a man
understand that she also wished a stick upon
which the cardboard could be rolled and safely
carried in her trunk. He knew no English; she,
no German. First she spoke very loud, with emphatic
distinctness, as if he were deaf. Whereupon
he made a remark in German, which, though
an excellent remark, in itself a highly reasonable
statement, had not the least relation to her request.
She then spoke slowly, gently, in an endearing
manner, as if coaxing a child, or endeavoring
to influence a person whose understanding
was feeble and who must not be frightened. He
responded in German,—again sensible, but widely
inappropriate. So they went on, each continuing
his own line of thought, as much at cross-purposes
as if they were insane, until a bystander, taking
pity on them, came to the rescue. The lady was,
however, not indignant that her “good, honest
English” was not understood; she was simply
despairing. It is singular that it never occurs to
some minds that other languages, and even the
people who speak them, may also be good and
honest.

Here in the Engadine the dialect is Romanisch,
but the people also speak German, French, Italian,
and often tolerable English. The houses are
solidly built, with very thick walls, curious iron
knockers, deep-sunken windows, with massive iron
gratings over them. The object of the gratings
is doubtful. Some say they are to guard against
robbers; some say they are an invention of
jealous husbands; some, that they are so constructed
in order to allow a maiden and her lover
to converse without danger of an elopement.
Arched, wide doors on the ground-floor, directly
in the front of the house, are large enough to
admit carts and horses into the basements, which
serve as carriage-houses and stables.

Is it really summer? Is it possible that in our
beloved America people are suffering from heat,
that Philadelphia is suffocating? Here ladies
wear furs and velvet mornings and nights, and
men wrap themselves in ulsters and shawls. The
air is the most bracing,—the coolest, dryest,
purest imaginable. It is considered admirable for
nervous disorders, and this one can readily believe.
But though it is the fashion to order consumptives
here, many eminent physicians say more invalids
with lung complaints are sent to the Engadine
than should properly come. It certainly seems as
if this immensely bracing air would speedily kill
if it did not cure. “Nine months winter and
three months cold” is the popular saying here
about the climate. Delicate persons are often so
enervated at first by the peculiar atmosphere
that they cannot eat or sleep or rest in any
way.—Indeed, with certain constitutions this air
never agrees.—This condition, however, usually
passes off in a few days; they feel able to move
mountains, and accomplish wonders in the way
of climbing; while people who are well in ordinary
climates come here and forget that they are
mortal. There is something in the air that gives
one giant strength and endurance,—something
inexpressibly delightful, buoyant, and inspiring,—something
that clears away all cobwebs from the
brain.



[pg!154]

THE ENGADINE.
=============


They say that Auerbach has thought and
written much in the beautiful Engadine,—that
many of his mountain descriptions
are from this grand country. Somewhere
here a seat is shown where he sits and plans
and dreams. Whether it is due to “ozone,” or
whatever it may be, the heart and lungs do unusual
work here, and the brain too. It would
seem that here, if anywhere, would come inspiration.
And yet, when we remember that Schiller
wrote his “Wilhelm Tell” without ever seeing
Switzerland, it teaches us that wide, free genius
can soar in a narrow room, and only petty, mediocre
talent is really dependent upon its surroundings.

They who view the Alps with a critic's eye say
that the contours in the Engadine are too sharply
defined, the rocks too bold and rugged, the snow
too glaring white, the air too clear, the whole effect
too hard and unmanageable,—all lacking the
slight haze that is necessary to a perfect mountain
view. This makes me feel very ignorant and small,
for I have not yet learned to speak with condescending
approval of one landscape, and with dignified,
discriminating censure of another. And
yet I don't believe these lofty critics could have
made a grander, nobler Engadine if they had had
the fashioning of it; and if Nature is lovely in
her soft, smiling scenes, in her hazes and mists
and tender lights, so is she also magnificent in her
strength and rugged grandeur, sublime in her stillness,
her frozen heights, as in the Engadine. Most
unutterably impressive is she here.

And who shall say that here she does not also
show us loveliness? The Maloja Pass, for instance,
that leads, in its remarkable steep, zigzag down,
down through fragrant woods, where vines and
moss droop over the rocks, till it reaches a milder
temperature, and the warm breath of Italy seems
to touch your cheek. You stand high on the cliff
and look down into the valley, following every curious
winding of the road till it meets the plain,
and goes off towards Chiavenna far away. When
we saw the Maloja, a group of men who looked
like bandits were gathered round a fire and a kettle
where *polenta* was cooking. The people here
live on *polenta*. It isn't at all bad. We know,
because we've tasted it. We taste everything.
There is a pretty lake and a pretty waterfall here,
concealed, and well worth finding; but the particular
“sight,” the especial thing you must do, is to
stand on the cliff opposite the inn, and watch the
*diligence* as it descends a thousand feet in twenty
minutes.

Behind the Kurhaus is a hill with shady seats
among the trees, where you can sit by one of
those impatient, impetuous little mountain brooks
that come rushing down from the glaciers, and
that act so young and excited about everything;
and while it talks to you and tells you its wild
stories and eager hopes, you say to it, “Wait till
you've seen a little more of the world, my dear,
and you'll take things more quietly.” And the
water tumbles and foams over the rocks, and sings
strange things in your ears, and you look off upon
three peaks with their heads close together like
Michael Angelo's “Three Fates.” You learn to
love them very much, and to watch their different
expressions. One is greener, softer, milder than
the others. One is sharp, cruel, inflexible rock.
On one, great snow-masses forever lie in stillness,
solemnity, and peace.

A little winding path by the water's edge leads
to Crestalta. Here surely it is not grand, but
lovely, every inch of the way. The Inn, which
seems like an old friend now, so often has it met
us in the Tyrol days, we visit here at its birthplace,
and hear its baby name, the *Sela*, for it is
not the Inn till it leaves the Lake of St. Moritz.
A coquettish, wayward, merry stream it is in its
youth,—bubbling and laughing in little falls,—stopping
to rest in clear enchanted lakes, whose
depths reflect the skies and clouds and soft green
banks and Alpine cedars, then rushing on, frolicking
and singing boldly as it goes.

These are small things to do. They are for the
first day, before one is accustomed to the air here.
They are for invalids who must not work for their
enjoyment. But for the strong, for the blessed
ones with clear heads and tireless feet, what is
there *not* to see that is grand and inspiring!

O, these mountains, these magical, giant mountains!
How their silence, their vastness, their terrible
beauty, speak to our restless hearts! I can
well believe that mountain races are, as it is said,
deeply superstitious, for there are times when the
effect of the mighty, stern heights is simply crushing.
Old heathenish fancies, without comfort,
without hope, come to us in spite of ourselves.
What are we, our poor little life-stories, our hopes,
and our heart-breakings, our wild storms, and
short, sweet, sunny days, before these cold, eternal
hills? Above their purple sublimity are cruel
pagan gods, who do not hear though we cry to
them in agony. Our feet bleed. Our hearts are
faint. The chasms swallow us. Rocks crush us.
Nature is a cruel, mighty tyrant, and our enemy.

But not only thus do the mountains speak. So
many voices have they! So many songs and
poems and mysteries and tragedies and glories do
they tell you! So many strong, sweet chords do
they strike in your soul! Did they crush you
yesterday? Ah, how they lift you up to-day, and
heal the wounds they themselves have made, and
comfort you with a sweet and noble comfort! They
tell you how little you are, but they give you a
great patience with your own littleness. They bid
you look up, as they do, to the heavens above;
to stand firm, as they stand firm; to take to yourself
the beauty and the grace of passing sunshine,
of bird and flower and tree, and song of brook; to
take it and rejoice and be glad in it, though the
gray, sad cliffs are not concealed, and the sorrowful
wind moans in the pines. They whisper unutterable
things to you of this mystery we call
life,—things which you never, never felt before.
They fill you with infinite patience and tenderness,
and send you forth to meet your fate with the
heart of a hero. Ah, what a pity it is that we
must ever leave the mountains; and what a pity
it is that, if we should remain, the mountains
might leave us,—might speak less to us, sustain
and elevate us less! And yet it does not seem as
if a heart that had a spark of reverence in it
could ever grow too familiar with such majesty.

From St. Moritz it is not easy to say what excursion
or mountain tramp is the most enjoyable,
but, if I were positively obliged to give my opinion,
I think it would be in favor of the Bernina Pass
and Palü Glacier. You go first to Pontresiná,—a
place, by the way, especially liked and frequented
by the English. With the mountains crowding
round it, and its glimpse of the Roseg Glacier, it
is certainly very beautiful. Samaden, Pontresiná,
and St. Moritz have rival claims and rival champions.
St. Moritz is, however, to us indisputably
superior. Not that we love Pontresiná less, but
that we love St. Moritz more.

On this road the superb Morteratsch Glacier
greets you, imbedded between Piz Chalchang and
Mont Pers, and you see the whole Bernina group.
The Morteratsch Glacier has beautiful blue ice-caves,
real ones, not artificial as in Interlaken.

From Pontresiná you go higher and higher to
the Bernina hospice, two thousand feet above St.
Moritz. Here, side by side, are two small lakes,
the Lago Nero and the Lago Bianco. The “white”
lake, coming from the glaciers, is the lightest possible
grayish-green, and the dark one is spring
water, and looks purplish-blue beside it. It is
strange to think how far apart the waters of the
sister lakes flow,—the Lago Nero into the Inn,
so to the Danube and Black Sea, while the Lago
Bianco, through the Adda, finds its way to the
Adriatic.

To the hospice you can ride, but after that you
must walk over rough rocks and snow, and
past pools where feathery white flowers stand up
straight on tall, slight, stiff stalks, like proud,
shy girls, and at last you are at the Alp Grüm,
where wonderful things lie before your eyes. The
magnificent Palü Glacier is separated from you
only by a narrow valley. You stand before it as
the sun pours down on its vast whiteness, and
on the mountain range in which it lies. Far
below in the ravine the road goes winding away to
Italy, past the villages of Poschiavo and Le Prese:
above, the eternal snows; below, the soft, blooming
valley, lovely as a smile of Spring, and in the
distance even a hint of sunny Italy, for you gaze
afar off upon its mountains wistfully, and feel like
Moses looking into the Promised Land.

Everywhere are the brave little Alpine flowers.
They are very dear, and one learns to feel a peculiar
tenderness towards them, as well as to be
astonished at their variety and abundance. There
are many tiny ones whose names I do not know,
but their little star-faces smile at you from amazingly
rough, high places.

About the Edelweiss much fiction has been written.
It is true that it often grows in rather inaccessible
spots, but it is not at all necessary to peril
one's life in order to pluck it; and we must regretfully
abandon the pretty, old legend that the bold
mountaineer, when he brings the flower to his
sweetheart, gives her also the proof of his valor
and devotion, and his willingness to risk all for
her dear sake. It is interesting and exciting to
find these flowers,—they do grow at a noble
height,—and here in the Engadine, at this season,
and in this vicinity, they are rare. But,
sweethearts, of all ages, sexes, and conditions,
who will shortly receive from me Edelweiss in letters,
do not be disappointed to hear that, though
my hands were full to overflowing, I plucked them
in gay security, with my feet on firm ground; and
there was only one single place where it wasn't
pleasant to look down, or, to be more impressive,
where a yawning abyss threatened to ingulf me.

The Edelweiss is certainly very good to find and
send home in a letter, it is so suggestive of dangerous
cliffs, horrible ravines, and immense daring,
as well as telling very sweetly its little story of
blooming in lonely beauty on the high Alps; but
that any especial valor is required to obtain it, is,
if the truth be told, a mere fable.

And the last grain of romance vanishes when
we hear that shrewd guides bring the flowers down
from their own heights, and set them in the path
of enthusiastic but not high-climbing ladies, who
in their delight are wildly lavish of fees. The
Devil can quote Scripture for his purpose, and the
pure, precious little flower can be used as a trap
by mercenary man.


[pg!161]


RAGATZ.
=======


Over the Albula Pass we came from St.
Moritz to Chur, and when we went, it
was by the Julia. How grand we feel
going over these great mountain-passes,
where Roman and German emperors, with all their
vast armies, their high hopes and ambitions, have
trod, it is quite impossible to express. The emperors
are dead and gone, and we, an insignificant
but merry little party, ride demurely over the selfsame
route. Blessed thought that the mountains
are meant for us as much as they were for the
emperors; that the beauty and grandeur and loveliness
of nature, everywhere, is our own to enjoy;
that it has been waiting through the ages, even
for us, to this day! It is our own. No king or
conqueror has a larger claim.

This was one of the tranquil, joyous days that
have so much in them,—a day of clear thoughts,
unwearying feet, unspeakable appreciation of nature,
and good-will towards humanity. There was
a long, bright flood of sunshine, with beautiful
flakes of clouds floating before a fresh mountain
wind. The great mountains looked solemnly at
us, and the happy laugh of a little child-friend
echoed through the sombre ravines.

We passed queer old villages; small dun cattle
with antelope eyes and fragrant breath; wise-looking
goats; pastures that stretched out their vivid
green carpets on the mountain-side; and, above all,
the great snow-slopes.

We got some supper in a very grave little village.
The woman who waited upon us looked as
if she had never smiled. This made us want somebody
to be funny. The other travellers were
matter-of-fact Englishmen, some heavy Jews, and
particularly *eagle*-looking Americans. The little
woman gave us good coffee, sweet black-bread
and sweeter butter, and eggs so rich and fresh
we felt that they would instantly transform our
famishing selves into Samsons. These eggs had
chocolate-colored shells. The Englishmen, the
Eagles, and the Jews ate solemnly, as if they had
eaten brown eggs from their cradles. But we,
with that curiosity which, whatever it may be to
others, is in our opinion our most invaluable travelling
companion,—of more profit and importance
than all the guide-books and maps, often more
really helpful than friends who have made what
they call “the tour of Europe” three times,—inquired:—

“*Why*, do Swiss hens lay brown eggs?”

To this innocent inquiry the little woman with
sombre mien replied that she had boiled the eggs
in our coffee. “Water was scarce, and she always
did it.”

Not discouraged, we remarked we would like to
buy the hen that could lay such rich, delicate
eggs, and take her away in our travelling-bag.
The fire and the coffee-pot we might be able to
establish elsewhere, but that hen was a *rara avis*.
This small pleasantry caused a little cold ghost of
a smile to flit over her lips, but it was gone in an
instant, and she was counting francs in her coffee-colored
palm.

A night in Chur, then the next morning a short
ride by rail, and we are in Ragatz. Do you know
what Ragatz is? It is, in the first place, to us at
least, a surprise; its name is so harsh and ugly,
and the place is so soft, pretty, and alluring. And
coming from that wonderful, electrifying St. Moritz
air directly here, is like dropping from the
North Pole to the heart of the tropics. It is said
the change should not be made too suddenly, that
one should stay a day or two on the route, which
seems reasonable. Happily our strength is not
impaired by the new atmosphere, but we feel very
much amazed. We cannot at once recover ourselves.
There, it was, as somebody says, “always
early morning.” Here, it is “always afternoon.”
There, we had broad outlooks, stern, rough lines,
and vast snow-fields. Here, we are in a lovely
garden, luxuriant with flowers. Grapes hang, rich
and heavy, on the trellises. Shade-trees droop
over enticing walks and rustic seats. Oleanders
and pomegranate-trees, with their flame-colored
tropical blossoms, stand in long rows by the lawns.
Children paddle about in tiny boats on little lakes.
Rustic bridges cross the stream here and there.
A young English girl, with golden hair so long and
luxuriant that it rather unpleasantly suggests Magdalen
as it falls in great waves to the ground, sits
sketching, and wears a thin blue jaconet gown,—wonderful
sight is that blue jaconet! Only yesterday
we left the region of sealskin sacques, breakfast-shawls,
and shivers.

The hotel is most charmingly situated. Did I ever
recommend a hotel in my life? It is a rash thing
to do, but I feel impelled to advise people to come
here to the Quellenhof. *We* live, not in the hotel
proper, but in one of the “dependencies,” the Hermitage,
a kind of châlet. It is delightful to live
in a Hermitage, let me tell you. Fuchsias and
asters and scarlet geraniums make a glory about
our door. Our windows and balconies look on the
lake just below. Great trees bend over us, and
green mountain slopes come down to meet us on
the other side. Our Hermitage is a quiet, restful
nest. The people occupying the different rooms
go softly in and out. We never meet them.
Marie, with her white cap and white apron, opens
the door for us as we stand under the fuchsia-covered
porch. We hear no hurrying steps, no waiters
and bells, or any hotel noises. Every moment
we like our Hermitage better, and we really think
we own it. It is all very sweet and soft and
lotus-eating here, with balmy odors, and drowsy
hum of bees, and mellow, golden lights on the
mountains. We feel as if a magician had touched
us with his wand, and whirled us off into another
planet. No one can say that we as a party have
not a goodly share of the wisdom that takes things
as they come,—but Ragatz after St. Moritz!

That which drew us here is what draws everybody
to Ragatz,—that is, everybody who is not
sent by a physician to drink the water and take
the baths,—the celebrated Pfaffer's Gorge. It is
well worth a long journey and much fatigue and
trouble. From Ragatz you walk through the little
village, then along a narrow road between immense
limestone cliffs, where the Tamina, that most audacious
of mountain streams, hurls itself angrily
by you. The cliffs are in some places eight hundred
feet high, and the Gorge is often extremely
narrow. You pass beneath the vast overhanging
rocks, the two sides leaning so far towards each
other that they almost meet in a natural bridge.
It is cold, damp, and in gloom where you are. You
look up and see the trees and sunlight far, far
above you,—the rocks, at times, shut out the
sky,—and the Tamina acts like a mad thing that
has broken loose, as it sweeps through the sombre
Gorge.

After the walk,—I had no ideas of time or
distance in regard to it; everything else was so
impressive these trifles were banished from my
mind,—we reached the hot springs, did what
other people did, and were greatly astonished.

A man had insisted upon putting shawls upon
all the ladies of the party. Another man now
insists upon removing them. There is a cavern
before you which looks very black and Mephistophelian.
Everybody slowly walks in,—you too.
It is dark where your feet tread. There are one
or two men with uncertain, wavering lights that
seem designed to deceive the very elect. You begin
to dread snares and pitfalls. The atmosphere
grows hotter, more oppressive, and more suggestive
every instant. You are certain that you smell
brimstone, and expect to see cloven hoofs. You go
but two or three steps, and remain but a few seconds,
the temperature of the cavern is so high, but
you feel as if you were in the bowels of the earth.
A man with a light passes you a glass, and you
fancy you are going to drink molten lead or lava,
or something appropriate to the scene, and are
rather disappointed to find it tastes uncommonly
like hot water, pure and simple.

Then you turn and go into the light of day, and
everybody has a boiled look, every face is covered
with moisture; and the outer air sends such a chill
to your very soul, you bless the man whom a few
moments before you had scorned when he hung
the ugly brown shawl on your shoulders. You
seize it with thankfulness, and back again you go
between the massive rocky walls with the Tamina
shouting boisterously in your ears.

There is a bath-house near the Gorge for people
who wish to take the waters near their source.
The sunlight touches it in the height of summer
only between ten and four. People go there and
stay, why, I cannot imagine, unless they have lost,
or wish to lose, their senses. The guide-books
speak respectfully of its accommodations, but it is
the dreariest house I ever saw, with a monastic, or
rather, prison look, that is appalling; and the girl
who brings you bread-and-butter and wine looks
at you with a reproving gloom in her eyes, as if
all days *must* be “dark and dreary.” We felt quite
frivolous and out of place, lost our appetite, grew
somewhat frightened, and ran away as soon as
possible.

The baths at the Quellenhof are pleasant, and
the water, though conveyed through a conduit two
miles and a half long, loses very little of its heat.
It is perfectly clear, free from taste or smell, and
resembles, they say, the waters of Wildbad and
Gastein. An eminent German physician told us
something the other day in regard to the efficacy
of these crowded baths here, there, and elsewhere
in this part of the world,—something that was
both funny and unpleasant to believe. Although
it is not my theory but his plainly expressed
opinion, I shall only venture to whisper it for fear
of offending somebody. He says it is not by the
peculiar efficacy of any particular kind of water
that the bathers in general are benefited, but by
the simple virtue of pure water freely used; that
many people at home do not bathe habitually;
and when a daily bath for five or six weeks, in a
place where they live simply and breathe pure air,
has invigorated them, they gratefully ascribe their
improvement to sulphur or iron or carbonic acid
or some other agent, which is really quite innocent
of special interposition in their case.

Beside the baths and the Gorge and its ways of
pleasantness in general, Ragatz has many pretty
walks along the hills between houses and gardens,
and up steep, zigzag forest-paths to the ruins of
Freudenberg and Wartenstein. A broad, sunny
landscape lies before you,—the valley of the Rhine,
Falknis in the background, green pastures and
still waters. Blessed are the eyes that see what
we see.



[pg!168]

A FLYING TRIP TO THE RHINE FALLS.
=================================


There was the rock upon which the Lorelei
used to sit and comb her golden
hair, and sing her wondrous melodies,
and lure men to destruction? Near St.
Graz, there have been and are, I suppose, Loreleis
enough in the world besides the famous maiden of
the poem. We found an admirable place for one,
yesterday, on the top of the great rock that stands
quivering in the Falls of the Rhine. We had sent
our heavy luggage on to Zurich, with that wisdom
which often characterizes us, and, free as air except
for hand-bags, went to see the Rhine Falls.

And first we saw Schaffhausen, which has a
pretty, picturesque, mediæval air, as it lies among
the hills and vineyards on the banks of the Rhine.
It has its old cathedral, with the celebrated bell
cast in 1486, which bears the inscription that suggested
to Schiller—as everybody knows—his
“Song of the Bell,”—“Vivas voco, mortuos
plango, fulgura frango”; but besides this there is
not much to see except the tranquil landscape,
and that, fortunately, one does not lose by going
farther.

Most people are, I presume, disappointed in the
Falls of the Rhine. At least, I know that many
of my own countrymen pronounce them not worth
seeing “after Niagara.” But—dare I make this
mortifying confession?—what if it is not, “after
Niagara”? What if Niagara is still to you in the
indefinite distance? It ought not to be, of course.
(We all know very well “nobody should go to
Europe who has not seen Niagara.”) But what if
it *is*? Under such circumstances may not one
find beauty here?

And even with the remembrance of Niagara
clear in your mind, I do not know why the Rhine
Falls, so utterly different in character, may not
still be lovely.

Their height is estimated, including the rapids
and whirlpools and all, at about one hundred feet,
which must be very generous measurement, and
they are three hundred and eighty feet broad. It
may have been in part owing to the exquisite atmosphere
of the day we visited them, it may be
we expected too little on account of the tales our
friends had told us, but certainly we found them
very lovely, and Nature seems to have given their
surroundings a peculiar grace. The shores are so
extremely pretty,—the high, bold cliff on one
side, the soft green slopes on the other; the row
of tall, stiff poplars, that look as prim as the typical
New England housekeeper, and give the landscape
that curiously neat appearance, as if everything
were swept and dusted. Then the rocks,
clothed with vines and moss and shrubs and little
trees, rise with so fine an effect in the midst of the
white foaming waters.

We saw the falls from every point,—from above
on the cliff; [what a pity there isn't a fine old,
tumble-down, “ivy-mantled tower” there, instead
of the painted, restaurant-looking Schloss Laufen!]
from the little pavilion and platform at the side,
where the foam dashes all over you, and you are
deafened by the roar; from the top of the central
rock in the falls; and from the Neuhausen side.

To go from shore to shore, just below the falls,
is really quite an adventure. Your funny flat-boat
careens about in the most eccentric and inconsequent
manner; the spray envelops you; it all
looks very dangerous, and is not in the least. Still
more eventful is a voyage to the central rock, after
which our boatman fastens his skiff—which is a
broad-bottomed scow, to be exact, but skiff sounds
more poetical—securely. You alight on the wet
stones, ascend the rough steps cut in the rock, and
feel that you are doing a novel and interesting
thing. On the top, amid the shrubs and vines,
where the Lorelei ought to be, is only an upright
iron rod. From here we thought the falls were
seen to the best advantage, and it was a delightful
experience to be so near and yet so far,—to stand
so securely amid the foaming, seething mass, to be
actually in the deafening roar. Mother Nature was
in a complacent mood when she placed those rocks
in the midst of the mighty waters. But no,—she
placed the rocks there long ago, and merely brought
Father Rhine towards them in later days. So say
the wise.

There were myriads of rainbows in the spray.
On one side was brilliant sunshine flashing on soft
fields and vine-covered hills; on the other, as a
most effective background, against which the whiteness
of the foam shone out, low black thunderclouds.
It was a singular picture, with its strongly
contrasting hues. We could not help being glad
that we had never seen Niagara, we found so much
here to delight in.

But, friends, a word of advice that comes from
depths of sad experience. See Niagara before you
come here. At least, read up Niagara. Be perfectly
able to answer all questions as to Niagara's
height, breadth, and volume, and the character of
the emotions created in an appreciative soul by
seeing Niagara. If you cannot, you will suffer.
Somebody will ask you a Niagara question suddenly
at a dinner-party, and you will either reply with
shame that you do not know, or with the courage
of despair you will make an utterly wild guess,
and say something that cannot possibly be true.
There are a great many people in Germany—extremely
intelligent, and to whom it is a delight to
listen—who are wonders of information and appreciation
when they talk about German literature
and German art; are also on easy terms with the
ancient Greeks, and possibly with Sanscrit; but
when they approach America it is as if that
beloved land were an undiscovered country,—an
“unsuspected isle in far-off seas.” The one
thing they positively know is that it has a Niagara.
Therefore arm yourselves with formidable statistics,
and pass unscathed and victorious through the
inevitable volley of questions. Personally, I feel
that I owe Niagara a never-dying grudge; for,
since the harrowing examinations of school committees
in my youthful days, never have I been
subjected to catechisms so pertinacious and embarrassing
as this pride of our land has caused me.
I have succeeded at last in fixing the main figures
in my memory, but am always more or less nervous
when the examination threatens to embrace
the adjacent country. If it advances like heavy
battalions, I can calmly meet it. But when it
comes like light cavalry, is brilliant and inclined
to skirmish, I tremble.

It is also well—may I add, for the benefit of
young women contemplating a sojourn in Europe?—to
know the population of your native town, its
area, its distance from the coast, the length of the
river upon which it is situated,—above all, its latitude
and longitude. This last is of incalculable
importance. It is safe to assume that the elderly
German who doesn't instantly embark upon Niagara
will eagerly plunge into latitude and longitude.
Perhaps you think you know all these
things; others equally confident have been rudely
torn from their false security. Of course it is
what we all learned in the primary schools, and we
are expected to know it still; but it is astonishing
what clouds of uncertainty envelop the understanding
when you are suddenly asked in a foreign
tongue, before eight or ten strangers, for the
very simplest facts. Men are so stupid about such
things, you know! They never ask where the May-flowers
grow, where the prettiest walks are, where
you like to drive at sunset, from what point the
light and shade on the hills over the river is loveliest,—in
fact, anything of real importance; but
always they demand these dreary statistics. Was
there never a great man who hated arithmetic?

At the Falls of the Rhine people, I regret to
say, make money too palpably. You buy a ticket
of a young woman in a pavilion, and she says it
will take you over the foaming billows and back
again. A man rows you across,—or, rather, propels
the boat in a remarkable manner to the opposite
shore,—when another man demands some
more francs for allowing you to stand on his platform,
get very wet and very enthusiastic. You
ascend to Schloss Laufen, and pay a franc for looking
at the Falls from that point of view. Eager to
see them from every possible place, you come down
and tell your ferryman to take you to the great rock,
that looks so tempting, so hazardous, so altogether
enticing, with the foam dashing against it. The
boat, as it makes this passage, is the most agitated
object imaginable. You survey the Falls from the
rock, and at last are content. You gather a few
leaves and some of the common flowers that grow
upon it, and you almost, from force of habit, give it
also a franc. Then the boat, with convulsive lurches
and dippings and bobbings, plunges through the
rough waters, and finally you reach your original
point of embarkation. The ferryman, an innocent-looking
blond,—your innocent-looking blonds
are invariably the worst kind of people to deal
with,—smilingly demands a fabulous number of
francs, not alone because he has taken you to the
rock, which you knew was an extra, but for the
whole trip, for which you have already paid. You
are afraid of losing your train. Your friends are
high on the bank, wildly beckoning, and waving
frantic handkerchiefs from afar. There is no time
for expostulation, and already fresh victims are
filling the boat. You mutter,—

   | “Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,”

which would be a greater comfort if he understood
English as well as he does extortion, and then you
climb the steep bank and hurry after the retreating
figures. You depart impressed with the magnitude
of the Falls of the Rhine, and quite conscious
of a not insignificant fall of francs in your
purse.


[pg!175]


DOWN FROM THE HIGH ALPS.
========================


It is not wise to visit what are called the
High Alps first and then make the tour
of the Swiss cities. This order should
be reversed. From loveliness we should
ascend to grandeur, and not come down from
Engadine heights, and space and air, to cities,
pretty lakes, purplish hills, and white peaks in the
background. If we were to see Switzerland again
for the first time—isn't this a tolerably good
Irishism?—and knew as much about it as we do
now,—which doesn't by any means imply that
we couldn't easily know more,—we would certainly
not do as we have done, especially if, as at
present, we were expected to chronicle our emotions.
The fact is, when you come down from the
heights there is a palpable ebb in your impressions.
How can it be otherwise? You glide in
well-oiled grooves over the regular routes of travel.
You see what you have seen in pictures and read
of in books all your life. It is perfectly familiar,
and how can you have the audacity to be very
diffuse about it? Experiences in well-conducted
hotels are not so suggestive as in the rougher
mountain life. It is all very comfortable, very
lovely. Strange—is it not?—that there come
moments when one tires of the comfort and is impatient
with the loveliness, and longs for something
different,—for grand heights, even if the
rocks towering to the skies are fierce and cruel
looking; for the depth of the gloomy ravines; for
the loneliness and cold of the gray, barren peaks;
for the sense of space, immensity, even when harshness
goes with it!

We have, then, left the High Alps. We are
now in the region of fine hotels, brilliantly lighted
rooms, flirtations on the piazza, and long trains.
We go where all the world goes, see what all
the world sees, fare sumptuously every day, and,
whether we are arrayed in purple and fine linen
or not, at least we see other people so clothed
upon.

Zurich, the busy, flourishing, learned Swiss
town on its pretty lake, we have just left, with its
two rivers running up through the heart of it;
with its bridges and its pleasure-boats; the villages
and orchards and vineyards on the fertile banks of
the lake as far as the eye can reach; the lovely
views of the Alps,—the perpendicular Reisettstock;
the Drusberg, “like a winding staircase”;
the Kammlisstock; great horns in the Rorstock
chain; the pyramidal Bristenstock, which is on the
St. Gothard route; and many, many others, if the
day be clear. Beautiful views of land and lake
you can get from different points here. It certainly
could have been nothing less than lack of
amiability or lack of taste that made us dissatisfied.
Had we seen it first, we might have
been beside ourselves with delight. “Yes, it is
very beautiful,” we say, quite calmly, and it is;
but—

Zurich was in short, to us, agreeable, but not
fascinating. We liked it, but left it without a regret.
Our emotions were not largely called into
play by anything. Perhaps our liveliest sensation
was occasioned by the discovery that at that excellent
hotel, the Baur au Lac, we were formally requested
to fee no one, a reasonable amount for
service being charged daily in the bill. This was
a relief indeed. Often one would gladly pay
double the sum he gives in fees merely to escape
the hungry eyes and ever-ready palms. Another
sensation was seeing Count Arnim. He is quite
gray, and looks delicate.

The people in the hotels are often a source of
amusement to us. We consider them fair game,
when they are very comical, because—who
knows?—perhaps we also are amusing to them.
Some faces, however, look too bored and miserable
to be amused by anything. It is very inelegant
never to be bored,—to like so many different
people, ways, thoughts, things. We often feel
mortified that we are so much amused, but the
fault is ineradicable.

There is an Englishwoman of rank, whom we
have met recently in our wanderings,—exactly
where I dare not tell. She comes every day to
*table d'hôte* with a new bonnet, and each bonnet
is more marvellously self-assertive than its predecessor.
She bears a well-known name. She is
my Lady E——ton; but if she were only Mrs.
Stubbs from Vermont, I should say she had more
bonnets, more impudence, and more vulgar curiosity
than any woman I had ever seen. She seized
the small boy of our party in her clutches at dinner,
where an unlucky chance placed him by her
side, and questioned him minutely and mercilessly
during the six courses. Who was his father?
Who was his mother? Had he a sister? Had he
a brother? What did his father *do*? Where did
he live, and how? Where did we come from?
Where were we going? How long were we going to
stay? And what were all our names? Was the
young lady engaged to be married to the young
man? How old was the child's mamma? How
old were we all? And so on *ad infinitum*. The
boy, though old enough to feel indignant, was not
old enough to know how to escape, and so helplessly,
with painful accuracy, answered her questions;
but on the very delicate point of age we were
providentially protected by a childish, honest “I
don't know.” Some of us who are more worldly-wise
and wicked than the little victim heartily regretted
fate had not given us instead of him to our
lady of the bonnets. It would have been so delicious
to make her ribbons flutter with amazement
at the astonishing tales told by us in reply! Certainly,
under such circumstances, it is legitimate
to call in a little imagination to one's aid.

Our cousins, the English, whom we meet on the
Continent, are very much like the little girl of the
nursery-rhyme,—when they are good they are
“awfully good,” and when they are bad they are
“horrid.” (No one is more truly kind, refined, and
charming than an agreeable Englishman or Englishwoman;
no one more utterly absurd than a
disagreeable one.) Possibly this impresses us the
more strongly on account of the cousinship. Aren't
our own unpleasant relatives invariably a thousand
times more odious to us than other people's?

I saw a pantomime the other day which, though
brief, was full of meaning. A German lady and
gentleman, quiet-looking, well-bred people, were
walking through a long hotel corridor. The gentleman
stepped forward in order to open the door
of the *salon* for the lady. From another door
emerges an Englishman with an unattractive face
and dull, pompous manner. He is also *en route*
for the *salon*, and, not noticing the lady, steps
between the two. The German throws open the
door and waits. The burly Englishman, solemn
but gratified, accepting the supposed courtesy as a
perfectly fitting tribute from that inferior being, a
foreigner, to himself and the great English nation,
pauses and makes in acknowledgment a profound
bow, which, being utterly superfluous and unexpected,
strikes the lady coming along rapidly to
pass through the doorway, and, naturally imagining
the second gentleman, too, was waiting for
her, literally and with force *strikes* her and nearly
annihilates her. The Englishman turns in utter
wonder and gazes at the lady. The three gaze at
one another. Everybody says, “I beg your pardon.”
The Englishman, as the facts dawn upon
his comprehension, has the grace to turn very red,
but has not the grace to laugh, which would be
the only sensible thing to do,—too sensible, apparently,
for a man who goes about thinking
strange gentlemen will delight in smoothing his
path and opening doors for him. Of course, he
ought to have known instinctively, there was a
lady in the case, as there always is. The two
Germans were too polite to laugh unless he would.
But he did not even smile, which proclaimed his
stupidity more clearly than all which had gone
before; and presently three very constrained faces—one
red and sullen, two with dancing eyes and
lips half bitten through—appeared in the *salon*,
which, this time, the lady entered first. It isn't
so very funny to tell, but the scene was so funny
to witness, it really seemed a privilege to be the
solitary spectator.

From Zurich on to Lucerne, with pretty pictures
all the way from the car windows. We anticipated
feeling romantic here, but so far all we
know is that Lucerne looks very drab. It rains
in torrents, a hopeless, heavy flood. The lake
does not smile at us, or dimple or ripple, as we
have read it is in the habit of doing. The mountains
we ought to be seeing don't appear. The
streets are shockingly muddy. We cannot go to
see the Lion; and as to the Rigi, upon which our
hopes are set, there is small chance that it will
at present emerge from its clouds, and allow us to
behold from the Kulm the wonderful sunrise and
sunset which many go out for to see, but most,
alas! in vain.

Great Pilatus tells us to hope for nothing. He
is the barometer of the region. He is very big
and rugged and inspiring, and stands haughtily
apart from the other heights:—

   |               “Overhead,
   | Shaking his cloudy tresses loose in air,
   | Rises Pilatus with his windy pines.”

A popular rhyme runs to the effect that when
Pilatus wears his cap only, the day will be fair;
when he puts on his collar, you may yet venture;
but if he wears his sword, you'd better stay at
home. To-day he wears cap, collar, sword,—in
fact, is clothed with clouds, except for a moment
now and then, to his very feet. There are many
old legends about Pilatus and its caverns. One
of the oldest is, that Pontius Pilate, banished from
Galilee, fled here, and in anguish and remorse
threw himself into the lake; hence the name of
which the more matter-of-fact explanation is *Mons
Pileatus*, or “capped mountain.” If there were
sunshine, we would believe the latter simple and
reasonable definition. Now, in this dreary rain,
we take a gloomy satisfaction in the dark tale of
remorse,—the darker, more desperate and tragic
it is made, the better we like it.

Pilatus and the skies and wind and barometer,
and fate itself, apparently, are against us. But
the Rigi is still there. Behind the cloud is the
sun still shining,—patience is genius, and—we
wait.



[pg!182]

BY THE LAKE OF LUCERNE.
=======================


Who was so wicked as to call Lucerne
“drab”? If it were I, I don't remember
it, and I never will acknowledge it,
though the printed word stare me in the
face. After the rain it shone out in radiant colors,—the
pretty city with its quaint bridges, and the
Venice-look of some of the stone houses that rise
directly from the lake; the water plashing softly
against their foundations, the little boats moored
by their sides. People who have seen Venice are
at liberty to smile in a superior way if they wish.
We, who have not, will cherish our little fancies
until reality verifies them or proves them false.

And the lake,—

   | “The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, apparelled
   | In light, and lingering like a village maiden
   | Hid in the bosom of her native mountains,
   | Then pouring all her life into another's,
   | Changing her name and being,”—

how lovely it is! Roaming there at sunset was
an ever-memorable delight:—the happy-looking
people under the chestnut-trees on the shore, the
little boats dancing lightly about everywhere, the
pleasant dip of the oars, the chiming of evening
bells; on one side, the city, with its old watchtowers
and slender spires; over the water, the
piled-up purple mountains, with the warm opaline
sunset lights playing about them; behind, the long
range of pure-white peaks, catching the last rays
of the sun, glistening and gleaming gloriously,
while the lower world sinks into gloom, and even
they at last grow dim and vague, and still we float
on in drowsy indolence.

The narrow covered bridges, the one where the
faded old paintings represent scenes from Swiss
history, and the Mühlenbrücke with the “Dance
of Death” picture described in the “Golden Legend,”
were both interesting. Prince Henry and
Elsie seemed to go by with all the stream of life,—the
soldiers, and peasant-girls, and monks, and
workingmen in blouses, and children with baskets
on their backs; and queer old women we met as
we stood by the little shrine in the middle of the
bridge, peered in and saw the candles and flowers
and crucifixes, or looked out through the small
windows upon the swift waters beneath. So faint
and obscure are many of the paintings, yet we
found the ones we sought, and saw the

   |               “Young man singing to a nun
   | Who kneels at her devotions, but in kneeling
   | Turns round to look at him; and Death, meanwhile,
   | Is putting out the candles on the altar.”

The old church with the celebrated organ, which
may be heard every afternoon, has some carved
wood and stained glass that people go to see. Its
churchyard, so little, so old, so pitifully crowded,
is a sad place, like all the cemeteries I have yet
seen here. With their colored ornaments and
tinsel, their graves crowding one against another,
and the multitude of sad, black, attenuated little
crosses that have such a skeleton air, they are positively
heartbreaking: they seem infinitely more
mournful and oppressive than ours at home, with
their broad alleys, stately trees, and the peace and
beauty of their surroundings. There are two new-made
graves in the pavement here. You can't help
feeling sorry they are so very crowded. They
are covered with exquisite fresh flowers, which the
passer-by sprinkles from a font that stands near,
thus giving a blessing to the dead. We have had
ample opportunity to observe all the old monuments
and epitaphs without voluntarily making a
study of the churchyard, for the way to and from
our châlet led through it. To one very ancient
stone we felt positively grateful because its inscription
was funny:—

   | “Here lies in Christ Jesus
   |     Josepha Dub
   |       Jungfrau
   |       Aged 91.”

We were glad to have Miss Dub's somewhat
prolonged life of single-blessedness to smile over,
so heavy otherwise was the atmosphere of that
little churchyard.

The celebrated Lion of Lucerne we found even
more beautiful than we had anticipated. It was
larger and grander, and the photographs fail to
convey a true idea of it, and of the exact effect of
the mass of rock above it. It all comes before
you suddenly,—the high perpendicular sandstone
rock, the grotto in which the dying Lion lies,
pierced through by a broken lance, his paw sheltering
the Bourbon lily; the trees and creeping
plants on the very top of the cliff, at its base the
deep dark pool surrounded by trees and shrubs.
The Lion is cut out of the natural rock, a simple
and impressive memorial in honor of the officers
and soldiers of the Swiss Guard who fell in defence
of the Tuileries in 1792. They exhibit
Thorwaldsen's model in the little shop there,
which is one of the beguiling carved wood-ivory-amethyst
places where, I suppose, strong-souled
people are never tempted, but we, invariably.
There are lovely heads of Thorwaldsen here, by
the way, the most satisfactory I have seen.

We live in a *pension*, a châlet on the banks of
the lake. It has, like most things, its advantages
and disadvantages. From our balcony we look
out over shrubs and little trees upon the lovely
lake and the mountains. The establishment boasts
numerous retainers, mostly maids of all work; but
our attention is drawn exclusively to a small, pale
girl, whom we call the “Marchioness,” and a small,
pale boy, whom we call “Buttons.” Why need
such mites work so hard? Buttons is only fourteen,
and he drags heavy trunks about and moves
furniture and does the work of two men, besides
running on all the errands, and blacking all the
boots, and waiting at the table.

If you ask him if things are not too heavy he
smiles brightly and says, “No, indeed!” with the
air of a Hercules, so brave a heart has the little
man. So he goes about lifting and pulling and
staggering under heavy loads, and breathing hard,
and he has a hollow cough that it makes the heart
ache to hear from such a child; and it does not
require much wisdom to know what is going to
happen to *him* before long,—poor little Buttons!



[pg!187]

UP AND ON AND DOWN THE RIGI.
============================


Truth is mighty. We have been up the
Rigi Railway, and in spite of the beauty
before our eyes, instead of experiencing
grand and elevated emotions, instead of
remembering the words of some noble poet, instead
of doing anything we ought to have done,
we could only, prompted by a perverse spirit, say
over and over to ourselves,—

   | “General Gage was very brave,
   |   Very brave, particular;
   | He galloped up a precipice,
   |   And down a perpendicular.”

Our Rigi experience, taken all in all, was an
agreeable and a very amusing outing. We had
waited long till skies were fair enough for us to
venture, but at last Pilatus looked benign, and we
had the loveliest of sails across that lovely lake,
Lucerne; happy sunlight falling on blue water
and exquisite shores, shadows of floating clouds
reflected in the depths; and all the noble army of
mountains thronging before us, and beside us, and
behind us; bold barren hills rising sharply against
rich and varied foliage; superb white heights afar
off. At Vitznau we waited a short time for our
train, and employed ourselves happily in watching
a great group of fruit-sellers, who stood with huge
baskets of fine grapes, and poor peaches, and figs,
before the bench where we were sitting. After
the fashion of idle travellers, we audibly made our
comments upon the pretty scene:—

“If I had not already bought this fruit, I
should buy it of that little boy; I *always* like to
buy my fruit of little boys.”

“And if I had not already bought mine, I
should buy it of the man with the long tassel
on his cap: I dote on buying fruit of good-looking
young men with tassels on their caps.”

Who could dream that this utterly inane conversation
would be understood? But the face of
the youth with the tassel—he looked Italian,
although he was speaking German—suddenly
gleamed and sparkled mischievously, and showed
a row of white teeth, as he pointed at his head
and touched his tassel and said, “Cap! cap!”
with huge satisfaction and pride. Not another
English word could he say, but the similarity between
this and the German *Kappe*, and his quick
intuition, told him that we were alluding, and not
unpleasantly, to him.

Traveller, beware! Don't buy fresh figs at Vitznau.
We each pursued one to the bitter end;
then politely presented what remained in our paper
to a small fruit-seller, to devour if she liked, or to
sell over again to the next guileless person who
has never eaten fresh figs, and wants to be Oriental.
This civility on our part was received with laughter
by the whole group of men, women, and children,
who all seemed to perfectly appreciate the point of
the joke. It at least was consoling. Being cheated
in buying fruit is an evil that can be borne, but it
is an utterly crushing sensation when people won't
smile at your jokes.

The carriage which was to take us up the precipice
we surveyed with curiosity and pleasure,—one
broad car with open sides, affording perfect command
of the views, the seats running quite across
it and turned towards the locomotive, which, going
up, runs behind. Between the ordinary rails are
two rails with teeth, upon which a cog-wheel in the
locomotive works. The train runs very slowly,
only about three miles an hour, which is both safe
and favorable to enjoyment of the scenery, and in
case of accident the car can be instantly detached
from the locomotive and stopped. No one need
think that I am giving these few facts as information,
the very last thing one wants to find in a letter
from Europe. I would not presume,—and of
course almost everybody knows how the Rigi Railway
works; only, it happens, *I* did not know, and
I mention these things merely to refresh my own
memory.

So far as views are concerned, it is of course
preferable to make the ascent on foot. But where
one is bewildered by the affluence of beauty in
Switzerland, one feels willing to sacrifice something
of it to the new experience of this curious ride.
Some people, it is true, like to *say* they walked up
the Rigi. But why shall we indulge in so small a
vanity, when we can easily indulge in a greater
one,—several thousand feet greater, in fact?
When any one boasts, “I walked up the Rigi,” we
shall return quietly, “We ascended Piz Languard
in the Engadine.” For all the world knows the
Rigi is only 5,905 feet high, and Piz Languard is
10,715 feet. We felt that we could afford to ride
up the Rigi, then.

It was all extremely spirited and enjoyable, and
we could never forget how strongly we resembled
General Gage. The views were beautiful and
ever varying. The atmosphere was slightly hazy,
so that the dark Bürgenstock beyond the lake,
which lay in loveliness before us, became more
and more shadowy as we ascended; and the Stanserhorn
and Pilatus, and all the Alps of the Uri,
Engelberg, and Bernese Oberland, though distinct,
had yet the thinnest possible veil before their
faces; and the precipice above us was amazing to
see, and the perpendicular reached down, down
into deep ravines, where the narrow waterfalls
looked like silver threads among the trees and
bushes and gray, jagged rocks.

Reaching the hotels that stand on the tip-top
of the Kulm, we went to the one that had stoves,
which is the Schreiber, for “bitter chill it was.”
We had barely time to see the whole magnificent
prospect, before the clouds closed in upon us, enveloping
us in such a thoroughgoing way that we
could only allude to the sunset with shrieks of
laughter. And up to the time of the arrival of
the latest train came pilgrims from every quarter,
also bent on seeing the sunset from the Rigi Kulm.
Group after group came up through the mist from
the little station to the hotel, everybody very merry
over his own blighted hopes. Towards evening it
rained heavily, and there was nothing to do but
amuse one's self within doors. This is not difficult
at the Schreiber, an unusually large and well arranged
hotel. To find such spacious, brilliant
*salons* up here is a surprise; and when you look
about in them and see persons from many different
grades of society, many nations, and hear almost
every language of Europe, and realize that you
are all here together on a mountain-top and fairly
in the clouds, it is quite entertaining enough without
the books and papers which are at your service.
There were even two Egyptian princes there. The
small boy of our party, whom every one notices and
pets, and who, though speaking absolutely nothing
but English, has a miraculous way of being understood
and of conversing intimately with Russians,
Poles, Greeks, etc., was on friendly terms with the
Egyptians at once, and, after five minutes' acquaintance,
had made his usual demand for postage-stamps.
By the grace of childhood much is
possible.

Truly this Rigi Kulm is a curious place. It
is said the spectacle of sunrise rarely deigns to
appear before the expectant mortals who throng
there to see it. Half an hour before sunrise, in
fair weather, an Alpine horn rouses the sleepers,
and people rush out, often in fantastic garb, with
blankets round them and a generally wild-Indian
aspect. There is actually a notice on every bed-room
door in the Rigi Kulm House, requesting
guests to be good enough not to take the coverings
from the beds when they go to see the sunrise.

A strange, wild place was the Kulm as the night
advanced. The wind howled, and shrieked, and
moaned, and witches on broomsticks flew round and
round the house and tapped noisily on our window-panes.
If you don't believe it, stay there one night
in a storm, and then you will believe anything.
But though storm and night and cloud encircled
us, we saw vividly, as we sank into our dreams,
the whole superb landscape,—forests, lakes, hills,
towns, villages, plains, the waves of mist in the
valleys, the ever-changing light and shade, the
little fleecy clouds wreathing the glistening snowy
peaks, the sunshine and the glorious sky. The
wide, calm picture was before us still.

It was a night of witchy noises, of starts and
fears that we should oversleep and so lose the sunrise,
which, in spite of the storm, the predictions
of the weather-wise, and the promptings of common-sense,
it was impossible for our party not to
confidently expect, so strong an element in it was
the sanguine temperament. From midnight on,
one figure or another might have been seen standing
by the window, two excited, staring eyes peering
wildly through the shutters, anxious to discern
the first glimmerings of dawn; and from every
restless nap we would awake with a start, thinking
we surely heard that “horn.” If the other people
were as absurd as we, they were quite absurd
enough. That Rigi sunrise, whether it comes or
is only anticipated, is enough to shake a constitution
of iron.

But no horn sounded, and the lazy sun only
struggled through the clouds as late as eight
o'clock, when the view once more opened before us,
grand and beautiful in the sudden gleam of morning
sunshine. The Bernese Alps magnificently
white,—the Jungfrau, Finster-Aarhorn, many well-known
peaks in raiment of many colors; the lakes
of Lucerne and Zug directly below, and seven or
eight more lakes visible,—in all, a beautiful prospect,
and remarkable from the fact that the gaze
sweeps over an expanse of three hundred miles.

Very soon the clouds rolled in again. Not a
vestige of view remained, and a persistent drizzle
sent several car-loads of disappointed but amused
beings down the mountain. We all began to be
sceptical about that Rigi Kulm sunrise which we
had heard described in glowing words. We were
inclined to doubt whether any one, even the oldest
inhabitant, had ever seen it.

Some writer says it is dismal on the Kulm in
wet weather. I think if there were only one poor,
drenched, frozen mortal up there aspiring to gaze
upon the glory that is denied him, it would be dismal
in the extreme; but when so many, scores,
hundreds, go, and so few attain their object,—for
the summit of the Rigi is often surrounded with
clouds, even in fairest weather,—it is not in the
least dismal; on the contrary, highly enlivening,
and the trip well worth taking, though it end in
clouds.

In the language of a young Russian gentleman
who is learning English, “I have made a little tripe,
and enjoyed my little tripe delicious.”



[pg!194]

A KAISER FEST.
==============


We have been having in Stuttgart what an
intensely loyal newspaper-pen calls “Kaiser
days.” That is, days in which the
city has been glorified by the imperial
presence. We have been having, too, “Kaiser
weather,” for they say the hale old man whenever
he comes brings with him sunshine and clear skies.
Before his arrival all was flutter and expectation.
Festoons and wreaths and inscriptions, waving
banners, bright ribbons and flowers, were everywhere
displayed, giving the whole place a happy,
welcoming air. The decorations were extremely
effective and graceful. Königstrasse, the chief
business street, looked like a bower. Lovely great
arches were thrown across it, and every building
was gay with garlands, flowers, and flags. The
variety of the designs was as noticeable as their
beauty. Sometimes the colors of the Empire and
those of Würtemberg—the black, white, and red,
and black and red—floated together. Sometimes
to these was added the Stuttgart city colors, black
and yellow. Many buildings displayed, with these
three, the Prussian black and white, while other
great blocks had large flags of Prussia and Würtemberg
and the Empire as a centre ornament, and
myriads of little ones, representing all the German
States, fluttering from every window. One saw
often the yellow and red of Baden, the green and
white of Saxony, the white and red of Hesse-Darmstadt,
and the pretty, light-blue and white of Bavaria,
that always looks so innocent and girlish,
amid so much warlike red and bold yellow, as if
it were meant for dainty neckties and ribbons, and
not for the colors of a nation. Many good souls
mourn that even now, after its consolidation, the
German Fatherland is so very much divided into
little sections. Let them take comfort where it
may be found. Were not the rainbow hues of
banners and ribbons a goodly sight in the pleasant
September sunshine? Ribbons, too, have their
uses, and these, of many colors, were a thousand
times more effective than any one flag duplicated
again and again, even the stars and stripes. Pretty
and joyous were they, floating on the breeze:
they told tales of the different lands they represented,
and it was no light task at first to understand
their languages, there were so very many of
them, such multitudes of brave little banners of
brilliant hues, and all to welcome the Kaiser.

“Hail to our Kaiser!” said one inscription,—“Welcome
to Suabia!” Poems, too, in golden
letters fitly framed, were here and there waiting
to meet him and do him honor. But the prettiest
greeting was the simplest: “To the German Kaiser
a *Schwäbisch Grüss Gott*,” which was over an evergreen
arch in the Königstrasse, and looked so very
sturdy and honest in the midst of all the pomp
and the grand inscriptions that called him Barbablanca,
Imperator, and Triumphator. The house
of General von Schwarzkoppen, commander of the
Würtemberg troops, and the house of the Minister
of War also, displayed, with the national colors,
stacks of arms of every description, from those of
ancient times down to the present day, at regular
intervals between the windows, under long green
festoons. At the American Consul's the flags of
Germany hung with the stars and stripes. Ears
of corn and cornflowers, which are the Kaiser's
*Lieblingsblumen*, were woven into the wreaths on
one house. Everywhere were evidences of busy
fingers and happy ideas. At 4 P. M. of the 22d,
while a salute was thundering from the Schutzenhaus,
the imperial extra train entered the city.
Even the locomotive looked conscious of sustaining
unwonted honors, proudly wearing a garland
of oak-leaves round the smokestack, and a circle of
little fluttering flags.

At the moment the train came into the station
the band accompanying the guard of honor gave a
brilliant greeting, to which was added the “Hoch”
of welcome. His imperial majesty the Kaiser descended
from the car and embraced his majesty
the king, who was waiting on the platform to receive
him. While the crown prince, the grand
dukes of Baden and Mecklenbürg-Schwerin, Prince
Karl of Prussia, Prince August of Würtemberg,
and other distinguished persons were coming out
of the train, the Kaiser stepped in front of the soldiers
and greeted the generals, ministers, and all the
gentlemen of the court who were there, cordially.

Then the *Oberbürgermeister*, with committees in
black coats and white rosettes behind him, in behalf
of the city, made his little speech, which I will
not quote because we all know what mayors have
to say on such occasions, and this was quite the
proper thing, as mayors' addresses always are.
Indeed, if I only venture to give the first half-dozen
words, I fear that people who are not used
to the German form of expression will be alarmed,
and will say gently, “Not any more at present,
thank you.”

“Allerdurchlauchtigster grossnädigster Kaiser
and Konig allerguädigster Herr!” This is the
glorious way it began. Isn't it fine? Can any
one look at that “allerdurchlauchtigster” without
involuntarily making an obeisance? Aren't these
words entirely appropriate to head a huge procession
of aldermen, and other pompous municipal
boards, and do credit to a great city? And
wouldn't you or I be a little intimidated if any
one should say them to us?

The Kaiser is, however, accustomed to having
such epithets hurled at him. He was therefore
not dismayed, and replied somewhat as follows:—

    “This is the first time since the glorious war of the
    German nation that I have visited your city. I accept
    with pleasure the friendly reception which you have
    prepared for me, and heartily unite with you in the
    good wishes for our German Fatherland which you in
    your greeting have expressed. Until now we have only
    sowed, but the seed will spring up. In this I rely
    upon your king, who has ever loyally stood by my side.
    [Here he turned and extended his hand to the king.
    This as a dramatic ‘point’ was very good indeed.] Assure
    the city that I rejoice to be within its walls.”

After which were more and more “Hochs,” and
then the *illustrissimi* seated themselves in the carriages
which were waiting to convey them slowly
through the crowded streets. Along the whole
route where the procession passed were fire-companies
with glittering helmets, different clubs and
vereins, school-children,—the girls in white, with
wreaths of flowers to cast before the emperor,—and
soldiers, all stationed in two long lines. Through
the alley so formed the carriages passed, and, behind,
the dense crowd reached to the houses.

The people seemed very eager to see the Kaiser,
but their curiosity was more strongly manifested
than their enthusiasm, this first day of his visit,
at least so it appeared to us. The loyal Tagblatt,
however, says that the cries of the multitude rose
to the skies in a deafening clamor, or something
equally strong. But our eyes and ears told us
that while the people continuously cheered, they
were very temperate in their demonstrations. There
was more warmth and volume in the voices when
they greeted the crown prince. But Moltke alone
kindled the real fire of enthusiasm. They cheered
him in a perfect abandonment of delight. Hundreds
of his old soldiers gave the great field-marshal
far more homage than they accorded the
Kaiser. As soon as he came in sight there was
instantly something in the voices that one had
missed before.

In the procession, first, were some of the city
authorities, police and city guard, mounted, preceding
the carriage in which the Kaiser and king
rode. This was drawn by six white horses, with
outriders in scarlet-and-gold livery. The two
sovereigns chatted together, and the Kaiser looked
in a friendly way upon the people, often acknowledging
their greetings by a military salute.

Next came the crown prince,—“the stately,
thoroughly German hero, with his dark-blond full
beard,” says the German reporter,—and with him
were the grand duke of Baden and Adjutant Baldinger.
Many carriages followed, full of celebrities.
Prince Karl of Prussia was there, Prince August
von Würtemberg, Prince of Hohenzollern, Princes
Wilhelm and Hermann of Saxe-Weimar. In the
sixth carriage sat the great, silent Moltke, with his
calm face, received with storms of cheering, and he
would put up his hand with a deprecating gesture,
as if to appease the tumult his presence created.
There were, besides, magnates and dignitaries
of all descriptions in the long train. Generals
and majors and hofraths, counts and dukes, men
with well-known names, men recognized as brave
and brilliant soldiers; but it is scarcely expedient
to tell who they all are. My pen has so accustomed
itself to-day to writing the names of sovereigns,
and to linger lovingly over the beautiful six-syllable
words that cluster round a throne, it has
imbibed from these august sources a lofty exclusiveness.
It says it really can't be expected to
waste many strokes on mere dukes. “Everybody
of course cannot be born in the purple,” it admits,—this
it writes slowly with long, liberal sweeps,—“no
doubt counts and dukes are often very estimable
people, but really, you know, my dear, one
must draw the line somewhere”; and it does not
deny that it feels “a certain antipathy towards
discussing persons lower than princes,”—which
impressive word it makes very black and strong,—“except
in the mass.” And then it waves its
aristocratic gold point in a way that completely
settles the matter. I am very sorry if anybody
would like to know the names, but it is such a
tyrant I never know what it will do next; and I
really don't dare say anything more about those
poor dukes, except to mention briefly that there
were seventeen carriages full of manly grace and
chivalry, uniforms and decorations, scarlet, and
blue, and crimson, and gold, and white, blond
mustaches, plumes, swords, and titles.

When the line of carriages had passed over the
appointed route, and all the people had gazed and
gazed to their heart's content, the procession approached
the Residenz where Queen Olga received
her imperial relative and guest. He gave her his
arm, and they vanished from the eyes of the *ignobile
vulgus*. This was an impressive and elevating
moment; but it is not curious to remember that
after all, if the truth be told, *allerdurchlauchtigster*
though he be, he is only her—Uncle William.

In the evening was a brilliant and large torch-light
procession, and all the world was out in
merry mood. The illuminated fountains, the statues
and flowers in the pretty Schloss Platz, shone
out in the gleam of Bengal lights, which also revealed
the sea of heads in the square in front of
the palace. A stalwart young workman stood
near us with his little fair-haired daughter perched
on his shoulder. They did not know how statuesque
they looked in the rosy light, but we did.
Much music, many *Hochs*, and the edifying spectacle
of all their majesties and royal highnesses in
a distinguished row on the balcony, for the delectation
of the masses, completed the joys of the
evening.

If any one imagines for an instant that all this
very valuable information was obtained without
much effort, and heroic endurance of many evils,
he is entirely mistaken. At such times, if you
wish to see anything, you must either be in and
of the multitude, or you must look from a window,
which affords you only one point of view and
curbs your freedom, and doesn't allow you to run
from place to place in time to see everything there
is to be seen. At these dramas enacted by high-born
artists for the purpose of touching the hearts
and awakening the zeal of the lowly, there are no
private boxes and reserved seats. We scorned the
trammelling window, and chose to mingle with our
fellow-men, with our fellow-butcher-and-baker boys,
as well as with little knots of intrepid, amused
women, like ourselves. Upon the whole, we enjoyed
it. We made studies of human nature,
and of policeman nature, which is often not by
any means human, but, as Sam Weller says, “on
the contrary quite the reverse.”

Policemen everywhere are glorious, awe-inspiring
creatures. German policemen are particularly
magnificent. They wear such gay coats, and are
often such imposing, big blond men, it is impossible
to look at them without admiration. The way
they thrust and push when they want to keep a
crowd within certain bounds is as ruthless as if
they were huge automata, with great far-reaching
limbs that strike out and hew down when the machinery
is wound up. Practically they are successful;
the only trouble is, it is the innocent ones
in front, pushed by the pressure of the crowd behind,
who are thrust back savagely, with a stern
“Zurück!” by the mighty men, and who are
treated like dumb, driven cattle. A friend who is
always dauntless and always humorous, feeling the
weight of a heavy hand on her shoulder, and hearing
a tempestuous ejaculation in her ear, calmly
looked the autocrat in the face, and with gentle
gravity said, “*Don't* be so cross!” at which the
great being actually smiled.

After that we thought perhaps these petty officials
dressed in a little brief authority only put on
their crossness with their uniforms. Perhaps at
home with their wives and blue-eyed babies they
may be quite docile. They may even, here and
there,—delicious idea!—be henpecked!

This was the sentiment expressed by a loyal
German at the close of the day: “Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace, for I have seen
my Kaiser.”



[pg!203]

THE CANNSTADT VOLKSFEST.
========================


It rained, in the first place, which was
very inconsiderate of it; rained on the
race-course, on the school-girls in white
muslin with wreaths of flowers on their
heads, on the peasants in their distinctive dresses,
making their full, white sleeves limp and shapeless,
spotting the scarlet-and-blue bodices of the
maidens from the Steinlach Thal and Black Forest;
rained on the monkey-shows and negro minstrels,
the Punch and Judys, the beer-shops, booths,
and benches, on the country people in their best
clothes, the city people in their worst, upon all
that goes to make up the Cannstadt Volksfest,—in
short, upon the just and the unjust.

It was a beautiful experience to sit there in a
waterproof, holding an umbrella and seeing thousands
of other people in waterproofs holding umbrellas,
on the raised circular seats that extended
round the whole great race-course, while, occupying
the entire space, within the track was a mass
of men standing, also with umbrellas; but on account
of our elevated position we could see very
little of the men, while the umbrella effect was
gigantic. It was like innumerable giant black
mushrooms growing in a bog.

And all the time the band opposite the empty
royal pavilion played away with great energy,
while without this enclosure for the races, among
the surrounding booths and “shows,” country
people were plunging ankle-deep in the mud, and
the violins that call the world to see the Fat
Woman, the accordion which the trained-dog man
plays, the turbulent orchestras of the small circuses,
and the siren tones of the girl who sings for
the snake-charmer, united to make an ineffable
Pandemonium.

This Volksfest was founded fifty years ago by
Wilhelm, father of the present king of Würtemberg,
who did much to promote the agricultural
interests of his people, taking great personal interest
in everything appertaining to farming, stock,
etc., giving prizes with his own hand for the best
vegetables and fruits, the largest, finest cattle,—for
excellence, in fact, in any department. Since
then, it is an established national event, that happens
every year as regularly as September comes;
always attracting many foreigners, to whom it is
amusing and interesting, in the rare opportunities
it affords of seeing many distinctive features of
Suabian peasant-life. It should be visited with
thick boots and no nerves, for the ground is as if
the cattle upon a thousand hills had come down
in a great rage and trampled it into pits and quagmires,
and the noise is—utterly indescribable. To
say that the Volksfest combines the peculiar attractions
of the Fourth of July, St. Patrick's Day,
a State Fair, and Barnum, gives, perhaps, as correct
a notion of the powwow that reigns supreme,
as any elaborate description that might be made.

Yes, it is like entertainments of a similar grade
with us,—like, yet unlike. The elephant goes
round, the band begins to play, the men in front
of the different tents roar and gesticulate and try
to out-Herod one another, the jolly little children
go swinging round hilariously on the great whirligigs,
the man with the blacked face is the same
cheerful, merry, witty personage who charms the
crowd at home. Indeed, they are all quite the
same, only they talk German, they are jollier and
fatter, they take their pleasure with more abandon,
and there is one vast expansive grin over the
whole throng. Instead of the tall, thin girl in
book-muslin, who comes in from the country to see
the circus, clinging tight to her raw-boned lover's
hand, both looking painfully conscious and not so
happy as they ought, we have here, too, the country
sweethearts, but of another type. The peasant-girl
and her *Schatz*, broad, blissful, rosy, the most
delicious personifications of unconsciousness imaginable,
go wandering about among the clanging
and clashing from the tents, the beer-drinking, the
shouts and rollicking laughter, and find it all a
very elysium. Their happiness is as solid as they
themselves; and if there are other eyes and ears
in the world than those with which they drink in
huge draughts of pleasure as palpably as they
take their beer from tall foaming tankards, they,
at least, are oblivious of them.

But we left it raining heavily, cruelly blighting
our hopes. A Volksfest with rain is a heartless
mockery of fate, and a rainy Volksfest, when there
is a Kaiser to see, unspeakably aggravating. But
the obnoxious clouds being in German atmosphere
naturally knew what etiquette demanded of them,
and respectively withdrew just as the pealing of
the Cannstadt bells announced his majesty's approach;
and as he and his suite rode into the
grounds, the sun, who had made up his mind to
have a day of retirement and was in consequence
a little sulky about appearing, had the courtier-like
grace to try to assume a tolerably genial
expression, since he had burst unwillingly into
the imperial presence.

The pavilion for the people of the court was
filled with ladies in brilliant toilets, with their
attendant cavaliers, as the glittering train rode
towards it; the city guard in front, according to an
old custom, then the Kaiser and king side by side,
and, after them, all the princes and grand dukes,
etc., whom we have had the honor of mentioning
more than once of late, and of seeing them often
enough to look at them critically and search for
our individual favorites as they gallantly gallop
by. The enthusiasm of the multitude was immense,
and the shouting proved that peasants'
lungs are powerful organs.

After the horsemen came a line of open carriages,
in the first of which was the empress and
her majesty Queen Olga; the latter looking, as
usual, pale, stately, gracious, and truly a queen.
Princess Vera, the Grand Duchess of Baden, and
other ladies followed, and they all went into the
pavilion, while the Kaiser and king rode about
among the people, looking at models, machinery,
animals,—and being scrutinized themselves from
the top of their helmets to their spurs, it is needless
to say.

Upon joining the ladies the crown prince took
off his helmet, kissed the queen's hand, then his
mother's, which amiable gallantry we viewed with
deep appreciation and interest. The next thing
to see was the prize animals, which were led over
the course past the pavilion, wearing wreaths of
flowers. Some vicious-looking bulls, their horns
and feet tied with strong ropes, and led by six
men, regarded the scarlet of the officers' uniforms
very doubtfully, as if they had half a mind to
make a rush at it, ropes or no ropes. There were
pretty, white cows, who wore their floral honors
with a mild, bovine grace: and sheep with ribbons
floating from their tails, and a coquettish rose or
two over their brows, were attractive objects; but
*pig* perversity and ugliness so adorned was too
absurd.

The event of the day was the “gentlemen's
races,” as they are called, being under the direction
of a club, of which the Prince of Weimar is
president, and Prince Wilhelm a member. They
were interesting, and the whole picture gay and
pleasing,—the flying horses, with their jockeys in
scarlet, yellow, and blue silk blouses; the pavilion
full of bright colors, the hundreds of banners waving
in the breeze; beyond the grounds, pretty
groves, and the little Gothic church at Berg, well
up on the hill: but, as the Shah of Persia said
when they wanted to have some races in his honor
at Berlin, “Really, it isn't necessary. I already
know that one horse runs faster than another.”

There were two structures there which deserve
special notice. When I tell you that they were
composed of ears of corn, apples, onions, etc., you
will never imagine how artistic was the result,
and I quite despair of conveying an idea of their
beauty. One was the music-stand, having on the
first floor an exhibition of prize fruits; above,
the military bands from the Uhlan and dragoon
regiments; yet higher, a platform with tall sheaves
of wheat in the corners, and in the centre, upon
a large base, a column sixty feet high, perhaps,
bearing on its summit a statue of Concordia.
But the walls of this little temple, and the lofty
column too, were all of vegetables, arranged with
consummate skill on a firm background of wood
covered with evergreen. Imagine, if you can, a
kind of mosaic, with arabesques in bright colors;
sometimes a solid white background of onions,
with intricate scrolls and waving lines of deep-red
apples, seemingly exactly of a size, ingeniously
designed and perfectly executed. It was quite
wonderful to observe how firm and compact and
precise this vegetable architecture was; and surprising
enough to discover old friends of the kitchen-garden
looking at us proudly from this thing of
beauty. Golden traceries of corn, elaborate figures
in cranberries, æsthetic turnips and idealized beets,—all
the products of Würtemberg soil, in fact,—utilized
in a masterly way, and all as firm and
sharp in outline as if carved out of stone. A
broad triumphal arch fashioned in the same way
was quite as much of a marvel, and most effective
as one of the gates of entrance.

After the races the Kaiser rode away in an open
carriage with the king, and that was the last we
saw of this attractive old gentleman, with his
genial, kindly, honest face, and simple, soldierly
ways,—in his freshness and strength certainly
a wonderful old man, whatever newspapers and
political writers may say of him. They say his
private life is simple in the extreme; that his
library is only a collection of military works; that
he carefully keeps everything that is ever given
him, even sugar rabbits that the children in the
family give him at Easter. It is said that once, in
Alsace, in the midst of the excitement over him
and the celebration, he noticed a little boy all alone
in the streets crying bitterly, and called to him.
“What's the matter, little man?” said the Kaiser.

“Matter enough,” replies the exasperated child.
“This confounded emperor is the matter. They're
making such a fuss about him, my ma's gone and
forgotten my birthday.” The next day the boy
received a portrait of the Kaiser, richly framed,
with the inscription,—

“From the Emperor of Germany to the little
boy who lost his birthday.”

After the line of carriages drove off, the cavalcade
formed again, led this time by the crown
prince and the Grand Duke of Baden; and they
galloped over the course and out of the west gate
in a very spirited way, to the great delight of the
people, who shouted and cheered most frantically.
Is anybody weary of hearing about these distinguished
riders? We are a little tired of them
ourselves, it must be confessed, goodly sights
though they be. But now they are quite gone,
and the last remembrance we have of them is the
fall of their horses' hoofs, the glittering of metal,
and the waving of plumes as they swept through
the pretty arched gateway, stately and effective to
the last.

The rollicking spirit of the Volksfest at evening,
stimulated by unlimited beer, was a wonderful
thing to observe. We stayed to see it by lantern-light,
in order to be intimately acquainted with its
merriest phases, and the noise of it rings in our
ears yet, though now the *Fest* is quite over, the
*Volks* are gone to their homes, the hurly-burly's
done.



[pg!211]

IN A VINEYARD.
==============


Our milkwoman is a person of importance
in her village. This we did not know till
recently, though we were quite aware of
our good fortune in getting excellent milk
and rich cream daily; and we had had occasion to
admire her rosy cheeks and broad, solid row of
white teeth,—in fact, had already laid a foundation
of respect for her, upon which a recent event
has induced us to build largely. A very comely,
honest woman we always thought her; but when
she came smilingly one morning, and invited us,
one and all, out to her vineyards, to eat as many
grapes as we could, to help gather them if we
wished, to see her *Mann* and all her family, and
to investigate the subject of wine-making, we were
unanimously convinced her equal was not to be
found in any village in Würtemberg, and the invitation
was accepted with enthusiastic acclamations.

We were much edified to learn that the condition
of things demanded a certain etiquette. We
were to visit people of inferior station, we were
told, and, in return for their hospitality, must take
unto them gifts. The idea struck us, of course,
as highly commendable, and we declared ourselves
ready to do the correct thing. But we were quite
aghast to learn that a large sausage should be
offered to our hostess,—in fact, that this object
would be expected by her; that it actually was
lurking behind the pretty invitation to come to
see her under her own vine and fig-tree. A sudden
silence fell upon our little party at the breakfast-table.
It really did seem as if something else
might more fitly express our grateful appreciation
and kind wishes.

One little lady spoke:—

“A horrid sausage! Why can't we take something
nice,—cold tongue, and chocolate-cakes with
cream in them, for instance?”

“O, yes, *do*,” says our German friend, with a
sardonic expression. “By all means give our
Suabian peasants chocolate-cakes; but then what
will they have to *eat*?” she demands, grimly.

“Why, chocolate-cakes, to be sure,” says Miss
Innocence. With a withering air of half-concealed
contempt, the very clever German girl endeavors
to present to the mind of the little lady
from New York—who lives chiefly on sweets—the
reasons why chocolate-cake and the Suabian
peasant are, so to speak, incompatible. Among
other things, she remarked that he could devour a
dozen cakes and be quite unaware that he had
eaten anything; that his hard-working day must
be sustained by something solid; that the sausage
was a support, a solace, a true and tried friend;
and, last and strongest argument, he *liked* sausage
better than anything else in the world.

We felt disturbed. There was a great disappointing
discrepancy somewhere. Going out to
the vineyards, even in anticipation, had a ring of
poetry in it, while sausage—is sausage the world
over. Nevertheless, to the sausage we succumbed,
and a hideous one, as long as your arm and as big,
was a carefully guarded member of our party to
the vineyard the next day. Fireworks, too, we
carried,—why, you will see later; and so, *dona
ferentes*, we went out to Untertürkheim by rail, a
ride of fifteen minutes from Stuttgart.

The smile, teeth, and cheeks of our hostess were
visible from afar as we drew near the station. She
beamed on us warmly, and led us in triumph
through the village, which was everywhere a busy,
pretty scene; long yellow strings of ears of corn
hanging out to dry on nearly every house, and the
narrow streets full of the unwonted bustle incident
to the vintage-time.

Great vats of grape-juice; wine-presses in active
operation, some of which were sensible, improved,
modern-looking things, some primitive as can be
imagined; the well-to-do people using the modern
improvements, while their humbler neighbors employed
small boys, who danced a perpetual jig in
broad, low tubs placed above the large vats that
received the juice. We ascended the little ladders
at the side of the vats, to satisfy ourselves
as to the kind of feet with which the grapes were
being pressed, “the bare white feet of laughing
girls” being, of course, the picture before our
mind's eye. What we actually saw was, in some
cases, a special kind of wooden shoe, and in others
ordinary, well-worn leather boots! These solemn
small boys in tubs, their heads and shoulders bobbing
up and down before our eyes as they energetically
stamped and jumped and crushed the
yielding mass, filled us with such utter amazement
at the time that we forgot to laugh, but they are
now an irresistibly comical remembrance. Their
intense gravity was remarkable. It would seem
as if the ordinary small boy, who can legitimately
jump upon *anything* until all the life is crushed
out of it, ought to be happy. Perhaps these were,
with a happiness too deep for smiles. And perhaps—which
is more likely—it was hard work,
and they realized it meant business for their papas,
and they must spring and jump with zeal, and
there was no play in the matter. One child of
ten or so had such a dignified, important air, as he
stood at the side of his tub, into which his father
was pouring grapes! He looked like an artist
conscious of power waiting for his time, knowing
that immense results would depend upon his
antics. Let me mention with pride that our
milkwoman's *Mann* owns the largest press in the
place, and her stalwart, pinky brother works it.
So pink a mortal never was seen. He exhibited
the mechanism of the press with tolerable clearness,
though seriously incommoded by blushes.
We thought he would vanish in a flame before
our eyes. But, observing he grew pinker each
time we addressed him, we wickedly prolonged the
interview as long as possible.

Then up the hill we went, through narrow, steep
paths, with vineyards on every side of us, in which
men, women, and children were working busily.
We met constantly long files of young men and
maidens, carrying great baskets of grapes down to
the village, all of whom gave us a cheery Grüss Gott.

We found the whole family in the vineyard
working away busily, filling the huge, long, narrow
baskets, which the men carry on their backs by a
strap over the shoulders. They welcomed us cordially,
and bade us eat as many grapes as we could,
which we all with one accord, with great earnestness
and simplicity, *did*. If you have never eaten
grapes in a vineyard, perhaps you don't know how
fastidious and dainty you become, how you take
one grape here, one there, select the finest from a
cluster, then toss the remainder into the basket.
Deliciously cool and fresh, with a wonderful bloom
on them, were they, and, together with the crisp
autumn air, the busy bare-headed peasants working
in all the vineyards as far as we could see,
Untertürkheim lying under the hill, and the little
bridge across the narrow Neckar, they filled us
with an innocent sort of intoxication. The brilliant
Malagas with a touch of flame on them in the
sunlight, white ones beyond, and rich black-purple
clusters, lured us on. If the amount consumed
by the foreign invaders during the first half-hour
could be computed, it would seem a fabulous
quantity to mention. We would indeed prefer to
let it remain in uncertainty, one of those interesting
unsolved historical problems about which
great minds differ. But it was not in the least
matter-of-fact eating; on the contrary, a most
refined and elevated feasting upon fruits fit for
the gods.

And then we worked, with an energy that won
for us the goodman's wondering admiration, until
every grape was gathered. Never before had the
vines been cleared so fast, said our grateful host.
From above and below and everywhere around
came the sound of pistols and fireworks, each demonstration
indicating that some one had gathered
all his grapes. Now was the fitting moment for
the presentation of the sausage, which was gracefully
transferred from the nook where it was blushing
unseen to the hands of our host, and was graciously,
even tenderly, received. After which we
devoted ourselves to pyrotechnic pursuits, and, this
being a novel experience, we all burned our fingers,
and nearly destroyed our friend the pinky
man by directing, unwittingly, a fiery serpent
quite in his face.

Then down, down over the hill through the
thread-like paths between the vineyards, through
the village in the twilight, where every one is still
busy and the small boys still dancing away for
dear life, suggesting—like Ichabod Crane, was it
not?—“that blessed patron of the dance, St.
Vitus,” and past the great fountain, with the
statue of the Turk grimly rising above half a
dozen girls, slowly filling their buckets (you
will never know what wise remarks on the “situation”
that Turk occasioned), we sauntered along
to the station, and presently the train whisked us
away from the village and the gloaming and the
pretty autumn scene, so real, so merry, so innocent,
so healthy, and picturesque. Night and
the city lights succeeded the twilight in the village.
Our hearts bore pleasant memories and
our hands baskets of grapes, given us at the last
moment by that excellent and most sagacious
person, our milkwoman.

We hope we were not straying from the true
fold, but certainly our views on the temperance,
or rather the total-abstinence, question were quite
lax as we returned to Stuttgart that evening.
The water in Germany is often so unpleasant and
impure one learns to regard it as an undesirable,
not to say noxious and immoral beverage, while
the light native wines in contrast seem as innocent
as water ought to be. And what is the strictest
teetotaler to do when positively ordered by the
best physicians not to drink the water here, under
penalty of serious consequences in the shape of a
variety of disorders? American school-girls, who
persist in taking water because the home habit is
too strong to be at once broken off, have an amusing
way of examining their pretty throats from
time to time to see if they are beginning to enlarge,
for the *goitre* is hinted at (whether with
reason or not I do not know) as one of the possible
evil effects of continued water-drinking in
South Germany. It would seem that even the
Crusaders would here yield to the stern facts, and
at least color the water with the juice of the
grapes that grow in their beauty on the hillsides
everywhere around. And certainly *we* may be
pardoned for taking an extraordinary interest in
this year's vintage; for have we not toiled with
our own hands in the vineyards on the Neckar's
banks, did we not see with our own eyes *those
boots*, and is it not now the fitting time for the
spirit of '76 to make our hearts glad?



[pg!218]

AMONG FREILIGRATH'S BOOKS.
==========================


A poet's study, when he has lain in his
grave but one short year, and the character
and peculiarities which his presence
gave to his surroundings are yet undisturbed,
is a sacred spot. In light mood, ready to
be agreeably entertained, we went out to pleasant
Cannstadt to see Freiligrath's books, and even in
crossing the threshold of his library the careless
words died on our lips, so strong a personality
has the room, so heavy was the atmosphere with
associations and memories of a man who had lived
and loved and toiled and suffered.

How much rooms have to say for themselves,
indeed! How they catch tricks and ways from
their occupants! How faultily faultless and repellent
are some, how strangely some charm us
and appeal to us! This room of Freiligrath's
speaks in touching little ways of the man who
lived there and loved it, as plainly as a young
girl's room tells a sweet, innocent story while the
breeze moves its snowy curtains, beneath which in
his golden cage a canary trills, and the sunshine
steals in on the low chair, the bit of unfinished
work, the handful of violets in a glass, the book
opened at a favorite poem. The girl is gone, but
the room is as warm from her presence as the
glove that has just been drawn from her hand.
Freiligrath sleeps in the Cannstadt *Friedhof*,
where for a thousand years the sturdy little
church, with its red roof and square tower, has
watched by the silent ones; but his chair is drawn
up by the great study-table, the familiar things he
loved are as he left them, and his presence is
missed even by them who knew him not. It is,
perhaps, this air of having been touched by a *loving*
hand, that impresses one especially in the arrangements
here,—a corner room, looking north
and east, having two windows, through which air
and sunshine freely come, and from which the poet
used to gaze upon a landscape lovely as a dream;
far extended, tranquil, idyllic, in the distance, the
Suabian Alps, rising against the horizon beyond
long, soft slopes of fertile lands crowned by vineyards,
and broad, sunny meadows intersected by
lines of the martial poplar; a glimpse of the
lovely, wooded heights of the park of the “Wilhelma,”
that “stately pleasure dome,” which King
Wilhelm of Würtemberg decreed, and the Neckar
close by, rushing over its dam, and sweeping
beneath the picturesque stone bridge with its
fine arches, and flowing on past the old mill and
quaint gables of Cannstadt to meet the distant
Rhine. How Freiligrath must have loved the
sound of the water that sang to him ever, night
and day, not loud but continuously, soothing him
as a cradle-song soothes a weary child, in these
latter years at quiet Cannstadt after his life-struggles,
and fever, and pain! They say he loved it
well, and that he would often rise from his work
and stand long by the window, looking out on the
singing water and the peaceful landscape, watching
it as we watch a loved face that has for us a
new, tender grace with every moment.

The room does not look like the abode of a solitary
man. The easy-chairs seem accustomed to
be drawn near one another for a cosy chat between
friends, and the expression of all things is genial,
*gemüthlich*. Not a bookworm, not simply a great
intellect lost in his own pursuits, forgetting the
world outside, but a strong, warm heart throbbing
for humanity, must have been the genius of a room
like this.

Under his table lies a deerskin rug, a trophy of
his son Wolfgang's prowess in the chase. On the
walls are pictures of different sizes, irregularly
hung in irregular places, and each one seems to
say, “I was selected from all others of my kind
because Freiligrath loved me.” They are mostly
heads of his favorite authors and poets, small pictures
as a rule,—the one of Schiller sitting by the
open vine-clad window,—Goethe, Heine, Uhland,
and many more of the chief poets of Germany;
Byron, several of Longfellow and the Howitts
(dear friends of Freiligrath), Burns, Burns's sons
and the Burns Cottage, Goldsmith, Carlyle, Jean
Paul; a small colored picture of Walter Scott
bending his gentle face over his writing in front
of a great stained-glass window in the armory at
Abbotsford; a cast of the Shakespeare mask;
a few scenes from Soest, a picturesque old town,
where Freiligrath was, when a boy, apprenticed to
a merchant; a lock of Schiller's hair,—quite red,—with
an autograph letter; a lock of Goethe's
hair, which is dusky brown, with letters, and an
unpublished verse written for a lottery at a fair in
Weimar:—

   | “Manches herrliche der Welt
   | Ist in Krieg and Streit zerronnen;
   | Wer beschützet and erhält
   | Hat das schönste Loos gewonnen.”
   |
   |     —:small-caps:`Goethe.`
   |
   | :small-caps:`Weimar`, d. 3 Sept. 1826.

Madame Freiligrath was Ida Melos, daughter of
Professor Melos of Weimar, and when a child was
an especial pet of Goethe. She and her sister tell
many pleasant anecdotes of their life there, and
of their playfellows, Goethe's grandchildren, with
whom they have always been on terms of close intimacy;
and of Goethe as a beautiful old man,
smiling and throwing bonbons from his window to
the group of children at play in the garden below.
Mrs. Freiligrath told us she was a tall, mature
girl, with a wise, grave look far beyond her years,
and they always made her enact Mignon in the
*tableaux vivants*. She was so young she did not
know what it was all about, but she “remembers
she liked wearing the wings.” Two gentlewomen,
speaking with a tender sadness of their long, eventful
lives, telling us of associations with some of the
leading spirits of the age, charming in their stories
of the past, appreciative of all that is best in the
latest literature, they harmonize well with the
quiet old house where they graciously dispense
their hospitality.

Gently and gravely they showed us the treasures
of the library, which probably during the
spring will come under the auctioneer's hammer,
and be scattered through the world. Seeing it
in its completeness,—seven or eight thousand
volumes amassed through the skill and patience
of a true book-lover, who allowed himself in his
frugal life the one luxury of a rich binding now
and then, and who had a perfect genius for discovering
rare old books hidden away in dusty odd
corners in London bookshops, being, in this respect,
as his friend Wallesrode says, in a recent
article in “Ueber Land and Meer,” a real “Sunday
child,”—one must regret it cannot be preserved
intact, and given as a Freiligrath memorial to some
college.

There are first editions here, which on account
of their rareness could command from connoisseurs
their weight in gold: Schiller's “Robbers,” Frankfort
and Leipsic, 1781, first edition; the second
edition, 1782, and many other early editions of
Schiller's works, small, rough, curious-looking,
precious books: also, first edition Goethe's “Gotz
von Berlichingen,” 1773; “Werther,” Leipsic,
1774. The German and English classics stand in
noble, stately rows, with much of value in Italian,
French, and Spanish. The English collection is
especially rich, however. There is a “Hudibras,”
first edition, 1662; “Rasselas,” first edition; a
“Don Quixote” with Thackeray's autograph on
the fly-leaf, written in Trinity College; and there
are “Elzevirs” of 1640-47. The ballads, legends,
Eastern fairy-tales, and imaginative lore are very
attractive. There is a fine selection of works on
German, French, English, Scotch, and Irish dialects,
in all of which Freiligrath was extremely
proficient. How many “Miltons” there are I do
not dare say, and the number is not important,
since this does not pretend to be an inventory;
but there was a whole shelf of them, from the first
edition on.

On the library-table lay superb volumes, bound
in richest calf,—Beaumont and Fletcher, London,
1679, in folio; Ben Jonson, 1631, folio; Spenser,
1611; Shakespeare, the rare folio of 1685, and
many other valuable Shakespeares. If only some
one who knows how to love them will buy these
books! It seems like sacrilege to imagine them
in the hands of the unworthy or careless.

One could spend days, years, in that quiet room,
with its subtle influences and suggestions, surrounded
by old friends on the shelves, and by
books that look as if they would deign to open
their hearts to us and become our friends also.
And there must one ponder long upon the varied
life of the poet and patriot,—how Fate was always
putting fetters on his Pegasus, binding him
as an apprentice as a boy in Soest, later making
him a clerk in a banking-house in Amsterdam,
and forcing him again to write at a clerk's desk in
London; and how, nevertheless, he sang himself,
as some one says of him, into the hearts of the
German people. They say he was so loved, and his
face so well known through his photographs, that
often, upon going through a town where he personally
was unknown, the school-children in the
streets would recognize him, and instantly begin
to sing poems of his that were set to music and
sung everywhere throughout Germany, particularly
the well-known

   | *O, lieb, so lang du lieben kannst!*
   | “O, love, while love is left to thee!”

It is said, too, that once on a steamer, during
the Franco-Prussian war, a woman came up to him
and suddenly put her arms round his neck and
kissed him. “That's for Wolfgang in the field,”
said she, having a son herself at the front.

And after his struggles for freedom, the persecution
he endured because of his political principles
and his immense influence upon the people,
after his flight into England and long exile, he
came back finally, honored and revered, to his
native land, and spent his last years in this peaceful
abode. He breathed his last, like Goethe,
sitting in his chair. The Neckar still sang on,
outside the vine-clad window. Within, the poet's
voice was hushed forever.



[pg!225]

THREE FUNERALS.
===============


Three funeral processions which have
lately moved through Stuttgart streets
have awakened, on account of peculiar
associations connected with each, more
attention and interest, more feeling I might perhaps
say, than we selfish beings usually accord to
these mournful black trains that mean *other* people's
sorrows.

Of these three, the first was the train that bore
the Herzog Eugen of Würtemberg to his last resting-place.
Young, popular, after Prinz Wilhelm
presumptive heir to the throne; the husband of
the Princess Vera,—who is the niece and adopted
daughter of the queen, and according to report a
very lovable person,—he had apparently enough to
make life sweet at the moment he was called from
it. Recently he went to Düsseldorf to take command
of a regiment there. The Princess Vera
remained at the Residenz in Stuttgart, but was
intending to join him immediately. A slight cold
neglected,—a rich banquet followed by night-air,—and
suddenly all was over. He died after an
illness of a day or two, while the princess, summoned
by a telegram, was on the train half-way
between Stuttgart and Düsseldorf.

The air is full of fables, and the common people
“make great eyes” when they speak of the poor
duke, and dark hints of foul play, poison, enemies,
cabals, perfidy, delight all good souls with a taste
for the sensational. They, however, who have the
slightest ground for *knowing* anything about the
matter, and, indeed, all rational people, declare it
was simply a cold, inflammation, congestion, such
as makes havoc among frail mortal flesh, and never
draws any distinction in favor of blood royal.

After the ceremonies at Düsseldorf came the
solemn reception of the remains here. Early in
the evening the streets were thronged with an
immense but quiet, patiently waiting crowd, and,
along the line where the procession was to pass,
burning tar cast a fitful light over the mass of
people: and the flickering flames, fanned by the
night breeze, now would illumine the Residenz
and Schloss Platz and the fine outline of the “Old
Palace,” in the chapel of which the duke was to
lie; now, subsiding, would leave the scene in half
gloom. The slow, sad voice of the dirge announced
the approach of the procession, the whole
effect of which was intensely solemn and impressive.
Outriders with flickering torches, the escort
of cavalry, Uhlans of the Würtemberg regiment in
which he had served, floating streamers of black
and white, the hearse drawn by coal-black horses,
slowly passing, with the loud ringing of all the
bells, made one hold one's breath as the black figures
went by in the lurid light. The inevitable
hour had, indeed, awaited him, and snatched him
from his worldly honors and family affection, and
“der edle Ritter,” in spite of all the “boast of heraldry
and pomp of power” that so lately had surrounded
him, lay silent and cold, while the flames
burned strong and warm and the loud bells
clanged, and he rode slowly on to the chapel in
the old castle, beneath which he now rests with
others of his race.

This is not the first sad, stately night-procession
that has occurred here. Wilhelm, father of the
present king, was a strong, original nature, averse
to form, and gave strict orders concerning his own
burial. They were to bury him on a hill, some
miles from the city, between midnight and dawn,
and simply fire one gun over him, he had said.
His son, however, while observing his wishes as to
time and place of burial, took care that the state
and dignity of the procession should befit royalty
dethroned by death. At midnight the train left
the palace, and, with its long line of nobles, cavaliers,
and soldiers, swept slowly out of the city amid
the constant ringing of bells and booming of cannon,
and wound through the soft summer night
along the Neckar's banks, over the bridge at Cannstadt,
while great fires blazed on every hill-top, and
the old king, in the majesty of death, was borne
on, past the fair vineyards and soft fertile slopes of
the land he had loved so well, to the Rothenberg,
on the summit of which they laid him to rest and
fired one gun just as the morning star dropped
below the horizon.

   | “And had he not high honor?
   | The hillside for his pall,
   | To lie in state while angels wait
   | With stars for tapers tall,
   | And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes,
   | Over his bier to wave—.”

Certainly, nothing less than the “Burial of
Moses” can have been so grand as this last dark
ride of the strong old king! We behold the train
in its magnificent gloom winding along the Neckar
and up the vine-clad hillside, so often as we see its
route, after nightfall. Dusky, stately forms ride
by, and the wail of the dirge sounds on the evening
breeze. Why may we not all be laid at rest
at night? Sunlight is cruel to eyes blinded by
tears, and glaring day hurts grieved hearts. The
Night is so solemn and tender, why may she not
help us bury our dead?

The next procession that we saw with earnest
eyes, after the Duke Eugen's, was that of a student
of the Polytechnic School, who died from the
effects of a sword-wound. There was no anger, no
provocation, nothing which according to the student
code might perhaps soften the memory of the deed.
It was simply a trial of skill with the *Degen*, a
slender, murderous-looking sword. Both were expert
fencers. The presence of friends incited them
to do their best. Their pride was roused; neither
would yield, and in the excitement one received a
cut in the head, from the effects of which he died
in a few days. He was a promising scholar and a
favorite with the students, and the affair seems
very shocking in the cruel uselessness of such a
death, though the more bitter fate of course is
his who unwittingly did the deed and must live
with the memory of it in his heart.

These student funerals occur now and then.
We have had three or four this winter. Our
countrymen, not sympathizing with student ways
and student traditions, are sometimes apt to call
such spectacles “comedies,” but to us the comic
element has never been apparent. First come
the musicians, playing a dirge,—on this last
occasion a funeral march from Beethoven. Near
the hearse walk the students of the corps of
which the deceased had been a member. They
wear their most elegant uniform,—black velvet
blouses or jackets, buff knee-breeches, high boots,
the cap and sash of the color which distinguishes
the corps, long buff gauntlets, and swords,—altogether
quite striking. On the draped coffin are
the dead student's cap, sash, and sword. The
other corps walk behind, the professors also, and
friends.

The last funeral of the three was hardly grand
enough to be called a procession. It was only
a few carriages winding slowly out to the new
*Friedhof*. A touching little story preceded it, perhaps
not uncommon, yet, to those who watched
its close, invested with a peculiar pathos. A
young American girl came here last fall, with high
hopes and unbounded energy and courage. She
was in the art-school, and it may be her eager
spirit forgot that bodies too must be cared for, and
it may be that her naturally frail constitution had
been weakened by overwork before she came; but
at all events a cold, which she ignored in her zeal
and devotion to her studies, led to an illness from
which she never recovered. She was entirely
alone and unknown, and at first no one except
the people in her *pension* knew of her sickness.
Patient, uncomplaining, and reserved, she bore
whatever came, and was finally taken, as she grew
worse, to a hospital, where she could command
better and more exclusive care. As the facts became
known in the American colony, she was
ministered to most tenderly, and flowers and delicacies
of every description were sent daily to her
little room at the *Olga Heil Anstalt*. Indeed, the
good sister who nursed her there found it difficult
to guard her from the visits and kindly proffered
administrations of newly made friends, who came
full of tender sympathy for the lonely girl. Of her
loneliness she never made complaint. When asked
by our consul why she had not at once sent for him
when she was first ill, she replied, smilingly, “Because
I knew you had quite enough to do without
taking care of me.” In fact, she sent for no one,
and only through accident did the English clergyman
and the consul hear of her case. And, lying
in her bare room in a foreign hospital, hearing only
the foreign tongue of which she was not yet mistress,
and at best, when her countrywomen came
to cheer her, seeing only new faces, instead of her
own home-people, her brave, bright smile was always
ready to greet the visitor, even when she
was too languid to utter a word. Her one confessed
regret was that her illness took her from
her art-studies; and her eyes would beam with
delight when a fellow-student in the art-school
would speak of it, of the professors, and the work
there. Her whole enthusiastic soul was absorbed
in this theme, so that her suffering seemed, to her,
of no account in comparison with her high aims
and ideal. Utterly single-hearted, she lay there,
brave and uncomplaining to the last, and seemed
the only one unconscious of the pathos of her
position. Her thoughts were so given to the
beautiful pictures she longed to make, and to the
beautiful pictures others had made, she had none at
all left for the poor girl dying alone in a strange
land, who was filling so many eyes with tears
and so many hearts with pain. She faded away
very gently, and, for a long time before her death,
suffered more from extreme languor than from
acute distress. After it was all over, there was
a little, solemn service in the hospital chapel, attended
by the many who had interested themselves
for her, and some of the professors and
pupils of the Kunst Schule, who added their exquisite
wreaths to the lovely flowers about her.
And then she was taken to the new *Friedhof* and
laid beneath the pavement of the Arcade, while
a little band of wanderers stood by—united,
many of them, only through their sympathy with
her who was gone—and listened to the solemn
words of the English service, and looked thoughtfully
out through the arches upon a tender gray
sky, a wide expanse of land—now almost an unbroken
surface, but one day to be filled with
graves—and off upon the hills rising softly beyond;
and the last violets and tuberoses were
strewn upon her resting-place, and the little band
separated, each going his way, but in many hearts
was a tender memory for the young girl whose
brief story was just ended,—a sad thought for
her who never seemed sad for herself.



[pg!232]

SOME CHRISTMAS PICTURES.
========================


A few days before Christmas the three
kings from the Orient came stealing up
our stairs in the gloaming. They wore
cheap white cotton raiment over their ordinary
work-a-day clothes, and gilt-paper crowns on
their heads. They were small, thin kings. Melchior's
crown was awry, Kaspar felt very timid, and
was continually stumbling over his train; but Balthazar
was brave as a lion, and nudged his royal
brothers,—one of whom was a girl, by the way,—putting
courage into them with his elbows; and
the dear little souls sang their songs and got their
pennies, and their white robes vanished in the twilight
as their majesties trudged on towards the
next house. There they would again stand in an
uncertain, tremulous row, and sing more or sing
less, according to the reception they met with, and
put more or less pennies—generally less, poor
dears!—into their pockets. Poor, dear, shabby
little wise men,—including the one who was a girl,—you
were potentates whom it was a pleasure to
see, and we trust you earned such an affluence of
Christmas pennies that you were in a state of ineffable
bliss when, at last, freed from the restraint
of crowns and royal robes, you stood in your poor
home before your Christmas-tree. It may have
been a barren thing, but to your happy child-eyes
no doubt it shone as the morning star and blossomed
as the rose.

Other apparitions foretelling the approach of
Christmas visited us. One was an old woman
with cakes. Her prominent characteristic is staying
where she is put, or rather where she puts herself,
which is usually where she is not wanted.
Buy a cake of this amiable old person, whose
breath (with all the respect due to age let it be
said) smells unquestionably of *schnapps*, and she
will bless you with astounding volubility. Her
tongue whirls like a mill-wheel as she tearfully
assures us, “God will reward us,”—and *how* she
stays! Men may come and men may go, but the
old woman is still there, blessing away indefatigably.
She must possess, to a remarkable degree,
those clinging qualities men praise in woman. Indeed,
her tendrils twine all over the house; and
when, through deep plots against a dear friend, we
manage to lead her out of our own apartment, it is
not long before, through our dear friend's counter-plots,
the old woman stands again in our doorway
with her great basket on her head, smiling and
weeping and bobbing and blessing as she offers her
wares. Queer old woman, rare old plant!—though
you cannot be said to beautify, yet, twining and
clinging and staying forever like the ivy-green, you
were not so attractive as the little shadowy kings,
but you, too, heralded Christmas; and may you
have had a comfortable time somewhere with sausage
and whatever is nearest your heart in these
your latter days! That she is not a poetical figure
in the Christmas picture is neither her fault nor
mine. She may, ages ago, have had a thrilling
story, now completely drowned in *schnapps*, but
that she exists, and sells cakes according to the
manner described, is all we ever shall know of her.

Then the cakes themselves—“genuine Nurembergers,”
she called them—were strange things to
behold. Solid and brown, of manifold shapes and
sizes, wrapped in silver-paper, they looked impenetrable
and mysterious. The friends in council
each seized a huge round one with an air as of
sailing off on a voyage of discovery, or of storming
a fortress, and nibbled away at it. As a massive
whole it was strange and foreign, but familiar
things were gradually evolved. There was now
and then a trace of honey, a bit of an almond, a
slice of citron, a flavor of vanilla, a soupçon of
orange.

Gazing out from behind her cake, one young
woman remarks, sententiously,—

“It's gingerbread with things in it.”

Another stops in her investigations with,—

“It is as hard as a brownstone front.”

“It's delightful not to know in the least what's
coming next,” says another. “I've just reached
a stratum of jelly and am going deeper. Farewell.”

“Echt Nürnberger, echt Nürnberger!” croaked
the old dame, still nodding, still blessing; and so,
meditatively eating her cakes, we gazed at her
and wondered if any one could possibly be as old
as she looked, and if she too were a product of
“Nuremberg the ancient,” to which “quaint old
town of toil and traffic” we wandered off through
the medium of Longfellow's poem, as every conscientious
American in Europe is in duty bound
to do. It is always a comfort to go where he
has led the way. We are sure of experiencing the
proper emotions. They are gently and quietly
instilled into us, and we never know they do not
come of themselves, until we happen to realize
that some verse of his, familiar to our childhood,
has been haunting us all the time. What a pity
he never has written a poetical guide-book!

These unusual objects penetrating our quiet
study hours told us Christmas was coming, and the
aspect of the Stuttgart streets also proclaimed the
glad tidings. They were a charming, merry sight.
The Christmas fair extended its huge length of
booths and tables through the narrow, quaint
streets by the old *Stiftskirche*, reaching even up
to the *Königstrasse*, where great piles of furniture
rose by the pavements, threatening destruction to
the passer-by. Thronging about the tables, where
everything in the world was for sale and all the
world was buying, could be seen many a dainty
little lady in a costume fresh from Paris; many a
ruddy peasant-girl with braids and bodice, short
gown and bright stockings; many types of feature,
and much confusion of tongues; and you
are crowded and jostled: but you like it all, for
every face wears the happy Christmas look that
says so much.

These fairs are curious places, and have a benumbing
effect upon the brain. People come
home with the most unheard-of purchases, which
they never seriously intended to buy. Perhaps
a similar impulse to that which makes one grasp
a common inkstand in a burning house, and run
and deposit it far away in a place of safety, leads
ladies to come from the “Messe” with a wooden
comb and a string of yellow-glass beads. In both
cases the intellect is temporarily absent, it would
seem. Buy you must, of course. What you buy,
whether it be a white wooden chair, or a child's
toy, or a broom, or a lace barbe, or a blue-glass
breastpin, seems to be pure chance. The country
people, who come into the city especially to buy,
know what they want, and no doubt make judicious
purchases. But we, who go to gaze, to wonder,
and to be amused, never know why we buy anything,
and, when we come home and recover our
senses, look at one another in amazement over our
motley collections.

At this last fair a kind fate led us to a photograph
table, where old French beauties smiled at
us, and all of Henry the VIII.'s hapless wives
gazed at us from their ruffs, and the old Greek
philosophers looked as if they could tell us a thing
or two if they only would. The discovery of this
haven in the sea of incongruous things around us
was a fortunate accident. The photograph-man
was henceforth our magnet. To him our little
family, individually and collectively, drifted, and
day by day the stock of Louise de la Vallieres,
and Maintenons, and Heloises, and Anne Boleyns,
and Pompadours, and Sapphos, and Socrates, and
Diogenes, etc.,—(perfect likenesses of all of them,
I am sure!)—increased in our *pension*, where we
compared purchases between the courses at dinner,
and made Archimedes and the duchess of Lamballe
stand amicably side by side against the soup-tureen.
Halcyon, but, alas! fleeting days, when
we could buy these desirable works of art for ten
*pfennig*, which, I mention with satisfaction, is two
and one half cents!

But, of all the Christmas sights, the Christmas-trees
and the dolls were the most striking. The
trees marched about like Birnam Wood coming to
Dunsinane. There were solid family men going
off with solid, respectable trees, and servants in
livery condescending to stalk away with trees of
the most lofty and aristocratic stature; and many
a poor woman dragging along a sickly, stunted
child with one hand and a sickly, stunted tree
with the other.

As to the doll-world into which I have recently
been permitted to penetrate, all language, even
aided by a generous use of exclamation-points,
fails to express its wondrous charm. A doll kindergarten,
with desks and models and blackboards,
had a competent, amiable, and elderly doll-instructress
with spectacles. The younger members
were occupied with toys and diversions that would
not fatigue their infant minds, while the older
ones pored over their books. They had white
pinafores, flaxen hair, plump cheeks. I think
they were all alive.

Then there were dolls who looked as if they lay
on the sofa all day and read French novels, and
dolls that looked as if they were up with the
birds, hard-working, merry, and wise,—elegant,
aristocratic countess dolls, with trunks of fine raiment;
and jolly little peasant dolls, with long yellow
braids hanging down their backs, and stout
shoes, and a general look of having trudged in
from the Black Forest to see the great city-world
at Christmas. Such variety of expression, so
many phases of doll-nature,—for nature they
have in Germany! And in front of two especially
alluring windows, where bright lights streamed
upon fanciful decorations, toys, and a wonderful
world of dolls, was always a great group of children.
Once, in the early evening, they fairly
blockaded the pavement and reached far into the
street, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, not talking much,
merely devouring those enchanted windows with
their eager eyes; some wishing, some not daring
to wish, but worshipping only, like pale, rapt devotees.
And we others, who labor under the disadvantage
of being “grown up,” looked at the
pretty doll-world within the windows and the
lovely child-world without, and wished that old
Christmas might bring to each of us the doll we
want, and never, never let us know that it is
stuffed with sawdust.



[pg!239]

HAMBURG AGAIN.
==============


It seems almost like having been in two
places at once to be able to tell from
observation a Christmas Tale of Two
Cities. First there was Stuttgart, where
the sun was pouring down warm and summerish
on the hills around the city, and where we were
borne away on the glad tide that went sweeping
along towards Christmas under the fairest
skies that ever smiled on saint or sinner in mid-winter,
until it grew so near the time we almost
heard the Christmas bells. And then there was
Hamburg, to which place—having consigned ourselves
to the tender mercies of a sleeping coupé—we
went rushing off through the night, and found
the dear, glad Christmas just going to happen
there, too, and the great Northern city seemed
very noisy and bold and out-in-the-world after
Stuttgart, nestled so snugly among its hills.

Hamburg has, however, its quiet spots, if you
seek them under the great elms in the suburbs, or
among the quaint streets in the oldest portions of
the city. One of the very stillest places is a paved
court by St. George's Church, where the little, old
houses of one story all look towards three great
crosses in an octagonal enclosure, on which Christ
and the two thieves hang, and Mary and John
stand weeping below. It has always been still
there when we have passed through, though close
to the busy streets. It is a place with a history,
I am sure. Indeed, what place is not? But it
is reticent and knows how to keep its secrets.
Perhaps Dickens might have made something out
of the grave, small houses that have been staring
at the crosses so many long years.

A very good place for moralizing, too, is down by
the Elbe, where the great ships from all quarters
of the earth lie, and you hear Dutch and Danish
sailors talking, and don't understand a word.
There commerce seems a mighty thing, and the
world grows appallingly great, and you feel of as
much importance in it as the small cat who sits
meditatively licking her paws down on the tug-boat
just below you.

But this was to be more or less about Christmas.
Christmas in general is something about
which there is nothing to say, because it sings its
own songs without words in all our hearts; but
a story of one particular Christmas may not be
amiss here, since it tells of a pretty and graceful
welcome which Germans knew how to give to a
wanderer,—a welcome in which tones of tenderness
were underlying the merriment, and delicate
consideration shaped the whole plan.

In a room radiant, not with one Christmas-tree,
but with five,—a whole one for each person being
the generous allowance,—stood a lordly fir, glistening
with long icicles of glass, resplendent with
ornaments of scarlet and gold and white. The
stars and stripes floated proudly from its top; unmistakable
cherries of that delectable substance,
Marzipan, hung in profusion from its branches;
and at its base stood the Father of his Country.
George, on this occasion, was a doll of inexpressibly
fascinating mien, arrayed in a violet velvet
coat, white satin waistcoat and knee-breeches, lace
ruffles, silver buckles, white wig, and three-cornered
hat, and wearing that dignified, imperturbable
Washingtonian expression of countenance which
one would not have believed could be produced on
a foreign shore. He held no hatchet in his hand,
but graciously extended a document heavily sealed
and tied with red, white, and blue ribbons.

This document was written in elegant and impressive
English. A very big and fierce-looking
American eagle hovered over the page, which was
also adorned by the arms of the German Empire
and of Hamburg. The purport of the document
was that George Washington, first President of the
United States, did herewith present his compliments
to a certain wandering daughter of America,
wishing her, on the part of her country, family,
and friends,

    “A merry Christmas and happy New Year,”

and “all foreign authorities, corporations, and
private individuals were enjoined to promote, by
all legal means of hospitality and good-will, the
loyal execution of the above-mentioned wishes.”
It displayed the names of several highly honorable
witnesses, and concluded:—

    “Given under my hand and seal at my permanent
    White House residence, Elysium, 24th
    December, 1876.

    —“:small-caps:`George Washington.`”

And the seal bore the initials of the mighty
man.

The tree yielded gifts many and charming, but
the sweetest gift was the kindly thought that
prompted the pretty device. Though one had to
smile where all were smiling, yet was it not, all in
all, quite enough to make one a little “teary roun'
the lashes,” especially when one is very much
“grown up,” and so has not the remotest claim
upon the happy things that, “by the grace of God,”
belong to the children? Such scenes make one
feel the world is surely not so black as it is painted.

There was during the festivities, later, a bit of
mistletoe over the door, which, in an indirect,
roundabout way, through our ancestral England,
was also meant as a tribute to America, and which
caused much merriment during the holidays in a
family unusually blessed with cousins in assorted
sizes. When certain flaxen-haired maidens felt
that their age and dignity did not permit them to
indulge in such sports, and so resisted all allurements
to stand an instant under the mistletoe-bough,
what did the bold young student cousins?
Each seized a twig of green and stood it up suggestively
in a cousin's fair braided locks, when she
was at last “under the mistletoe,” and

   | “I wad na hae thought a lassie
   | Wad sae o' a kiss complain!”

None but the brave deserve the fair, and then—lest
any one should be shocked—they were positively
all cousins, and when they were more than
five times removed I can solemnly affirm I *think*
it was the hand only that was gallantly lifted to
the lips of Cousin Hugo, or Cousin Rudolph, or
Cousin Siegfried; and, if I am mistaken after all,
Christmas comes but once a year, and youth but
once in a lifetime.

At the theatre, Christmas pieces were given especially
for the children. The Stadt Theatre one
evening was crowded with pretty little heads, the
private boxes full to overflowing; and across the
body of the house a great, solid row of orphan girls
in a uniform of black, with short sleeves and a
large white kerchief pinned soberly across the
shoulders. They wear no hats in winter, nor do
common housemaids here. A friend in Stuttgart
remarked innocently to a servant who was walking
with her to the theatre one bitter cold night,
“Why, Luise, you'll freeze; you ought to wear
a hat or hood.” “No, indeed!” said the girl,
quite repudiating the idea, “I am no *fraülein*.”
They do not seem to suffer any evil consequences,
never having known anything different, and perhaps
the little orphans, too, are not so cold as they
look. It may be they are made to go bareheaded,
to teach them their station and humility, but it
seems a miracle that it does not teach them influenza.
The little things were in the seventh heaven
of delight, and the play a bit of pure, delicious
nonsense,—a fairy-tale with an old, familiar theme,—the
three golden apples and the three princesses
who pluck them, and in consequence are
plunged into the depths of the earth, where a fire-breathing
dragon is their keeper; the despair of
their royal father, who is a portly old gentleman
with a very big crown, and his proclamation that
whoever, high or low, shall rescue them may wed
them; then the procession that sets out in search
of the missing maidens, with the tailor, the gardener,
and the hunter in advance, and the adventures
of the three, until the hunter, who is the
beautiful, good young man who always succeeds,—in
fairy-tales,—finally rescues the princesses, and
marries the youngest and loveliest, while the
tailor and gardener, who have conducted themselves
in a treacherous and unseemly manner, are
punished according to the swift retribution that
always overtakes offenders—in fairy-tales.

The action was extremely rapid, the scenery
very effective; there were perfect armies of children
on the stage, some of whom danced a kind
of Chinese mandarin ballet, and some of whom
represented apes, and also danced in the suite of
the Prince of Monkeyland, one of the rejected
suitors of the princesses. In actual life the Prince
of Monkeyland is, unfortunately, not always rejected.
There was a pretty scene when the sunlight
streamed through the Gothic windows of an
old castle, and red-capped dwarfs hopped about
the stone floor, and played all sorts of pranks by
the old well. And then there was the man in the
moon, with his lantern; and all the women in the
moon, who were blue, filmy, misty creatures, bowing
and swaying in a way that made the children
through the house scream with laughter; and
these moony maidens were so very ethereal they
could only speak in a whisper, and almost fainted
when the hunter, who happened to be up that
way, addressed them.

“Speak softly, softly, noble stranger,” they implored,
in a whispering chorus, shrinking from him
in affright, with their hands on their ears. “Thy
voice is like a thunder-clap.”

It was certainly one of the prettiest spectacular
dramas imaginable, with its innocent, droll plot;
and to see a good old-fashioned fairy-tale put on
the stage so well, and to see it with hundreds of
blissful, ecstatic children, was thoroughly enjoyable.

Through the holidays social life here seems to
resolve itself chiefly into great family gatherings,
and the custom of watching the old year out is
very general. One party of between thirty and
forty persons, being only brothers and sisters with
their children, was a charming affair. The dignified
played whist, and the frivolous sang and were
merry in other rooms. Tea and light cakes were
served frequently during the evening, from the
arrival of the guests until the supper at eleven,
when the long table was brilliant with choice glass
and silver and flowers; and fresh young faces and
sweet, benign elderly ones were gathered around.
A family party can be a dismal, dreary assembling
of incongruous elements that make one soul-sick
and weary of the world, or it can be a tender,
cheery, blessed thing. There are, indeed, many
varieties of family parties. Most of the large
ones are perhaps no better than they ought to
be; but *this* gathering of a clan happened to
possess the intangible something that cheers and
charms.

There were jests and toasts and laughter and
blushes, and there was a wonderful punch, brewed
by the eldest son of the house in an enormous
crimson glass punch-bowl,—which, like the “Luck
of Edenhall,” “made a purple light shine over
all,”—and dipped out with a gold ladle; and
its remarkably intoxicating ingredients, particularly
the number of bottles of champagne poured
in at the last, I shall never divulge.

The host rose just before midnight, and alluded
briefly to certain losses, and causes for sadness experienced
by the family during the year; yet they
were still, he said very simply, united, loving, and
hopeful; he then gave the toast to the New
Year, and they all drank it heartily, standing, as
the clock was striking twelve, after which was a
general movement through the room, warm greetings,
hand-pressures and kisses, and suspicious
moisture about many eyes, though lips were smiling
bravely.

Then came a walk home through the great city,
whose streets were crowded full at two o'clock in
the morning. “Prosit Neujahr! Prosit Neujahr!”
sounded everywhere, far and near. A band of
workmen, arm in arm, tramp along in great jollity,
pushing their way and greeting the whole world.
“Prosit Neujahr!” they cry to the young aristocrat;
“Prosit Neujahr!” is the hearty response.
For an hour all men are brothers, and everybody
turns away from the sad old year, and gives an
eager welcome to the new young thing, whom we
trust, though we know him not. Above the surging
multitude, and the hoarse, loud voices and
impetuous hearts, and wild welcoming of the unknown,
the starlit night seems strangely still, and
the quiet moon shines down on the great frozen
Alster basin, around which reaches the twinkling
line of city lights. Beyond are the city spires.
“Round our restlessness His rest,” says some one
softly; and so

   | *Prosit Neujahr*!


.. class:: center smaller

   | Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.


.. toc-entry::

NOTICES OF “ONE SUMMER.”
========================

    “No more charming story than this has appeared since Howells's
    ‘Chance Acquaintance.’ ‘One Summer’ is a delightful, and withal sensible,
    love-story, which one will be loath to stop reading until the conclusion is
    reached. The characters are exceedingly attractive, without anything of the
    superhuman or sensational about them, but full of life, vigor, and common-sense;
    and a tinge of genuine romance spreads over every chapter.”—*New Haven
    Journal and Courier.*

    “A delightfully fresh and spirited little romance. The style is
    graceful and spirited to an eminently pleasing degree; and the plot is charmingly
    simple and interesting. The hero and heroine are drawn with rare skill and naturalness.
    Their acquaintance begins by an untoward accident, which sets them
    at loggerheads; and the means by which their misunderstanding is cleared up,
    and they gradually begin to esteem each other, form the substance of the story,
    which has a heartiness of tone, and an apparent freedom from effort in its telling,
    that make it peculiarly attractive.”—*Boston Gazette.*

    “One of the most charming stories of the season.”—*Chicago
    Inter-Ocean.*

    “A bright, happy story, delightfully natural and easy. It is
    just suited for a pleasant afternoon in a hammock, or lying in a breezy shade.”—*Boston
    Traveller.*

    “It is one of those fresh and breezy love-stories one meets with
    but twice or thrice in a lifetime. Altogether for charm of style, simpleness of
    diction, and pleasantness of plot, the book is quite
    inimitable.”—*Rocky Mountain
    News.*

    “A story of great merit, both as a novel and a work of art. In
    reading it, one meets on nearly every page some delicate touch of Nature, or
    dainty bit of humor, or pleasant piece of description.”—*The Independent* (New
    York).

    “One of the best of summer novels. If we are not mistaken, it
    will be borrowed and lent around, and laughed over, and possibly cried over, and
    hugely enjoyed, by all who get a chance to read it.”—*The Liberal Christian.*

    “This little book is one of the most delightful we ever read. It
    has made us laugh until we cried; and, if it has not made us cry out of pure sadness,
    it is because our heart is very hard.”—*Christian Register* (Boston).

    “The story is charmingly told. The fragrant breath of a rural
    atmosphere pervades its scenes; much of the character-painting is admirably well
    done; there is a freshness and vivacity about the style that is singularly attractive;
    and the whole action of the play comprised within the limits of ‘One Summer'
    has a flavor of originality that commands the unflagging attention of the
    reader.”—*Boston Transcript.*

    “It is a dainty little love-story, full of bright, witty things, which
    are related in a charmingly fascinating manner.”—*Christian at Work.*

    “Fresh, airy, sparkling, abounding in delicious bits of description.
    Its dialogues brimming with a fun which seems to drop from the lips of
    the speakers without the slightest premeditation, its interest sustained throughout:
    it is just the book to read under the trees these lazy June days, or to take in
    the pocket or satchel when starting upon a journey.”—*Newark Courier.*

    “It is a clean-cut, healthy story, with no theology and no superfluous
    characters. The hero is a manly fellow, and the heroine a sweet and womanly
    girl, with no nonsense about her.”—*Boston Globe.*

    “It is a woman's book,—bright, fresh, and attractive, and more
    than ordinarily interesting. There is a decided dash of fun running through the
    story, and plenty of good, healthy romance, which never degenerates into sentimentality.
    There is an engaging simplicity about the style, and a refreshing lack
    of the modern sensational.”—*Portland Transcript.*

|
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